Amos Oz - Where the Jackals Howl

By the same afternoon all essential services were operating again. A cold but nourishing meal had been served. The nurseries were light and warm once more. There was running water, even if the pressure was low and the supply intermittent. After lunch we were able to draw up a first unofficial assessment of the damage. It transpired that the worst-hit area was the group of old shacks at the bottom of the hill, which had been put up by the founders decades previously. When they had folded up the tents that they had pitched on the barren slope and installed themselves in these shacks, they had all known at last that they were settling here and that there was no going back.

Years later, when the successive phases of permanent buildings had been completed, the old wooden shacks were handed over to the young people. Their first inhabitants were a detachment of young refugees who had arrived from Europe via Central Asia and Teheran to be welcomed by us with open arms. They were followed by a squadron of underground fighters that later produced two outstanding military men. From this group of huts they set out one night to blow up a British military radar installation, and it was here that they returned toward dawn. Later, after the establishment of the state, when the task of the underground had been completed, the tumbledown huts became a regular army base. This was the headquarters of the legendary Highland Brigade during the War of Independence, where the great night operations were planned. Throughout the fifties the shacks housed recent immigrants, paramilitary youth groups, students in intensive language courses, detachments of volunteers, eccentric individuals who had begun to come from all over the world to experience the new way of life; finally they were used as lodgings for hired laborers. When Phase C of the building program was drawn up, the huts were scheduled for demolition. In any case they were already falling down: the wooden walls were disintegrating, the roof beams were sagging, and the floors were sinking. Weeds were growing through the boards, and the walls were covered with obscene drawings and graffiti in six languages. At night the children came here to play ghosts and robbers among the ruins. And after the children came the couples. We had been about to clear the site to make way for the new development when the storm anticipated us, as if it had run out of patience. The carpenters searched the wreckage, salvaging planks, doors, and beams that might be reused.

Felix’s short, stocky figure was everywhere at once, almost as if he were appearing simultaneously in different places. His sober, precise instructions prevented chaos, reduplication, and wasted effort. He never for a moment failed to distinguish between essential and trivial tasks.

For seventeen years Felix had been a public servant, secretary general, chairman, delegate, and eventually even a member of Parliament and a member of the executive committee of the party. A year or so earlier, when Zetka, his wife, was dying of cancer, he had given up all his public positions and returned home to become secretary of the kibbutz. Social and financial problems that had seemed insoluble for years suddenly vanished at his return, as if by magic. Old plans came to fruition. Unprofitable sections of the farm took on new life. There was a new mood abroad. A few weeks earlier, ten months after Zetka’s death, Felix had married Weissmann’s ex-wife. Just two days before the storm, a small, stern-faced delegation had come to prepare us to lose him once more: with new elections coming, our party would need a strong man to represent it in the Cabinet.

The telephone was working again after lunch. Telegrams of concern and good will began to pour in from all over. Offers of help and sympathy from other kibbutzim, institutions, and organizations.

In our kibbutz calm reigned once more. Here and there police officers confabulated with regional officials, or an adviser huddled with a curious journalist. We were forbidden by Felix to talk to the press and the media, because it would be best for us to put forward a unanimous version when the time came to make our claim for the insurance.

At a quarter past one old Nevidomsky was brought home from the hospital, with his dislocated shoulder carefully set and his arm in an impressive sling, waving greetings with his free hand. At half past one we were mentioned on the news; again they stressed that it had been neither a typhoon nor a tornado but simply a limited, local phenomenon: two conflicting winds, one from the sea and the other from the desert, had met and caused a certain amount of turbulence. Such phenomena were of daily occurrence over the desert, but in settled areas they were infrequent, and the likelihood of a recurrence was remote. There was no cause for alarm, although it was advisable to remain on the alert.

Batya Pinski switched off the radio, stood up, and went over to the window. She peeped outside through the glass of the shutters. She cursed the kitchen crew who had neglected their duty in the confusion and forgotten to send her her lunch. They should know better than anyone how ill she was and how important it was for her to avoid strain and tension. Actually she did not feel in the least hungry, but that did nothing to diminish her indignation: They’ve forgotten. As if I didn’t exist. As if it wasn’t for them and their pink-faced brats that Abrasha gave his life in a faraway land. They’ve forgotten everything. And Abramek’s also forgotten what he promised; he’s not coming today after all. Come, Abramek, come, and I’ll give you some ideas for the jacket and the dedication, I’ll show you the havoc the storm has wrought here, you’re bursting with curiosity and dying to see it with your own eyes, only you have no excuse, why should the director of the party publishing house suddenly drop all his work and come goggle at a disaster like a small child. So come, I’ll give you your excuse, and I’ll also give you some tea, and we’ll talk about what we have to talk about.

She leapt across the room, spotting some dust on the bookshelf. She swept it away furiously with her hand. She stooped to pick up a leaf that had fallen from a potted plant onto the carpet. Then she drew Abramek Bart’s letter from her dressing-gown pocket, unfolded it, and stared briefly at the secretary’s signature, some Ruth Bardor, no doubt a painted hussy with bare thighs, no doubt she’s shaved her legs and plucked her eyebrows and bleached her hair, no doubt she wears see-through panties and smothers herself in deodorants. God damn her. I’ve given those fish quite enough food for today; they’ll get no more from me. Now here’s another fly; I can’t understand how they get in or where they hide. Perhaps they’re born here. Kettle’s boiling again. Another glass of tea.

11

AFTER THE embarrassing episode in the dining hall in the early forties, some of us were glad that the affair between Batya Pinski and Felix had been broken off in time. But all of us were sad about the change that took place in Batya. She would hit her child, even in the presence of other children. None of the advice or discussions did any good. She would pinch her till she was black and blue and call her names, including, for some reason, Carmen Miranda. The girl stopped wetting her bed but instead started to torture cats. Batya showed the first signs of asceticism. Her ripe, heady beauty was beginning to fade. There were still some who could not keep their eyes off her as she walked, straight and dark and voluptuous, on her way from the sewing room to the ironing room. But her face was hard, and around her mouth there played an expression of disappointment and spite.

And she continued to discipline the child with an iron hand.

Some of us were uncharitable enough to call her a madwoman; they even said of her: What does she think she is, a Sicilian widow, that cheap melodramatic heroine, that Spanish saint, that twopenny actress.