Eshkol Nevo - Homesick

Cutting a piece of Scotch tape with my teeth, I remember that last time he explained to me again why God is transparent. How the entire Bible split into two and God passes transparently through the middle, between the red and the white. Man is always drawn to the edges: taking a bite of the red apple from the tree of knowledge, or a white apple from the tree of life. And God does not permit it. When he saw that I wasn’t attacking his theory — the way others who couldn’t control themselves undoubtedly had — he went on to explain in a different, lower tone that God had been revealed to him three times, on three junctions of pain (his expression). He described how God had appeared to him in three different forms at each of these junctions — as a dog, a beggar, a picture of a girl in a museum — and despite myself, I heard in my mind the voices of my socialist-bourgeois parents scornfully dismissing anything related to God. Wait, I replied to that voice, for this man, God is a surfboard. For this man, on the verge of drowning in a sea of churning emotions, God or, in this particular case, the primary, healthy inner voice appears and rescues him. What’s wrong with that? Why jeer at it?

I wonder what Shmuel’s going to talk about today, I ask myself and move away a little to check that the card is hanging straight. Will my heart pound in inexplicable terror again while we’re conversing?

The devotees of the crossword puzzle group — except for Dan, who probably won’t be coming — slowly gather around me. They say hello, shake my hand. They all have very limp handshakes and are quick to pull away. As if they’re afraid to infect or get infected with something. Malka with the messy hair has something to tell me, something important about her sister again. Her eyes are filled with longing, but I ask her to please wait until after we’re finished. Everyone sits down in front of the puzzle on the kind of squeaky, too-small chairs that even schools aren’t using any more. Amatzia, who keeps changing his mind, peeks into the room and asks if he can join the group. I invite him in, and he immediately sits on his heels and starts muttering to himself, no, no. He’ll do that another few times during the next hours, and every time, I’ll welcome him all over again, in the hope that this time he’ll work up the courage.

I ask if anyone wants to read the clues today instead of me. As usual, no one volunteers.

I point to the puzzle and read: one across, eight letters, quiet endurance.

*

Patience, my brother, this is not the way to be, Menachem explains to his younger brother and sits down across from him, knee touching knee. Those who are far from the Torah must be brought closer, not by force, but by wile. Moshe protests. But when we ate at your house, you said that I have to insist on getting what I want because this concerns the future of the family. Yes, Menachem says, his self-confidence still entirely intact, but let me tell you a parable from life, nothing abstract. When you’re swimming in the Kinneret and a wave comes towards you, you can smash it with your fist and fight against it, or you can give in, dive under it and then continue forward. What are you trying to say, asks Moshe, who didn’t like swimming a lot and wasn’t crazy about analogies either, abstract or not. What should I do, give in to Sima about the kindergarten? Just surrender? For now, Menachem suggests, let it go, put it aside. Let time take care of it. Bring home some books on Judaism, make sure you celebrate the holidays the way you should. You’ll see, if you do all that, the rest will take care of itself. Sima is a believer, and it’s only fear that’s keeping her from coming closer to religion. Give in to her now, and with God’s help, her heart will open in the end. Her heart will open in the end, Moshe repeats, shaking his head in disbelief. But Menachem puts his hand on his heart as if he’s about to swear an oath. You know, my brother, until five years ago, there were only four hundred yeshiva students in Tiberias? And now, may God be blessed, there are three thousand five hundred students, three large yeshivas , four kindergartens. Five seats on the city council. And, as God is my witness, we did it all through peaceful means. Without coercion. So what am I saying? Sleep at our place tonight, until your anger cools off. I’ll tell Bilha to make some kubeh khamusta . You’ll take some for Sima too, if there’s any left. And tomorrow morning you’ll say the morning prayer with me. We’ll pray for Father’s health too. He’ll be having the operation soon, and his health is more important than anything we’ve said here, that is certain. Then you’ll shave carefully, drive home and give in. What are you worried about? A little patience, my brother, and you’ll see that everything will work out.

*

You see, I say to Noa while I’m cutting a tomato — first slices, then along the length, then the width — I did a little thinking when Moshe was in Tiberias. And what did you decide? Noa asks, and on the other chopping board she cuts the yellow pepper she brought. I didn’t exactly decide, I say and slide the diced tomato into the bowl. She puts the pieces of pepper in too. Her pieces aren’t small enough for my taste, but I don’t say anything. So what conclusion did you come to? she asks and picks up an onion. She’ll be crying soon. I have this kind of exercise, I tell her, something that I always do when I can’t make up my mind about something. I close my eyes and picture every little thing about the two possibilities I have to choose from. Let’s say, in this case, I closed my eyes and pictured what my life would be like without Moshe. What it would be like to raise the kids without him. What it would be like to sleep without him. What it would be like to watch TV without putting my head on his shoulder when the programme is boring. And what did you feel? Noa asks in a voice choked with tears from the onion. Dizzy, I say. Dizzy. I felt like I was in an elevator going down the floors of a building and it keeps on going down past the parking floors, minus one, minus two, minus three, and it doesn’t stop going down even when there are no more parking floors. What did you feel when you pictured the other possibility? she asks me. That’s just it, I explain and add olive oil to the bowl, I didn’t have to picture the other possibility any more. Are you saying that you gave in? That Liron is going to the kindergarten? Noa asks, and the disappointment in her voice is as bitter as lettuce. No, I explain and mix the salad. The tomatoes that are on the bottom rise to the top. The corn that was on the top falls down to the bottom. How can that be? Noa asks and spreads her arms in confusion. We sit down at the table. I put some salad on her plate, check to see that Lilach is still sleeping, and explain. Moshe comes home yesterday, and before I can say anything, he takes my hand and his face is as serious as that man’s on the nine o’clock news. He sits me down here, at the table, and says, listen Sima, I thought about it, and I asked my brother Menachem’s advice, and I don’t think it’s a good idea to move Liron to a new kindergarten in the middle of the year. Let’s wait till next year and see how things develop, OK? O-ka-ay, I say as if I’m doing him a favour, but inside, I’m cracking up laughing. Do you get it? If he’d only let me talk first, I don’t know what I would’ve said. Oh Sima, Sima, Noa says, soaking up the salad dressing with a piece of black bread. With you, nothing’s sacred. Well I wouldn’t say that, I tell her with a little smile and get up to slice more bread. I cut another three even slices and one crooked slice that starts off thick and ends up thick. When I come back, I find Noa with her eyes closed, her lashes trembling, and a smile of pleasure on her lips. Is the salad that good, I ask her, and she opens one eye into a slit and says don’t disturb me, Sima, I’m in the middle. In the middle of what, I ask. Be quiet, she says, I’m picturing every little detail of my two choices.