“No. We have to be with my parents. They have no one else.”
Asi wants to say something but doesn’t.
“Perhaps the day after then, on the holiday itself…”
“We could try…”
Silence. I suddenly grasp that I may not see him anymore that he’s about to vanish again.
“Maybe I’ll come too tomorrow.”
He looks at Asi.
“No. You can’t,” says Asi determinedly. “Not tomorrow. There’ll be too many people. She won’t be able to cope.”
“But I want to see her too.”
“No. It’s impossible. Not tomorrow.”
We trade blows via his father.
“What will I tell my parents then? They’ll feel so disappointed.”
I fight bravely on for them.
“My father will phone them tomorrow to say hello. He’ll apologize and explain.”
All at once such loneliness engulfs me. Asi is casting me vilely aside. He’ll always do just what he wants to. His father smokes thoughtfully.
“I really did want to meet them but I don’t see how it will work out. This trip’s been so rushed… the time has sped by. I will call them, though. That’s a good idea. And I’ll tell them that on my next visit… because I’ll come again next year with Connie… yes. I’ll certainly call them. Someone told me that they’re very religious. Where do you live?…In Ge’ula? Are they followers of some Hasidic rabbi?…You don’t say! How interesting. One could never tell by looking at you, there’s not a trace left. How could they have let you? Have you lost faith yourself? I mean…”
Asi regards me intensely.
“Asi dislikes God. It’s that simple. Like someone who can’t stand a certain food and won’t allow it into the house.” His father smiles and nods. “It’s a matter of taste. But sometimes when I’m alone I buy it and cook it and eat it in secret, and wash out my mouth so be won’t know. I’ve lost faith but sometimes I’m still afraid…”
Asi’s eyes glitter with mirth. He’s cruelly amused.
“Apart from that, we keep a kosher home: the dishes, the pots, the silver… so that my parents can eat here with us, although in fact they never do.”
“Over there, this past year, I’ve begun attending synagogue now and then.”
“I always figured it would come to that someday,” Asi jabs drily still staring down.
His father flushes hard-pressed to explain.
“Simply as an onlooker. As a sociological observer of the vagaries of Jewish history. Besides, the temple has a wonderful choir. All Gentile, of course. You should hear how beautifully it sings. Absolutely professional.”
O he knows that he has sinned, he knows that it’s no use.
In vain he strums the burst strings of his heart.
He’s silent as a shadow and equally elus-
ive, & he shivers when the Sabbath prayers start.
Suddenly there’s an awkward feeling in the air. Asi projects hostility toward both of us. I clear the table and put the dishes in the sink I soap them and run the water. The two of them sit silently smoking by the table. So what? The distant mother the mortally wounded parents. All that counts is she. Waiting for me. Where did I leave her? Coming out of the supermarket with the baby in her arms. Twilight. I have to dress her. A skirt or pants? Pants, soft velvety ones. People in the street brush lightly against her, quickly she slips into the stairwell with the broom, yes I see it clearly, there’s a dusty old baby carriage there. She puts him in it and begins to wheel him. Her name should be simple, drab, nothing special or too modern. On the stairs she encounters a neighbor. Our banalities are the most incriminating things about us. She pulls down the blinds, she gathers pillows and builds a wall of them on her bed, she puts the child inside it. Make him younger. Four months old. His first fit of crying. Until now he’s been quiet. She goes to look for milk. She doesn’t have enough? She runs down to the grocery, it’s open until late. Another grocery? More objects. Where does the plot go from here? All right, in the end she returns him, but why? A purely internal decision?
Someone’s at the door. Who is it now? Telephone for Dina. I wipe my hands and descend to the floor below the door is open the family is eating invisibly in the kitchen where I hear hoarse adolescent voices. The receiver is dangling from a hook. Father and mother each on a different phone. Do not forsake us 0 our darling. They had to install a second phone because each kept grabbing the first from the other. Their voices mingle in the identical accent one finishes the other’s sentence one answers the questions asked me by the other.
“So how was supper?”
I astound them with its story. They disapprove. “You should have made it. If you had taken the groceries from us, you would have been spared the embarrassment. What are his plans now?”
“He’s heading back north tomorrow. He has to visit her in the hospital. But he’ll call you in the morning.”
“He’ll call? That’s all he’ll do, call? He can’t come?”
“It seems not. He’s leaving early in the morning. The whole visit’s very rushed.” (I should have invited them tonight really I’m not ashamed of them.)
There’s a long silence on both phones.
“How is he?”
“Fine. Just fine. He’s young-looking, likable, friendly. He resembles Tsvi more than Asi. He even goes to synagogue in America.” (Now what did I tell them that for? To please them? To make them like him? As their consolation prize?)
And indeed they’re in seventh heaven. Religion wins the day.
“How do you like that!..You see?…Just a minute, what?…” (A brief pause while they consult.) “Maybe we’ll come over for a few minutes now… we could even take a taxi… or is he too tired?…”
I say nothing. My heart goes out to them so lonely in their old neighborhood. But how can I possibly have them over now? Delicately they probe my silence. “Dina? Are you there? What do you think? We’ll take a taxi…” (The ultimate for them in dissipation.)
I still don’t answer. I can’t tell them not to. In a minute they’ll understand by themselves. “Dina?” Father raps on the phone. In the end they give up.
“Perhaps I’ll bring him to you for a short while in the morning. We’ll see. The main thing is that we’ll be with you for the seder.”
I hang up.
Asi and his father are already finishing the dishes in the kitchen putting everything away. No wonder she went mad. The old man’s crafty glance alights on me as though asking for help. Asi is getting moodier by the minute their silence percolates between them.
“You really needn’t have!” I do my best to sound thrilled. “Asi, why did you?”
He makes a despairing gesture with his hand. I go to the bedroom and look for my pad between the sheets. Where are you my dear sitting moodily in your room shuttered by your growing fear fatigued from listening to the ceaseless crying of the baby. Asi enters after me I snatch the pad and escape with it to the bathroom I undress there and take a long shower blissful in the vaporous spray I slowly advance upon the mirror from time to time kissing a breast nibbling a shoulder with dainty bites licking my fragrant skin. I put on my bathrobe and brush a few droplets of water from the pad where some words have blurred like frail spiders on tiny shelves. I dry them with my breath I return to the bedroom and climb into bed. Away with all inhibition! I begin to write. Stress my character’s fright after the initial steely excitement of the kidnapping itself, which took place with surprising ease and speed. Her modest room? A poster of a dog. The baby cries and cries. She’s afraid someone will hear. She boils milk and waits for it to cool. Describe the moment and the quality of the light. Her violent inner conflict. The telephone rings, it must be her mother. She doesn’t answer for fear the cries will be heard.