Eshkol Nevo - Homesick

I was too ashamed to tell you this story, she goes on. But you, ya ibni , will be an old man yourself soon, and who knows how much time I have left to live. You have many years left, I want to say, but she silences me with a look. On the day the Jews came, she begins — but not in her story-telling voice, her large voice that makes you bend over and listen, but a quiet voice that I don’t know — on the day they came to drive us away, we didn’t take many things from the house. There was no time. The soldiers were already standing on the hills, and the stories about Dir Yassin were spreading through the village. You’ve heard about Dir Yassin, haven’t you? Everyone said that now, Dir Yassin would be here, in el-Castel, and fear entered out hearts. We were not thinking clearly, do you understand? We took a little rice, a little olive oil, a few pots, put it all on the donkey and started walking. I didn’t remember until a few hours later that I’d left something at home. The most important thing. I wanted to go back. I had to go back. But the soldiers fired over our heads and yelled yallah , go to Abdallah, the King of Jordan, and your father said, Ma’alish, we’ll be back in the village in another two weeks anyway. That’s why it’s remained there, since then, in the walls of the house.

What is it, ya umi ? What are you talking about? I ask, and she puts her hand on mine and says, I can’t tell you that. You’ll see for yourself. Her hand shakes. I cover it with my other hand, and she covers that hand with hers. And we sit like that, with a tower of four hands, one on top of the other, for a few minutes without talking.

The muezzin starts calling, and his words come through the window with the wind. Children are yelling in the yard below. My father is coughing in the bedroom.

Finally, she takes her hand away, picks up the rusty key and hands it to me. Here, ya ibni , go to that house you are talking about and open the door. Maybe it’s from Allah that they took you to work in our village. I’m a stubborn old woman, but go there if you want to so much, and Allah will watch over you. Go, go and say hello to the spirit of Aziz. People say he’s still wandering around there, making the Jews crazy. Go and bring back black figs from the fig tree, go and pour lime on the ground near the mosque so the ants won’t get inside. And then, when you go to the house, go inside, don’t be ashamed, it’s your house, don’t apologise. If the Jews say anything, show them this. She goes to the cabinet, takes out the sura , the sack, and pulls a document out of it. I know that document: the last time I saw it was thirty years ago, when my wife’s family wanted to know what land the groom’s family owned. That’s how it was then. People believed that we’d all go home very soon and get our land back.

The certificate from the land registry office, Mother says and hands it to me. Her hands shake and the paper dances. People die, trees die, but the land stays for ever, she says. Mazbut , that’s true, I reply and use my sleeve to wipe off the dust that has collected on the paper. You guard this very very carefully, OK? She waves a threatening finger at me. I will, I promise, and put my hand over my shirt pocket.

Now listen well, she says, and lowers her voice as if she’s about to tell me a secret. I bend down to her. Above the door, under the ceiling, there’s one loose brick. Look for it and you’ll find it. I trust you, that’s your job, isn’t it? When you find it, take it out carefully. If that’s the right house, you’ll find a bag behind it with a lot of rolled-up newspaper inside. Wrapped in the newspaper is something that belongs to me. To my mother. Ya Saddiq, if you can, bring it here. And Allah will be with you.

Chorus

When I was ten

And Beitar was taking it on the chin

I’d promise God to obey His commandments

If only He’d make them win.

I’d keep the Sabbath

Wear a yarmulke on my head

And say the blessing over bread.

And now I call to him come back,

Come back to me

Spread your grace over me.

When I was fifteen

And my father was sick in bed

I’d beg for him to get well

And swear to do what the rabbi said.

I’d put on my prayer shawl,

Pray every day

And join a yeshiva not tomorrow, but today.

And now I call to him come back,

Come back to me

Spread your grace over me.

The dam has collapsed over the river I

Rivers of longing are drowning me alive

I’m about ready to say

I’m done for, no more

Spread, oh spread your grace over me.

I’ve broken my promises, the whole long list

And maybe You don’t even exist

But come back, come back to me

Spread your grace over me.

Music and lyrics: David Batsri

From the Licorice album, Love As I Explained it to My Wife

Produced independently, 1996

ALL OF A sudden I heard a boom, says an eyewitness in a cardigan who was breathing heavily. All of a sudden I heard a boom, says a salesman from the shoe shop, an involuntary smile twitching on his cheek. A boom? What boom? An explosion doesn’t go boom, just like a dog doesn’t go woof-woof. At the café they say Noa never got there, and the shift manager tries to allay my blatant fear. The police blocked off the street, so even if she wants to, there’s no way she can get through. Among the casualties are women and children, the announcer says, his face all puffed up. And the thought flashes through my mind, what about Noa? Is she considered a woman? The ticker moves across the bottom of the screen. City centre telephone lines crash from overload. But more than an hour’s gone by. She’s had enough time to get out of there and call. The telephone shrieks. Is it her? No, her mother. More uptight than I am. Yes, I heard. No, she hasn’t called me. No, she doesn’t take the number eighteen bus. She takes the one-five-four. She’s probably stuck there and can’t call because the lines are down. At Bezalel? There’s no one there to talk to. The office is only open on odd-numbered days, and only for an hour or so. Yes, it’s outrageous, I know. No, Tel Aviv’s no better. You’re right, Yehudith, those should be our biggest problems. Right, the first one to get the all-clear signal will let the other one know, OK? OK. I put down the receiver and start pacing, unable to turn off the TV and unable to watch it because I’m afraid there’ll suddenly be a close-up of a stretcher with Noa on it. The man in the picture on the living room wall is still staring at nothing at all. Maybe he’s waiting for a phone call too. Noa’s right. That picture is a depressing sight. If she gets out of this OK, I’m taking it down. Why did I say ‘if’? I look in the fridge for something to eat. The sticker ‘Create or Stagnate’ screams at me from the corkboard. I find two rubbery dried apricots. I sink my teeth into one of them, toss the other into the air. And catch it. Sima’s Lilach is sobbing, screaming. Her crying splits walls. In my little workroom, the book Psychopathology is open at the chapter on post-traumatic stress disorder. I browse through it till I get to the chapter on behavioural therapy for worry. I don’t read, just put it down belly up, open at the right chapter. The phone screams. Now it has to be Noa, and I am going to give her a piece of my mind. Why didn’t she call sooner? It’s Hila. Noa was supposed to have called her in the morning from the café to set up a day for Reiki, but no sign of her yet. And the café isn’t far from Jaffa Street, you know. Yes, Hila, I know. Are you watching TV? Yes. The mayor’s giving a speech into a sea cucumber. ‘The horrendous sights …’ ‘On a day like this …’ ‘We did everything we could …’ People are crowded around him like fans around a football player. It’s terrible, Amir, Hila whispers into my ear, just terrible. How much hate does a person have to have to do such a thing? It spreads so much bad karma in the world. Didn’t they ever hear of non-violent protests? If they would just march, lock arms and march, no one could stop them. I don’t know, Hila, I don’t know if things like that work in the Middle East, I say, and hear myself sounding as hollow as a political analyst on TV. She’ll be OK, won’t she? Hila begs. Let me know if you hear anything from her, Amir. Promise? Yes, I promise. Bye, Hila. Bye. The Minister of Something-or-Other Affairs promises, on live TV, to bring the full weight of justice to bear on the terrorists and those who send them. The fans are pushing. The camera is shaking. The broadcast switches back to the studio. They rehash everything we already know. What if she doesn’t call? Scenarios start to sprout in my mind and I can’t trim them down. Noa with an amputated leg, Noa with crutches, Noa in a hospital bed with me beside her reading her the end of A Hundred Years of Solitude , trying to absorb the fact that I have a handicapped girlfriend. And another one: Noa’s dead, someone informs me, a police officer. He calls and offers me his condolences. (Is that how it works? They offer their condolences even before you know you need them?) Then he asks me to come to the hospital. My trip to Shaare Tzedek Hospital — no, to Hadassah Hospital in Ein Kerem — is ceremonious. Cars make way for me as if they know. Her family is already waiting at Hadassah Ein Kerem — it’s not clear how they got here before me. A quick hug with her father. A three-way hug with her mother and sister. They’re all weepy and I can’t shed a tear. Why not? And why does that whole scenario infuse me with a kind of sweetness, why does it excite me? A knocking at the door saves me from the answer. Three quick, demanding knocks. I open it. Sima apologises for bothering me. I just wanted to ask if Noa’s all right, she says, brushing her hair from side to side with one hand. In the other, she’s rocking Lilach. Why are you standing outside? Come in, I extend an arm and she comes in. Dressed nicely, sharply creased black trousers, a pink shirt with buttons down the front, one of them open right over her cleavage. Is that what she wears at home? I take a quick look at the living room through her eyes. The two pillows on the sofa. No underpants on the floor. It’s a good thing I managed to tidy up a little in the morning. Did you hear anything from her? she asks, putting Lilach down on the rug. The fear starts creeping again. No, I haven’t heard anything. Tell me, that café of hers, isn’t it near …? Yes. And …? She never got there, I checked. Allah yestur , God help us, Sima says and puts her hand on her breast, her fingers slipping under her shirt through the open button. Meanwhile, Lilach discovers my tennis ball. She feels it with her fingers and tries to eat the yellow fuzz. Sima bends down (plain white bra) and takes it out of her hand. It doesn’t taste good, she tells her gently, it doesn’t taste good. She hands me the spit-soaked ball and says, with the same gentleness, don’t worry, it’ll be OK, it’s not her bus. Sit down, why are you standing, I say to her and ask myself till what age will my heart respond so quickly to maternal gentleness? I wonder if even when I’m eighty, I’ll want to rest my head between the breasts of every woman who talks to me that way. Have you called the emergency numbers yet? Sima asks and points to the screen. I look for a pen that works and manage to copy down only one number before the broadcast switches to ‘our correspondent, Gil Littman’ with the first pictures from Shaare Tzedek Hospital. Gil Littman taught us field studies at school, and all the girls in the class used to put on lipstick before his lesson. Now he’s talking to the hospital’s Deputy Director, with drips and white gurneys racing past in the background. They’ll probably postpone Avram’s operation again, Sima mumbles to herself. Who’ll have time for his kidneys now? You never know, I try to reassure her, staring at the screen and thinking: just don’t let any black hair pop up now. No black hair. I start imagining again: I’m at Noa’s bed stroking her hair, kissing the veins on the back of her hand, and she doesn’t wake up. Doesn’t wake up.