Amos Oz - A Perfect Peace

One last glance at the two sleepers. The young man on the rug at the woman's feet, her blond halo of hair like a ripple of gold in the pale light on her pillow. The little mechanic curled up in a ball like a wet puppy, his head out of sight.

Yonatan winced. His flesh crawled and he shuddered, trying to fight down the memory of the free-for-all in the big double bed a few hours ago. The sweat, the sordidness, the anger, the relentless sperm, the shout torn from his chest, the boyish sobs, the soft beating of fists, the silent submission of the woman, like earth giving way to the plow.

A wave of burning revulsion. A biblical abhorrence of uncleanliness. The voice of his father Yolek welling up to stick in his throat. And the voices of all his dead forebears, coming to barrage him with a storm of stones.

All it takes to blow the two of them to pieces, and myself, and this whole stinking cesspool, is one little burst from the Klash. Tak-tak-tak-tak-tak.

"Get set," he said to Tia in a whisper. "We're off."

He bent over and petted her roughly, against the lay of her fur, then slapped her twice on the back. If I'm not going to get rid of them, I might at least leave them a note.

But what could it possibly say? Never mind. Let's just say I was suddenly killed.

He bent over to shoulder his knapsack and gun, adjusted the straps, then spoke to Tia again, this time almost gently, "All right, we're really off this time. Not you, Tia. Just me."

Goodbye, Azuva daughter of Shilhi. Goodbye, baby fink. Yonatan's finally picked up and gone. His life is about to begin. What he needs most now is to be serious. From now on that's what he's going to be.

There was a first glimmer in the sky, a misty light from the horizon beyond the eastern hills. The little cottages, the gardens, the winter-stricken lawns, the bare trees, the tile roofs, the chrysanthemum beds, the rock gardens, the porches, the laundry lines, the bushes — all were coated more brightly each passing minute with a fine, merciful radiance that was as pure as a wish. A cold wave of delicious night air rinsed Yonatan's lungs. He gulped deeply and cut across the kibbutz with long, gangling strides, slightly bent beneath his load, hunching his right shoulder, which carried his bulging knapsack and his rifle from a frayed strap.

On reaching his parents' house, he paused, ran his free hand through his mop of hair, and started to scratch. A bird chirped briefly, its song melting the darkness. A dog growled from its refuge beneath a porch, began to bark, then thought better of it. From the direction of the cowshed came the faint plaint of the cows and the rattle of the milking machine.

Father. Mother. Goodbye. Forever. I'll never forget that you meant well. From the time I was an infant you were so good and so horrible to me. You dressed yourselves in rags, and ate dry bread with olives, and worked like coolies all day long, and sang yourselves hoarse every night, and lived in an ecstatic trance, and gave me a white, white room with a housemother in a white, white apron who fed me white, white cream to make me a clean, honest, hard-working Jewish boy with a soul of forged steel.

You poor, suffering heroes, you miserable messiahs of the Jews, you tame-souled tamers of the wilderness, you crazy saviors of Israel, you fucking maniacs, you tyrants with diarrhea of the mouth! Your souls are seared into me like a branding iron, but I am not one of you. You gave me everything and took back twice as much, like loan sharks. Call me no good. Call me a traitor. Call me a deserter. Whatever you call me must be true because you've tamed the truth as you tamed the wilderness. It, too, eats right out of your hands. May you suffer no more, my good people, my monsters of redemption. Just let me clear the hell out of here in peace. Don't try to restrain me. Don't haunt me to the ends of the earth like avenging angels. What's it to you if there's one less scumbag around here, one less filthy stain on your snow-white honor. From your loving son who can't go on any more, farewell.

Yonatan.

Who's there. What's going on.

It's your father. Come over here at once!

What do you want.

Come here, I said. You look a sight. That's the latest thing, 1 suppose. May I ask where you're bound?

Outward.

What's the latest?

It's of a personal nature.

Eh?

Of a personal nature. Something strictly private.

Meaning?

That I'm hitting the road.

Well, good morning, my genius. I take it we're not good enough for you here.

Father. Hear me out for once. Everything here is just fine. I have no complaints. Hats off to all of you. You're the glory of the human race. You built this land out of nothing with your bare hands and saved the Jewish people in the bargain. Agreed. It's just that I—

You? You'll kindly shut up and get back to work. What, may I ask, will become of us if every mixed-up young fellow around here decides to take off whenever he feels like it?

Get out of my way, father. Get out of my way quick before I put a clip in this rifle and do what you taught me to do with it. Just do me the favor of dying peacefully, and I'll run like a zombie to trash Sheikh Dahr all over again, or grab a hoe and root out every weed and clump of crab grass from Lebanon to Egypt until not a blade remains. I'll throw myself like a madman on any patch of wilderness. I'll plant all the trees you want. I'll marry Jewish girls from the four corners of the earth to enrich the national gene pool. I'll make you twenty grandsons, each tougher than nails. I'll plow the rocks and then the sea, anything you say. If only you were already dead and could watch me take charge, during an assault, say, when the officers have all been killed and some shitass squad leader turns into the big hero and saves the day. Take my word for it, father. Everything will be just as you planned. I guarantee it. Just do me the favor of dying first so your son can start to live.

Yonatan turned his back on the sleeping cottage, stooped to pick up one of his father's stocking caps that had fallen to the ground, rehung it on the laundry line, and moved on. Near the bakery, he turned left to take the muddy shortcut leading to the front gate.

On reaching the bus stop just outside the kibbutz, he realized he had forgotten his cigarettes. Well, who needs them? As of this minute I've stopped smoking. Enough. No looking back.

Yonatan stood by the roadside for some twenty minutes, waiting for an early riser in a car, truck, or army vehicle to give him a lift. The first full rays of sunlight dawned over the hill of Sheikh Dahr. He swung his rifle to the east to mow down the sun with a hail of bullets the minute it dared lift its fiery head. A cocka-doodle of roosters broke out in a rah-rah chorus of joy over the coming of the new day, the new day, the new day. "Shut the fuck up!" snapped Yonatan out loud, and laughed. Shut the fuck up, dear comrades, we've heard enough out of you. Morning bells are ringing, ding dong ding. Whoever's good and washes after weewee will get a cup of hot chocolate. And who is not here today, boys and girls? Little John is not, teacher. Little John went to bed with his stockings on. One shoe off, one shoe on. And now he's gone. Diddle diddle dumpling, my son John.

When, as in a child's drawing, the sun finally poked its head over the hills, Yonatan did not shoot. He bowed low in mocking obeisance instead and politely inquired if he might be of help.

Morning bells were indeed ringing out, on a lovely, rosy-cheeked winter's day. The owl, the raven, and the bat were coming off the night shift at Sheikh Dahr. Foxes were heading home to hit the sack in their crannies, caves, or holes. The ghosts who ruled the ruin by night were beating a hasty retreat. A few last tatters of fog were being put to flight by the bracing cold wind. Sleep tight, little foxes. Sleep tight, dear owls. Sleep tight, sweet ghosts. Yonatan's off to the races at last.