Amos Oz - A Perfect Peace

"He's next!" said Hava, bubbling with venom. "Troubles always come in pairs. But this time it's Yoni."

"Hava," I said, "I'm not clairvoyant. Please try to tell me exactly what happened."

With a sudden, jerky motion, as if she were about to scatter my papers or slap my face, she collapsed into the chair I had offered her, shielding her eyes with one hand.

"I don't get it," she whispered. "You've got to have the heart of a murderer to treat me like this."

I couldn't understand who was the murderer — her husband, her son, or me — or why I put my hand on her shoulder and called her softly by name.

"Srulik," she said, looking up at me, "will you help?"

"Of course I will," I said. And though, for many years now, physical contact with anyone has been difficult for me, I left my hand where it was. I may even have touched her hair. I wouldn't swear to it, but I think I did.

Yoni had left home sometime during the night, Hava said. He might have taken a gun with him. That feeble-minded wife of his had remembered this morning that he had been talking about traveling abroad. "But no one knows better than I do that you can't trust a word that demented child says. Whatever he may have been planning, it would take an imbecile to assume that he left with no passport or money, only with his gun and army uniform. Srulik, you know you're the only one here I can talk to. The rest of them are all just petty, narrow-minded, and selfish. Deep down, they're thrilled to bits because they know this will be the end of Yolek. They've been out to get him for years. I've come to you because you're a decent man, if no genius. A mensch, not a monster. He might as well have murdered his father with his own hands. Yolek will never survive this. He's in bed with pains in his chest, having trouble breathing. Blaming himself for everything. And that moron Rimona, who took in that filthy little murderer to destroy Yoni, says to me in cold blood, 'He left because he wasn't happy. He said that he would and he did. I don't know where he went. Maybe he'll come back when he feels better.' I should have slapped her face then and there. I didn't say a word to that skunk, that diabolic smut pusher who probably knows everything. Oh, I'll bet he does and is laughing up his sleeve and won't tell us a thing. Srulik, I want you to go right this minute and make him tell you where Yoni is. And don't be squeamish! Take a pistol if you have to. What are you waiting for? For God's sake, Srulik, the last thing I need now is a cup of coffee and a speech. You know I'm made out of iron. All I'm asking is for you to go right now and do what has to be done. You can leave me here. I'll be fine. Just go!"

The water, however, had already boiled, and I went ahead and made the coffee whether she wanted it or not. Urging her to remain in the office and rest in my chair, I excused myself, put on my hat and coat, and went out to look for Rimona. On my way I stopped at the infirmary and asked the nurse to look in on Yolek and stay with him until I arrived. People kept stopping me to give advice, ask for the latest news, or spout all kinds of wild stories. I told them all that I was sorry but I had no time. Except for Paula Levin, whom I asked to check up on Hava and keep everyone else out of the office.

I tried my best to set my thoughts in order. The trouble was, I hadn't the foggiest idea where to begin. Of course, I had already heard some of the gossip about young Gitlin, who was said to have moved in with Rimona and Yoni. All kinds of insinuations, snickers, salacious innuendos. Until now I hadn't felt any need to take a stand on the matter. A society that prides itself on living by enlightened ideals must restrain itself — or at least so I think — from intruding into anyone's personal life. What goes on between a man and his wife, or between friends of whatever sex, is a strictly private affair in my opinion and deserves a Keep Out sign. And now along comes Hava insisting that "something terrible" has happened. Who's to say? Certainly not I. Anything having to do with sex, or the emotions, or the connection between the two, is terra incognita to me.

Once, as a boy in Leipzig, I fell in love with a dreamy high-school girl, but she much preferred a young tennis star — of the type then popularly called a "blond beast" — who was also a great fan of Hitler's. I pined away for a while but managed to get over it. Around that time, one morning at five o'clock, the family maid stepped into my room and into my bed. Not long after I joined a Zionist pioneering group in Poland and came to Palestine. Once here, some twenty-five years ago, I fell in love with P. In fact, I may still be in love with her in my fashion, but I've never let her know. Now she has four grandchildren to her credit, and I'm a confirmed bachelor. Of my few casual, awkward, acutely embarrassing sexual liaisons the less said the better. Sorry, unaesthetic affairs all of them, and instantly regretted. The whole business, as far as I can see, involves a great deal of pain and human degradation in exchange for a very few moments of pleasure — keen pleasure, I'll admit, but far too brief and meaningless to be worth the effort. Of course, it's only fair to point out that my experience is too limited to generalize, but I will allow myself one observation here. Built into this world is an irremediable erotic injustice so great that it makes a mockery of all our attempts to construct a better society. This is not to say that we mustn't set our sights beyond it and keep trying, only that we should do so without any grand illusions. On the contrary, as modestly, cautiously, and unpretentiously as we can. But now I'd better turn over the record, because this is most definitely a night for Brahms and still more Brahms.

And what comes next? Oh yes. Rimona, once I found her, remembered that when she got back last night from serving refreshments to the members of the Jewish philosophy group ("When was that?" "Late." "Yes, but when?" "About three-quarters of the way through the rain"), she found the two of them awake. A little tired though. Kind to each other, "like two little boys who have fought and made up." They were kind to her too. And then went to bed. As did she. (Whether they were kind to each other after that as well, I didn't try to guess. What do I know?)

"And when did Yoni leave?"

"In the night."

"Yes, but when?"

"Late. When he had to."

I asked her what had happened in the morning. Azariah woke up. He thought he'd heard shooting. He wakes up often thinking he hears shooting. Sometimes she thinks she hears, too. When they saw that Yoni was gone, he began to run all over.

"Who did?"

"Zaro. Yoni wouldn't have. Yoni takes his time. He never runs."

"What makes you say that?"

"Yoni is tired."

In short, Azariah dashed to the tractor shed, and to the dining hall, all over. And what did Rimona do while he was running? She checked to see what Yoni had taken and what he had left behind. He took what he always did when he gets called by his army unit in the middle of the night. Because sometimes that's when they come for him. Why then was she so sure that the army hadn't called for him last night too? I couldn't get a straight answer, only "This time it was different."

What did she do then? She sat and waited. Then she dressed, and made the bed, and cleaned the room. And didn't go to work in the laundry. And gave Tia her breakfast. And waited some more. What was she waiting for? She was waiting for it to be seven-fifteen. Why seven-fifteen? Because that's when Hava and Yolek get up. And that's when she went to tell them that Yonatan had left in the night. And that they shouldn't be upset.

And then what happened? Nothing. Nothing? Nothing. Hava was upset. And what did Yolek say? What did he do? He hid his face in his hands and sat quietly in his chair. And Hava stopped talking too and looked quietly out the window. That's when Rimona left quietly and went to look for Zaro.