Amos Oz - A Perfect Peace

"Hava! That's not something I can just go and do on my own. You know that as well as I."

"Oh, I do, do I?"

"There would have to be a meeting. Of the steering committee. To discuss it. We're talking about a human being."

"Sure. A human being! As if you knew what those words meant. As if you ever did. A human life? Human filth, you mean."

"Excuse me, Hava. You're so upset you're contradicting yourself without even realizing it. Think about it. It's been thirty years, but to this day you've never forgiven me for throwing that comedian of yours out of here when he tried killing half the kibbutz, including you and me."

"Shut up, you murderer! At least you've finally admitted it was you who made him go."

"I didn't say that, Hava. Far from it. You surely can't have forgotten with what patience and tolerance, with what forbearance I tried to get him the social and psychological help he needed before he went berserk. And even after. And you know as well as anyone that it was he who ran off as fast as he could right after his shooting spree, and it was I who had to use all the influence I had and pull every string I could to keep the British police out of it, to avoid an internal Haganah trial for criminal misuse of underground arms. And it was also I who spared him the humiliation of having to face a general meeting of the kibbutz, which would undoubtedly have booted him out in disgrace and perhaps even handed him over to the authorities or some mental institution. On top of which, it was I who managed to spirit him out of the country."

"You?"

"I and no one else, Hava. It's time I told you what I've kept to myself all these years despite the endless abuse from you. Yes. It was I who helped that poor maniac get safely out of the country. There were comrades who insisted I call in the police. What right do we have, they asked, to give carte blanche to every strait jacket case to go out and shoot anyone he pleases? And I, Hava, I and no one else, had to scheme in a thousand different ways to stall off the kibbutz and the Haganah until I could find him a berth to Italy on one of our boats — and that only by pulling strings and running all over the map. Do I really deserve to be the object of such spite for all that? After the man seduced or tried to seduce my wife? And almost murdered her and me and the darling son she was pregnant with? To this day you've harbored the most vicious hate for me because I didn't let that madman stay, and now you come and tell me I have to give the bum's rush to a boy who hasn't even—"

" You? You made Bini leave the kibbutz? And the country?"

"I didn't say that, Hava. You know as well as I do that he left of his own accord."

" You? By pulling strings? By scheming?"

"Hava! You always complain that I never listen to you. But here you are, hearing the exact opposite of what I am saying."

"You poor fool! Your poor idiotic fool. Have you gone off your rocker completely? Did it never occur to you that the child I was pregnant with might be his? Didn't that cross your mind at least once in your whole phony life? Did you ever once bother to take a good look at Yoni and another at Amos and another at yourself? How stupid can the great ministerial mind be? Just shut up about Bini! That's not what I was talking about. Don't put words in my mouth and don't interrupt me now, because it's time I had my say. You with your strings and your influence and your tricks! I've never said anything about whose son Yoni is. That's the brainchild you dreamed up to have an excuse to kill him. The only thing I've said is that I want that nut of yours out of here by noon tomorrow, and don't argue with me or try to intimidate me with your renowned rhetorical talents. I'm not your Ben-Gurion, or your Eshkol, or a tribunal of your peers, or an assembly of your admirers, or a group of pilgrims come to pay you homage. I'm nothing. I'm less than that. I'm a poor deranged female, a psychological millstone around your precious national neck. I'm not even a human being. I'm just an evil old monster who happens to know, but I mean know, who you really are. And I'm warning you — don't you dare answer me now! — I'm warning you that if ever I decide to open my mouth and tell a tiny fraction of what I know about you — not only what both of us know, but what you, Mr. God Almighty, don't even know about yourself — if ever I start to talk, this whole country will go into such a state of shock that you'll drop dead from shame on the spot. Did I say shock? Why, it'll split its sides laughing before puking its guts out. This is the Yolek Lifshitz we've all worshiped and adored? This is our pride and joy? This? And I, Mr. National Figure — and you'd better not forget it — I'm already a corpse, so I've nothing to lose by finishing you off once and for all. The only thing is that I'll be merciful. I'll do it in one blow, not little by little as you've done it to me, day after day and night after night. For thirty years you've kept turning the knife in me, and now you've brought in a little murderer to kill off your son the same way — though you'll never know if he's your son or not — a little bit at a time, the way you murdered me, the way you murdered Bini, with your strings and your schemes and your marvelous connections. Anything to avoid a scandal or, perish the thought, any tarnish on your esteemed public image. Why, you're the conscience of the Labor Party! You're purer than a baby's behind! No, Mr. Minister, I am not crying. You, Mr. Minister, will not have the satisfaction, you will not have the pleasure of seeing me cry the way you saw Bini cry night after night at your feet, washing them with his tears and begging you to—"

"Hava! Please! It's time you got over this whole Benya Trotsky business. No one knows better than you that you never loved him in return, that you chose of your own free will—"

"That's a filthy lie, Yolek Lifshitz! In another minute you'll be telling me how noble you've been for forgiving me from the bottom of your heart. Why don't you look yourself in the face for a change? Why don't you try honestly remembering who Bini was, you who schemed to murder him in a thousand different ways — those were your exact words, a thousand different ways — don't try denying them now! The same as you murdered me, the same as you're murdering Yoni, and don't think I haven't noticed how you've avoided discussing him and purposely kept bringing the conversation back to Bini in order to torture me. But you won't have the pleasure. I'm not going to give it to you. You're going to think about Yoni for a change, not history. This isn't some seminar or Labor Party panel. I'm not going to let you play the martyr here. Oh, don't I know what all your martyrdoms amount to and all your holier-than-thou-ness! Well, you can take your moral rectitude and your historical contributions and shove them! I spit on them the way you've spat and trampled all these years on my grave! For your own good, don't even try to answer me now. Either you send that little stinker packing by noon tomorrow or you're in for a big, big surprise. The radio and every newspaper in this country will be falling all over themselves to announce that, believe it or not, Yolek Lifshitz's wife, of all people, has put a torch to herself — unless the opposite happens, and she puts the torch to her national figure instead. I'm telling you, Yolek, that will be the living end — not mine, because that happened long ago — but yours, Mr. National Figure, with the whole country rolling in the aisles and gasping: 'What? That was our paragon of virtue? That was our model leader? That was our public conscience? That cold-blooded murderer?' I'm warning you right now, you'll smell so bad that your party won't touch you with a ten-foot pole, because I swear I'll make you stink to high heaven. All you'll have left to do with yourself is sit here and knit socks like that Italian murderer until you finally croak like a sick dog the same as I did. And I'll dance at your funeral the way you danced at mine long before you even began to screw around with all those bitches of yours at all your conferences and conventions and God knows where else. I won't mention any names, but don't think a little bird didn't tell me who His Highness shacked up with for two weeks, and who he shacked up with for two nights, and who he gave just half an hour, like an animal, between this motion and that vote. All it will take is a little acid to throw in your famous face, unless I drink it instead, though ordinary sleeping pills will do nicely too. And don't you dare say to me, Hava, don't scream. If you say that just once more, I really will — not that I have to, because I could just as easily give a perfectly ladylike interview to some popular magazine. They could call it 'Comrade Lifshitz in His Underwear' or 'The Private Life of Labor's Conscience.'