Amos Oz - A Perfect Peace

"…Mr. Trotsky is greatly concerned over the disappearance of young Yonatan. He hopes and believes that in the next few days, or even hours, the young man will make an appearance. For many years now he has been prepared, should the occasion arise, to acknowledge legal paternity of the boy. Indeed, he once declared as much in writing, in a registered letter to you that was unfortunately never answered. Mr. Trotsky has reason to assume that, if the matter is put to him, the young man will wish to determine, by medical tests if necessary, who his true father is. Mr. Trotsky desires to stress that he has no intention of imposing anything on his son. He does, however, insist on his right to a private meeting with the boy and his mother."

Having finished with the formal deposition, the lawyer continued on his own. "I have been authorized to negotiate the matter discreetly with you, Mr. Lifshitz, and separately with your wife, in order to reach an understanding with you both. And I have a concrete proposal to make."

"You do?" said Yolek without a trace of annoyance, extending his head forward as if fearful of failing to hear. "A proposal? And exactly what is it that you wish to propose?"

"Mr. Lifshitz, to put your consideration of the matter into proper perspective, allow me to state on my own the following facts. Mr. Trotsky is not a young man. He has been married and divorced four times. None of these alliances has produced any offspring. Among other things, therefore, we are talking about an estate that, without attempting to describe or assess its net worth, easily has a value, I would say, that is ten or twenty times greater than that of this entire esteemed kibbutz. Apart from his son, Mr. Trotsky has only one other relation, a mentally unstable brother who disappeared long ago and has not been heard from since. The young man under discussion, in other words, will not be left empty-handed. I have been authorized to stress the following: Mr. Trotsky has decided that the young man will be looked after even if the results of a paternity test should prove to be equivocal, or, from Mr. Trotsky's point of view, negative. This is a matter in regard to which he has not chosen to share his motives or concerns with either you or me. I was asked, however, to emphasize as strongly as I can that Mr. Trotsky has no demands whatsoever to make in return. He is not asking that his son undergo a formal change of name. At the same time, he also does not as yet wish to make any binding commitments, and his sole request at this stage is to meet with his son and talk with him and Mrs. Lifshitz privately. Such is his desire, and, if I may say so, his indubitable right as well. And now, with your permission, I would like to have a few words with Mrs. Lifshitz. Afterwards, I suggest that the three of us confer together to see how matters stand. Thank you for your consideration."

Yolek kept thoughtfully silent, still gently fingering his unlighted cigarette. With due deliberation he moved the ashtray from the edge of the table to its center and asked in a barely audible voice, "Did you hear all of that, Srulik?"

"Yes," I replied.

"Srulik, do you smell what I smell?"

"It would seem to me," observed Mr. Seewald politely, "that the most important consideration for all parties concerned should be the welfare of the young man."

"Srulik, before I say or do anything, I need to have your unqualified opinion. You be the judge. Is she involved in this? Is this an intrigue?"

"Absolutely not," I said. "Hava had nothing to do with it."

"On the contrary!" said Mr. Seewald contentedly. "Although I'm sure that Mrs. Lifshitz will be, to say the least, highly pleased. If you'll permit me to speak with her now, I can't imagine it will take long."

"I'll permit you, sir," said Yolek calmly, "to get up."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Get up, mister."

Yolek took off his glasses and stuck them in his pocket. With a cumbersome movement, he reached out, gathered up the telex, the ticket, and the page that Mr. Seewald had read from, tore them into shreds, and piled them neatly at one end of the table.

"Now get out of here," he said, as if to himself.

"Mr. Lifshitz!"

"Get out of here. The door is right behind you."

Mr. Seewald turned pale and then crimson. He rose, snatched up his leather briefcase, and pressed it to his chest as if he feared it might go the way of the documents.

"Damnation," swore Yolek. "Listen here, you tell your master over there—"

Just then, however, Hava stormed out of the bedroom, flew between them, and came to a halt facing me.

"Srulik, he's slaughtering the child! For the love of God, don't let him do it. He slaughtered Yoni in cold blood so we'll never see him ever again." She clasped my hands between her palms. "You just heard, Srulik, how he cut the last thread with his own hands. Yoni's dead and he doesn't care. The beast!" Insanely she spun around toward Yolek, trembling all over. Hard as all physical contact with women is for me, I rushed to restrain her.

Too late. She had already thrown herself sobbing on the straw mat at Yolek's feet.

"Have pity on the child, you monster! On your own child! You cold-blooded murderer."

"I'll leave my calling card," said Mr. Seewald diplomatically. "You can always get in touch with me at your leisure. It's time for me to be off."

"Don't let him go! Murderers! Srulik, quick, run after him, promise him whatever they want. Eshkol will help. Give them anything, just get me my boy back. Srulik!"

"Don't you dare!" said Yolek to me in a stifled voice. "I forbid you to go after him. Can't you see she's a sick woman?"

By now Mr. Seewald had already left. I hesitated before following him out, catching up with him by his limousine. He paused and remarked coldly that he had nothing more to say and was not prepared to regard me as a party to any negotiations.

"I'm not here to negotiate, Mr. Seewald," I said. "But I do have a message to convey. Please tell Mr. Trotsky that the secretary of Kibbutz Granot has the following to say to Yonatan Lifshitz should he turn up in Miami. As far as we're concerned, he's free to do whatever he wants and go wherever he wants. We don't want him back in chains, but he must get in touch with his parents at once. And if he decides not to return, he must give his wife her freedom. You can also inform Mr. Trotsky that if he tries keeping anything back from us, or pressuring Yonatan, or any other monkey business, this kibbutz will fight him all the way. And what is more, we shall win. Please tell him exactly what I've said."

Without waiting for an answer or offering to shake hands, I hurried back to the Lifshitzes. Somehow, with a strength that one discovers only in emergencies, Hava had single-handedly dragged Yolek to the couch and then run out to get the doctor. Yolek's face had turned blue. His hands were pressed against his chest. Scraps from the papers he had torn still clung to his robe. I brought him a drink of water. His agony had not diminished his savage will-power, however, for he warned in a whisper, "If you made some deal with him, I'll make you live to regret it."

"Calm down. I didn't make any deals. And don't try to talk now. The doctor must be on his way."

"She's a madwoman," he gasped. "It's all her fault. She made Yonatan into what he is. He's just like her."

"Shut up, Yolek!" I said, shocked to hear myself talk to him like that.

His pain evidently grew worse, for he groaned from the depths. I took his hand in my own and held it, for the first time in my life, until the doctor arrived, followed by Rachel Stutchnik and Hava.

I went back to my post at the window. It was early evening, and the sky had begun to turn blue and red in the west. In the sunset light, the bougainvillea in the garden seemed to catch fire. It had been thirty-nine years ago in Poland that Yolek Lifshitz first introduced me to his group of young Zionist pioneers who later founded this kibbutz. He called me "a cultured youth" and, on the same occasion, referred to German Jews like me as "first-rate human material." It was he who taught me how to harness a horse, who persuaded a general meeting of our commune to buy me a flute at a time when "artistic tendencies" were considered a grave bourgeois deviation, who more than once scolded me for not getting married and even tried fixing me up with a widow from a nearby kibbutz. And now here I had been holding his hand. From somewhere deep inside me came a feeling of indefinable peace. As if I were someone else. Or as if I had managed at long last to play a particularly difficult passage on my flute, one that for years I had been unable to master, and had acquired the confidence that I could effortlessly repeat it from now on without a single false note.