Amos Oz - A Perfect Peace

That night, in the darkness of the barber's half of the shack near the farm sheds, Azariah Gitlin lay with open eyes, listening to the groans of the old, wind-tossed eucalyptus trees and to the tiny fists of rain on the tin roof while his mind whirred with musings about himself, his secret mission, and the love of the members of Kibbutz Granot that should and would be his as soon as they realized who he really was.

He thought of the kibbutzniks' eyes following his entrance into the dining room, of the old pioneers, their faces brown as mahogany even in the dead of winter, of the young men, so bulky and slow-moving that some of them seemed like drowsy wrestlers, and of the young women, whispering to each other, no doubt about him, as they watched him come in — buxom, golden girls who, for all their simple dress, brimmed with a saucy femininity that suggested a knowledge of things you never dream of.

Azariah longed to get to know all these people right away. to talk to them, to win their hearts, to arouse their strongest emotions; to slip past their defenses and touch their private lives as profoundly as he could. If only he could skip over the awkwardness of the first few days and step right into the middle of things. He wanted to let them all know that now that he had arrived their life would never be the same. Perhaps he would give guitar recitals in the dining room that would stir the weariest heart among them. Then he would share the ideas he had suffered so hard to arrive at during his long years of solitude, his very own thoughts about justice, politics, love, art, and the meaning of life. He would make these people admire him, love him, for his passionate inner strength. Around him would gather the young ones whose spirits had been dulled by their humdrum lives and the toll of hard physical work. He would give lectures that would rekindle their enthusiasm. He would found a discussion club. He would write articles for their newsletter. He would astonish even Yolek with his historical insights into the Ben-Gurion era. His arguments would carry the day in every debate.

Before long, all would know that a rare soul had come to live among them. They would begin coming to him with their problems and with requests for his opinions. In their dimly lit bedrooms, they would talk about him in hushed tones. An uncanny fellow, they would say. And the loneliness in his eyes! the young women would add. They would choose him to represent their kibbutz. He would appear at movement conferences where he would blaze new trails and demolish old shibboleths. Oh, how he would astound them with the revolutionary power of his thought! His words would batter down the breastworks, as strangers he never had met would be discussing him in a hundred different places. At first they would say: You know who we mean, that new fellow who got up at the last conference and gave it to them but good in four brilliant minutes that they'll never forget. After a while it would be: Azariah? He's the latest discovery, a rising new star; we're sure to hear more of him.

Eventually people would ask: Can you believe that there are still some old bags who refuse to accept the Gitlin approach? The leaders of the movement, still reluctant to commit themselves, yet consumed by curiosity and doubt, would declare: That's all very well, but why doesn't he come around for a serious talk? Let's have a good look at him and hear what he has to say. And when he had left their offices, they would confess: No question about it, he swept us off our feet. The boy's a real find. In time the press would sniff him out too. And the radio. Inquiries would be made and background information sought from the kibbutz. The mystery of his origins and life story would amaze them. How little is actually known about him, they would report. One winter night he simply walked in from the dark.

Crotchety reactionaries would argue with him in the weekend magazine sections. At great length they would attempt to squelch his explosive ideas but in vain. Four or five lines of rebuttal would suffice to crush them, such was the elegant but merciless juggernaut of his wit. Yet in closing, he would always pat their elderly shoulders: Nonetheless, I must credit my opponents for their contributions to the intellectual outlook of their own generation.

A nationwide debate would arise over the new concept, whose founder and leading spokesman was Azariah Gitlin. Fresh forces would rally around him. Young women would write letters to the editor in his defense. Budding poetesses would seek his company. One would even dedicate a poem to him entitled "The Eagle's Lonely Sorrow." Celebrities, famous pundits, representatives of the foreign press would come to exchange views. He would be referred to as a visionary for the times. And all the while he would stubbornly refuse to leave the barber's room or the shack. Repeatedly, to everyone's amazement, he would turn down the kibbutz's offer of a better room. In this ramshackle cabin, small groups of young activists would assemble from all over the country. How startled they would be to discover that Azariah Gitlin's sole earthly possessions were a metal bed, a wobbly table, a decrepit old chest, one chair, and a guitar. These and the numerous bookshelves lining the walls would bear silent witness to the ascetic severity of his life and to long nights of arduous thought. Why, the carpenter who volunteered one morning to make those shelves was the very same brusque young man who had been the first to encounter him upon his arrival in the kibbutz.

His guests would sit on the floor, hanging on his every word, only rarely interrupting to ask for a clarification. There was no way, the pretty girls would whisper to one another, absolutely no way to persuade him to move to better quarters. Here is where he was put that first night, and here is where he is going to stay. The man has absolutely no material wants. Sometimes, late at night, we wake and hear as in a dream the chords of his guitar. Between sessions, one of these barefoot girls would volunteer to make coffee for all of those assembled. With a generous smile he would thank her. Later, the visitors would take their leave, and a new group would arrive, some from afar, for inspiration, guidance, or simply to bask in his presence. He would exhort them all to prepare for a protracted struggle. He would preach the need for perseverance. He would reject out of hand all political gimmicks and tactical adventures.

Of course, he would make deadly enemies. He would take them on in the newspapers, compassionately yet ironically citing Spinoza or some other celebrated thinker, as required. His tone would be forgiving, as if the Old Guard consisted not of angry ancients but of hot-headed Young Turks, whose attacks on him he so pitied that he would not stoop to rub salt into their bruised and battered pride.

One day, perhaps even by next summer, Prime Minister Eshkol would inquire of his inner circle about this eighth wonder of the world. Why not bring the lad to see me so that I can size him up myself? When Azariah was invited to Eshkol's office, the secretary would allot him ten minutes. Half an hour later, Eshkol would order her to hold the calls. He would be sitting in his chair not uttering a word, overwhelmed by Azariah's analysis of the nation's affairs. From time to time he would dare to pose a question, jotting down the answers in pencil on little scraps of paper. The hours would go by. Evening would descend outside the windows, yet Eshkol would refrain from turning on the lights, so rapt would he be in the revelations of Azariah's monastic years. Finally, he would rise from his seat, lay his hands on Azariah's shoulders, and say, " Yingele, from now on you're staying with me. Consider yourself nationalized. As of seven o'clock tomorrow morning, your place will be here at my side, in that room over there that can be reached only through my private office so you'll be on tap whenever I need you. But for now, what I'd like to ask is your opinion of Nasser's true intentions and how we can rally our nation's youth around the flag."