Amos Oz - A Perfect Peace

"We can't force you to go to the hospital," said the doctor, "but your life will be in danger, and I'll have to wash my hands of all responsibility for it."

"Forgive me for everything," implored Hava. "I swear I'll be good from now on. Just listen to the doctor, I beg you."

I turned around to take a look. Yolek was gripping the couch with his packing-crate hands as if he were really about to be dragged away by brute force, and there was a contemptuously bitter look on his ugly face. There was something quite horrid about him, yet at the same time — why deny it? —something positively majestic that I admired and envied with all my heart.

"He has to go to the hospital," said the doctor.

"Yolek is staying here," I heard myself say. "That's his wish, but there will be a driver on duty all night long."

I then set out to arrange the matter with Etan R. and astonished myself even more by issuing a second command when I reached the doorway.

"Rachel, you stay here with Yolek. Not you, Hava. You're coming with me. Yes, right now."

She followed me, all obedience. Her eyes were full of tears. Although, as I've said, touching a woman is, for personal reasons, very hard for me, I put my arm around her shoulders. From the path outside I called back to the doctor, "We'll be in the office. And afterwards at my place."

After we had found Etan and I had told him to go sit all night in the pickup truck by Yolek's apartment, Hava finally spoke up, meekly. "You're angry with me, Srulik."

"Not angry. Just concerned."

"I'll be all right."

"I want you to go to my place now and have a rest. Later I'll have the doctor give you a sedative."

"You don't have to do that. I'm all right, I told you."

"Don't argue with me."

"Srulik, where is Yoni?"

"I don't know. But he's not with Trotsky. At any rate, not yet. The whole thing strikes me as rather fanciful."

"But supposing he does end up there?"

"If he does, I'll see to it that Trotsky realizes we must be informed at once. We won't put up with any funny stuff. Leave that worry to me. And now goodbye, Hava. Go to my place. I'll drop by as soon as I get the chance."

"You haven't eaten a thing all day. And you're not well either."

"I'm fine," I said.

At the office, Udi Shneour was waiting with what seemed to be an important piece of information. Despite Azariah's protests, he had gone to Rimona's apartment as I had instructed, searched all the closets, and found Yoni's set of maps, from which, it seemed, the whole triangle of the Negev from Sodom and Rafiah down to Eilat was missing. I told him to get hold of Chupka and let him know this, even if it took all night.

Meanwhile, I used our one other phone, in the infirmary, to call the Prime Minister's personal secretary at home and give him the addresses and phone numbers on Seewald and Trotsky. I told him we had reason for suspicion and suggested that the right people keep an eye out. I also asked his secretary to follow up on the Prime Minister's promise to release the Lifshitzes' younger son Amos from the army for a few days.

Azariah was lying in wait for me in the office. He wished to ask me a question of principle. Did I or did I not approve of Udi Shneour's breaking into his, Azariah's, apartment, going through all the closets. Incidentally, he wanted to request — or rather, not request, but apply for — that is, fill out — the necessary forms for acceptance as a full member of the kibbutz. He would marry Rimona and devote himself to the common good. Both the worm and the man must do the very best they can. He was through with his wandering and intended to stay put for the rest of his life.

I told him to leave me alone.

Except for tea, crackers, and aspirin, I haven't eaten all day. But my head is clear. Between me and the pages of this journal I might as well confess that I have increasingly been feeling an unfamiliar, almost physical joy. The very act of walking has become easier and more pleasurable. Decisions seem to make themselves. My first official day was by no means simple; yet I fail to see where 1 have made any mistakes. Whatever I did today I believe I did right.

Just where is Yonatan? Most likely still on the road. Nothing terrible, I'm sure, has happened. Soon we'll hear from him. At this very minute the lines I cast today all the way from the Negev to Miami are being tightened.

Hava is sleeping in my bed in the next room. Two hours ago I had the doctor give her a shot and she went out like a baby. I'll sleep on a mattress on the floor tonight. But I still don't feel the least bit tired. I've put a record on the phonograph — softly, of course, so as not to disturb Hava — and I'm listening to an Albinoni sonata. All's well with the world. The whole kibbutz is fast asleep except for the one lighted window I see from here. Whose can it be? Judging by the direction, most likely Bolognesi's. No doubt he's sitting up like me, muttering his charms and incantations.

When the Albinoni is over I'll put on my coat, hat, and scarf and make the rounds of the kibbutz. I'll look in on Yolek. I'll drop by the office. I'll even say good night to Bolognesi. The truth is, I just don't feel like sleeping. My guiding principle, which I've stated more than once in these pages, is that there is already enough pain in this world and that we mustn't do anything to add to it. Must even try, as far as such a thing is possible, to alleviate it. Stutchnik sometimes calls me the village priest. Well, the priest has been promoted to bishop. Yet he still has no intention of compromising with any of the cruelty, the insanity, the lies and suffering that people inflict on one another. Telling good from unadulterated evil is simple enough. The real difficulty, though, lies in telling the truly good from the seemingly good. Some powers appear in disguise. One must be alert.

It sometimes happens in the animal world, certain birds being an excellent example, that the migratory instinct splits off dangerously, even destructively, from the instinct of survival itself, so that the latter seemingly fragments into two elements, each threatening the very, existence of the other. (Donald Griffin again.)

So be it.

Soon the watchman will wake Stutchnik for the night milking. How well I remember the gay blade of a pioneer's face he once had. Now the years have given him the look of a weary old Jewish shopkeeper sitting behind a rickety counter, studying the Talmud between his all-too-infrequent customers. For all that, he still insists on milking his cows every night and has turned down my suggestion that he replace me as bookkeeper. The man has always been stubborn, but now I see something bewildered and tragic in his eyes.

I'm off. It's early Monday morning. I'll go out to see what's new on Kibbutz Granot.

P.S. One a.m. The air outside was refreshingly brisk and heightened all my senses. The paths and benches were covered with a heavy dew, or perhaps a light rain. The whole village was asleep. I walked to the end, lighting my way with the little pocket flashlight I took this morning from Yolek's desk. What's that favorite expression of his? Mea culpa. I have expropriated a flashlight. No good will come of your Dostoyevskyizing, said Eshkol. Well, and what if it doesn't?

As I was walking down the path, something sprang out of the darkness behind me, giving me quite a start. Is that you, Yonatan? But the something, which proceeded to trot in front of me, was only Tia, who decided to join me on my stroll. Here and there we paused to turn off a leaking faucet, pick up a scrap of paper and put it in a basket, or turn off an electric light burning on a deserted porch. Tia cooperated by bringing me a torn shoe from a bush.

Near the club I met Udi on his way back from the office. He had finally managed to get through to Chupka with the news of the missing maps. The Negev, of course, is a very large area, but it does give us a clue. And a man out to commit suicide, as Udi argued, is not likely to take a set of 1:20,000 maps with him. I told him I hoped and believed he was right and sent him off to bed.