Amos Oz - Fima

Gad Eitan, lost in thought, suddenly remarked:

"Even so, we shouldn't have done it here, under a local. It should have been done in a hospital, with a general anesthetic. We nearly made a mess of it. We ought to think about it, Alfred."

Wahrhaftig, in an altered voice, said:

"What? Are you worried?"

Eitan took his time. After a pause he said:

"No. Not now."

Tamar hesitated, her mouth opened and closed twice, and finally she said warily:

"You look good in that white turtleneck, Gad. Would you rather have lemon tea instead of coffee?"

Eitan said:

"Yes, but no tail-wagging, please."

Wahrhaftig, a clumsy peacemaker, hastily turned the conversation to current affairs:

"So, what do you say about that Polish anti-Semite? They've learned nothing and forgotten nothing. Did you hear on the radio what the cardinal in Warsaw said about the Auschwitz convent? It's a straight replay of their old tunes: Why are the Jews so pushy, why are the Jews making such a fuss, why are the Jews inciting the whole world against poor Poland, why arc the Jews trying to make capital out of their dead again? After all, millions of Poles were killed too. And our cute little government, with old-fashioned Jewish obsequiousness, turns a blind eye to the whole thing. In any civilized country we'd have sent their chargé d'affaires home with a good kick in the you-know-where."

Eitan said:

"Don't you worry, Alfred. We won't take it lying down. One night we'll drop airborne commandos on them. A lightning raid. An Auschwitz Entebbe. We'll blow that convent sky high, and all our forces will return safely to base. Surprise will be total. The world will hold its breath like the good old days. Then Mr. Sharon and Mr. Shamir will gabble on about the long arm of the IDF and the renewal of Israel's deterrent force. They can christen it Operation Peace for the Crematoria."

Fima was instantly ignited. If I were prime minister, he thought, but before he could complete the thought, he had burst out furiously:

"Who the hell needs all this? We've gone out of our minds. We've gone right off our rockers. What are we doing squabbling with the Poles about who owns Auschwitz? It's already beginning to sound like an extension of our usual story about 'ancestral rights' and 'ancestral heritage' and 'we shall never hand back territory that we have liberated.' Any moment now our dashing pioneers will be out there planting a new settlement among the gas chambers. Establishing facts in disputed territory. What makes Auschwitz a Jewish site anyway? It's a Nazi site. A German site. As a matter of fact, it really ought to become a Christian site, for Christendom in general and Polish Catholicism in particular. Let them cover the whole death camp with convents and crosses and bells. Wall to wall. With a Jesus on every chimney. There's no more fitting place in the world for Christendom to commune with itself. Them, not us. Let them go on pilgrimages there, whether to beat their breasts or to celebrate the greatest theological victory in their history. For all I care, they can baptize their Auschwitz convent The Sweet Revenge of Jesus.' What arc we doing scurrying in there with protesters and placards? Are we out of our minds? It's quite right that a Jew who goes there to commune with the memory of the victims should see a forest of crosses all around him and hear nothing but the ringing of church bells. That way he'll understand that he's in the true heart of Poland. The heart of hearts of Christian Europe. As far as I'm concerned, it would be an excellent thing if they'd move the Vatican there. Why not? Let the pope sit there from now to the Resurrection on a golden throne among the chimneys. And for another thing—"

"And for another thing, come out of your trance," hissed Eitan, holding his elegant fingers up to the light and inspecting them sternly, as though suddenly anxious that they might have undergone some mutation. He did not trouble to specify whether he was of a different opinion.

"In any civilized country," said Wahrhaftig, trying to get the conversation back on the rails, "you two would not be permitted to say such macabre words about this tragic subject. There are certain things one must not joke about even in a private conversation behind closed doors. But our Fima is addicted to paradox, while you, Gad, are only happy when you have a chance to poke fun at the government, Auschwitz, the Entebbe raid, the Six Million, anything to be provocative. You're dead inside. You'd hang the lot of them. The Hangman from Alfasi Street. It's because you both hate the state, instead of getting up every morning and thanking God on bended knee for everything we have here, including the Asianness and the Bolshevism. You can't see the cheese for the holes." And suddenly, swelling with sham fury, as though he had made up his mind to impersonate a fearsome tyrant, the old doctor turned crimson, his drunkard's face trembled, his crisscrossed blood vessels looked as though they were about to burst, and he roared politely:

"Cut the cackle now! Everyone back to work, quick march! My clinic is not a parliament!"

Barely opening the crack of his lips, Eitan hissed under his blond mustache:

"But that's just what it is. A senile parliament. Alfred, step into my room. And I need you too, you sex-starved Miss World, with Mrs. Bergman's notes."

"What have I done to you?" Tamar whispered tearfully. "Why do you torment me all the time?" And with a flicker of timorous courage she added:

"One of these days I'll hit you."

"Great." Eitan grinned. "I'm at your service. I'll even turn the other cheek, if that'll help to calm your hormones down a bit. Then Saint Augustine here can comfort you, and me, together with all those who mourn for Zion and Jerusalem, amen." So saying, he wheeled around with military precision and stalked lithely away, smoothing his white sweater and leaving silence behind him.

The two doctors disappeared into Dr. Eitan's room. Fima rooted in his pocket and managed to produce a crumpled, none too clean handkerchief, which he was about to hand to Tamar, whose eyes were brimming. But, unnoticed by him, a small object fell out of the folds of the handkerchief and landed on the floor. Tamar bent over, picked it up, and returned it to him, smiling through her tears. It was Annette's earring. Then she wiped her eyes, the brown one and the green one, on her sleeve, pulled out the requisite files, and hurried after the doctors. In the doorway she turned her harassed face toward Fima and said with desperate pathos, as though swearing by all that was most dear to her:

"One of these days I'll grab a pair of scissors and murder him. Then I'll kill myself."

Fima did not believe her, but nevertheless he picked up the paperknife and concealed it in the drawer of the desk. The handkerchief and the earring he tucked carefully back in his pocket. Then he tore off a sheet of paper and placed it in front of him, thinking to jot down his thought about the heart of Christendom. It might develop into an article for the weekend supplement.

But his mind was elsewhere. He had slept for less than three hours, and in the morning he had been worn out by his indefatigable lovers. What did they sec in him exactly? A helpless child who stirred their maternal instincts, a child to swaddle and suckle? A brother to wipe away their tears? An eclipsed poet they longed to play muse to? And what got women worked up about a cruel hussar like Gad? Or a garrulous dandy like his father? Fima marveled, smiling. Perhaps Annette was wrong after all, and there is a mysterious side? The enigma of what women prefer? Or perhaps she didn't make a mistake but was just keeping a secret from the enemy. Cunningly dissimulating its very existence. No doubt she did not really desire me this morning; she was just sorry for me and decided to give herself, so she did. Whereas I, half an hour later, didn't desire Nina but I was sorry for her and tried to give myself to her, but nature itself denied me what it makes possible for them without any difficulty.