Amos Oz - A Perfect Peace

I will say this much, quite honestly. More than once, at some intense moment of loneliness in my own life, whether sorting eggs into cardboard trays for hours on end in the chicken run, or sitting on my little porch of a summer evening and listening to the families enjoying themselves on the grass, or lying awake until morning in my creaky bed while the jackals howl in Sheikh Dahr, or seeing the moon appear in my window like some drunken, beet-faced stormtrooper, more than once I've thought what Utopian bliss it would be to pick up and take to the road. To start a new life, anywhere, either by myself or with P. Leaving everything behind me, for good.

So why these pangs of conscience? What moral reason or obligation can there be to turn loose the police or his army-scout friends on Yonatan? On the contrary, if he felt he had to go, why not let him go in peace? It's his life. And, incidentally, I see nothing at all wrong in Azariah's marrying Rimona. Why shouldn't he? Just because of the lethal hatred of that hard woman, or the public image of an old tyrant? Are the two of them sufficient reason for me to launch a manhunt? To force the bird back into its cage?

And while I'm at it, being secretary of this kibbutz is simply not for me. Let them ask my good friend Stutchnik. Or Yashek. Or bring Yolek back by popular demand. I, in any case, am the wrong choice. It's all a mistake.

At seven this evening, I arranged for the telephone to be manned through the night. Etan, Azariah, Yashek, and Udi agreed to take three-hour shifts until seven in the morning, when I'll be back in the office to decide what to do next. At eight-thirty I went back to my room, showered, and took my medicine. At nine-fifteen I was urgently called to the office. Miami on the line at last.

"Yes, this is his personal assistant speaking. Mr. Trotsky is out of town. I'm sorry, but he cannot be reached. Can I take a message?"

I tried to phrase it as carefully as I could. I am calling from Israel. I am the acting secretary of Kibbutz Granot. A young man named Yonatan Lifshitz may contact, or may already have contacted, Mr. Trotsky. He is the son of old friends of his. If Mr. Trotsky hears from him, could he please get in touch with us right away. We would be most grateful.

And then back to my room again, where, like a faithful wife, my accustomed solitude waited. Have a seat, Srulik. You had a hard day today, didn't you? Come, let's light the electric heater and put on some water for tea. And slip on that nice old sweater of yours over your pajama top. And let Brahms play for us. And light the desk lamp. Rather than feel sorry for ourselves, though, we have written this report.

This entry has certainly dragged on. It's after midnight, and tomorrow won't be any easier. I'll wash up and lie down to read until I fall asleep. Bone up some more on my ornithology. In German, English, and Hebrew I've been learning all about the birds, another subject I understand next to nothing about. Good night. Let's see what a new day brings.

Thursday, March 3, 1966, 4:30 p.m.

No news. No Yonatan.

The phone was manned in shifts all through the night. Chupka called. Sometime today he will try to drop by to see me.

Yolek is feeling worse. The doctor came to give him a shot and recommended hospitalization, at least long enough to give him a thorough checkup. Yolek thundered, banged his fist on the desk, and drove everyone out of the room.

My official position gave me the courage to go to him despite the general rout. He was seated regally in his armchair, holding an unlit cigarette that he was studying shrewdly, comparing its ends.

"Srulik," he said. "I don't like the looks of this."

"You shouldn't smoke," I replied. "And you must listen to the doctor."

"Out of the question," he said calmly. "I'm not budging from here until we hear something."

"Maybe we're making a mistake," I said hesitantly. "Maybe we should call in the police after all?"

He took his time answering. A sphinxlike smile played briefly over his face.

"The police," he said at last, lifting his left eyebrow, "means the press. And the press means a scandal. The boy has his pride. By wounding it we may cut off his line of retreat. No, I'm against it. We'll wait it out. Srulik?"

"Yes."

"What do you think?"

"That we should do so. Right now."

"Eh?"

"I think we should inform the police. And not wait a moment longer."

"Go ahead. You're the secretary," said Yolek, taking a long puff from his unlit cigarette. "You have the right to make your own mistakes. What did you tell Hava?"

"About what?"

"About Azariah. And, by the way, why hasn't he come to see me?"

"From what I've heard, he was up all night. Hava hasn't approached me about Azariah at all. Neither has Rimona. As far as I know, she went to work today in the laundry."

"Tomorrow's Friday, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Why don't you inform the police tomorrow. Not today. Tomorrow. After forty-eight hours, I believe there's even a procedure for tracking missing persons. There's been no word from Trotsky?"

"Nothing yet."

"Of course not. I never thought there would be. Between us, I have my own suspicions. You must promise not to breathe a word of this. Is that clear?"

I said nothing.

"Hava's behind the whole mess. In cahoots with that Trotsky. I won't spell it out any further. It's her way of getting back at me."

"Yolek," I said. "Believe me, when it comes to human emotions I don't understand a thing, but that theory strikes me as implausible."

"A genius you never were, Srulik, but still the very soul of decency. Do me the favor of forgetting what I just said. All of it. Would you like some tea? A little brandy? No?"

I thanked him but urged him once again to go to the hospital as the doctor had advised.

Craftily, like a degenerate old philanderer, he suddenly winked at me with a lewd smile. "On Sunday, if Yoni still hasn't turned up, I'm going to go get him. The doctor be damned! Listen to me, Srulik. None of what I'm going to tell you is to leave these four walls. I'm flying there on Sunday. I've already booked a seat. And I'll bring him back. They're not going to get away with this. And don't try to talk me out of it."

"But I don't understand," I said. "Where are you flying on Sunday?"

"Not a genius is an understatement. All right, I'm going to America. By myself. Without telling Hava or anyone else."

"But Yolek, you can't be serious."

"But I can. And I am. And my health is not a topic for discussion. So don't argue. It's pointless. I wish to be left alone now, Srulik, and remember to keep your mouth shut."

After lunch I returned to my room. I seem to be coming down with the grippe. And so I've got into bed in my long underwear and put on a Bach fugue. And written a few more pages in this journal. On Saturday night I will be officially elected secretary of the kibbutz unless I have the gumption to announce that I'm not a candidate. Determination has never been a trait of mine, though, and people will think badly of me. So we'll have to wait and see. Could it possibly be that I'm the only sane person in all of this? Father, son, mother, Azariah, even my precious Rimona, to say nothing of Stutchnik — there's something strange about every one of them. True enough, a genius I never was. Twice this morning I picked up the office phone to call the police, and once even dialed the number, but changed my mind both times. I'll put it off until tomorrow after all.

Meanwhile I have read a suggestive passage in Donald Griffin's Bird Migration, from which I quote the following lines:

Many species of birds begin their spring migration when the weather is still very different from that prevailing in their nesting areas. Species that winter in tropical islands, for example, where climatic conditions are highly stable, must leave such regions by a given date if they are to spend the short-lived summer in the far north.