Amos Oz - Where the Jackals Howl

AS SHE spoke, they walked through the Makor Baruch quarter toward the Schneller Barracks, approaching the last of the dirt paths and the zoo in North Jerusalem, which lies on the frontier between the city and enemy territory.

The treasure hunt had come to nothing. Nobody had interpreted correctly the clue of the old acacia tree, and the treasure was not found. Uri was asleep curled up in the armchair when Yosef Yarden returned from his visit to Dr. Kleinberger. The house was in chaos. In the middle of the table lay an open volume of Bialik’s poetry. All the lights were on. Yair was not at home. Yosef Yarden roused his younger son and sent him off to bed with a scolding. Yair must have gone to the station to meet his fiancee. Tomorrow I will let Lily apologize for not being home tonight. She will have to apologize profusely before I agree to accept her excuses and forgive her. The most disagreeable thing was the quarrel with Kleinberger. Naturally I had the last word in the argument, but I have to admit that I was beaten, just as I was in the chess game. I must be honest. I don’t believe that our wretched party will ever succeed in shaking off its apathy and depression. Weakness of heart and weakness of will have eroded all the good intentions. All is lost. Now it’s time to sleep, so that tomorrow I won’t be sleepwalking like the majority of people. But if I get to sleep now, Yair will come home and make a lot of noise. Then I won’t be able to sleep until morning, which means another dreadful night. Who’s that shouting out there? Nobody’s shouting. A bird, perhaps.

Dr. Elhanan Kleinberger had also put out the light in his room. He stood at one end of the room, with his face to the wall and his back to the door. The radio was playing late-night music. The scholar’s lips moved silently. He was trying, in a whisper, to find the right word for a lyric poem. Unbeknownst to anyone, he was composing poetry. In German. He, the passionate lover of Hebrew literature and the defender of the language’s honor, whispered his poetry in German. Perhaps it was for this reason that he concealed what he was doing from even his closest friend. He himself felt that he was committing a sin and was guilty of hypocrisy as well.

With his lips he strove to put ideas into words. A wandering light flickered among the dark shelves. For a moment this light danced on the lenses of his spectacles, creating a flash as of madness or of utter despair. Outside, a bird screeched with malicious joy. Slowly, and very painfully, things became clearer. But still there were things for which no words existed. His frail shoulders began to shake in choking desire. The right words would not come; they only slipped by and eluded him like transparent veils, like fragrances, like longings that the fingers cannot grasp. He felt that there was no hope for him.

Then he switched on the lamp again. Suddenly he felt a vicious hatred for the African ornaments and the erotic vases. And for words.

He stretched out his hand and casually selected a scientific volume from one of the bookshelves. The title shone in gold letters on the leather binding: Demons and Ghosts in Ancient Chaldee Ritual All words are whores, forever betraying you and slipping away into the darkness while your soul yearns for them.

11

THE LAST wood. In its center stands the Jerusalem Biblical Zoo, and its northern flank marks the frontier between Jerusalem and the enemy villages across the cease-fire line. Lily had been married to Yosef Yarden for less than four months, and he was a delightful youth, full of dreams and ideals. All this happened many years ago, and still there is no peace. It is the way of flesh to hold its grudges, and it is the way of the moon to hover with calm and cold insolence in the night sky.

Within the zoo is a nervous silence.

All the predators are asleep, but their slumber is not deep. They are never totally free from smells and voices borne on the breeze. The night never ceases to penetrate their sleep, sometimes drawing from their lungs a low growl. Their hide bristles in the frozen wind. A tense vibration, a ripple of fear or of nightmare, comes and goes. A moist, suspicious nose probes the night air and takes in the unfamiliar scents. Everywhere there is dew. The rustling cypresses breathe a sigh of quiet sorrow. The pine needles whisper as they search in the darkness, thirsty for the black dew.

From the wolves’ cage comes a sound. A pair of wolves in heat, lusting for each other in the darkness. The bitch bites her mate but his fury is only redoubled. In the height of their fever they hear the cries of the birds and the vicious growl of the wildcat.

A blue-tinted vapor rises from the valleys. Strange lights twinkle across the border. The moon sheds her light upon all and shrinks, enchanted, in the whiteness of the rocks: cancers of shining venom in beams of sickly, primeval light.

Moon-struck jackals roam the valleys. From the murky groves they call to their brothers in the cages. These are the lands of nightmare, and perhaps beyond them lie those gardens that no eye has seen, and only the heart reaches out to them as if wailing: Homeward.

Out of the depths of your terror lift up your eyes. See the tops of the pine trees. A halo of pale-gray light enfolds the treetops like a gift of grace. Only the rocks are as dry as death. Give them a sign.

1964

1

THE NEXT DAY we went out to assess the damage. The storm had ruined the crops. The tender shoots of winter corn had been wiped off the fields as if by a gigantic duster. Saplings were uprooted. Old trees lay writhing, kissed by the terrible east wind. Slender cypresses hung limply with broken spines. The fine avenue of palm trees planted to the north of our kibbutz thirty years earlier by the founders when they first came to these barren hills had lost their crowns to the storm: even their dumb submission had not been able to save them from its fury. The corrugated iron roofs of the sheds and barns had been carried far away. Some old shacks had been wrenched from their foundations. Shutters, which all night long had beaten out desperate pleas for help, had been broken off by the wind. The night had been filled with howls and shrieks and groans; with the dawn had come silence. We went out to assess the damage, stumbling over broken objects.

“It isn’t natural,” said Felix. “After all, it’s spring.”

“A typhoon. Here. A real tornado,” added Zeiger with mingled awe and pride.

And Weissman concluded:

“The loss will come to six figures.”

We decided on the spot to turn to the government and the movement for help. We agreed to advertise for volunteer specialists to work with us for a few days. And we resolved not to lose heart, but to make a start on the work right away. We would face this challenge as we had faced others in the past, and we would refuse to be disheartened — this is the substance of what Felix was to write in the kibbutz newsletter that weekend — and above all we must keep a clear head.

As regards clarity, we had only to contemplate the polished brilliance of the sky that morning. It was a long time since we had seen such a clear sky as on that morning when we went out to assess the damage, stumbling over broken objects.

2

A LIMPID crystal calm had descended on the hills. Spring sunlight on the mountains to the east, benign and innocent, and excited choruses of birds. No breeze, not a sign of dust. We inspected each part of the farm methodically, discussing, taking notes, making decisions, issuing immediate instructions. Not wasting a word. Speaking quietly and almost solemnly.

Casualties: Old Nevidomsky the night watchman, slightly injured by a falling beam. Shoulder dislocated, but no bones broken, according to the doctor at the district hospital. Electricity: Cables severed at various points. First priority, to switch off the current before letting the children come out to play, and to inspect the damage. Water: Flooding in the farmyard and no water in the nursery. Provisions: For today, a cold meal and lemonade. Transport: One jeep crushed; several tractors buried in wreckage. Condition impossible to ascertain at present. Communications: Both telephones dead. Take the van into town to find out what has happened in other places and how much the outside world knows of our plight.