Only a few hours left now. One last Israeli day under way. And there behind you before you the thickening darkness waits. Not a fantasy after all. Sitting there in her wide cotton dress beneath her white smock so strong so big so serene that crazy fanatic fighting for our marriage beyond the thin wooden door playing for time. For a burned-out wick. Smiling not at all sorry clinging to her madness as though to the leash of some great crouching beast. I don’t believe in her getting better children watch out for her you have no idea how deep it goes. You disappointed me. So calmly so lucidly. I did did I? Disappointed you that I didn’t go crazy too. Forgive me but that far I wouldn’t go. And did I ever really promise?
Two of the young men, scientists from the Haifa Technion, it seemed, were talking about some laboratory experiment of theirs. Gaddi came and sat beside me, his heavy profile with its double chin suddenly reminding me of Ya’el when she was a girl. His eyes darted curiously about him while his hand unconsciously crept up to his chest again, exploring, squeezing lightly.
“Why do you keep putting your hand there? Does it hurt?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“If it starts to I’ll squeeze it.”
“Squeeze what?”
“The pain.”
“Tomorrow your mother is taking you to the doctor. I don’t like this one bit. And he’ll explain to you how to lose weight and how to keep away from fattening foods. The next time I’m here…”
“Are you coming back?”
“Of course I am.”
Three young women entered the room with a whoop. The men rose to greet them. “Good to see you here!” They joked about their kindergarten, showed them the little washrooms, and sat them behind the rope they had strung. “Here. You are absolutely forbidden to cross it.” More laughter. It was an adventure for them, this trying on of religion for size. More worshippers arrived, descending the stairs and exclaiming at their surroundings. The young rabbi had the men put on prayer shawls and taught them the blessing to recite. “There are ten men here now,” someone said. “We can start to pray.”
There’s a bit of ocean too in the splendid view in the window. My first year abroad I missed this landscape terribly afterwards I grew attached to others so breathtaking especially in autumn and in spring. We who saw this country being born thought we could always bend it to our will always correct it if it went off course yet here it was out of control full of strange mutations different people odd permutations new sources of unexpected energy. The clear lines have been hopelessly smudged. If only it could at least be a homeland when will it settle down to be one. Asa go easy with your historical chaos don’t force too much of it on us.
The scented women regard you from behind their rope. It was in America that you first discovered your powers of attraction. They didn’t miss a lecture not even in midwinter not even during a blizzard. The old Israeli Valentino. The Apostle to the Exile who re-exiled himself and now spends his days in heated underground shopping centers fingering the fabric of dresses checking out the millinery aisles waiting for Connie. Connie I’ve given away my half of the house. Like a corpse tied to the bedposts and you so patient such a gentleman.
And still there were only ten men.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered to the rabbi. “I didn’t come to pray. I just happened by.”
“At least stay for the beginning,” he pleaded. “There’ll be more of us. Just for the beginning.”
He went to the improvised ark, explained briefly to those gathered the nature of the morning’s prayer, and began to sing the old hymn in a mild, clear voice:
Great King of All Whose reign began
E’er was there any living thing,
And Who, when All’s done by His will,
Forever still will be called King;
When All is gone and is no more,
Still will He rule eternally;
Imperially glorious,
He was, He is, and He will be;
And He is One, beside Him none…
A young couple arrived and stood looking on in the entrance. I felt rooted to my chair. Exhausted. Time was trickling away. But what time was it? The room began filling up. The box of prayer shawls was empty. The sun glared through the window. Hymned clarity. Stubborn flicker of thought. Fear-constricted. Gaddi turned uncomfortably to the rear. A small boy had entered the room, recognized him and pointed him out in a whisper to his father, who was wearing an officer’s uniform. He tugged at my sleeve, ill at ease.
“When are we going?”
“Soon.”
I shut my eyes, in thrall to the liturgy, around me the decorous silence of these non-observant Jews unaccustomed to the constant drone that accompanies prayer in an Orthodox synagogue.
“Mom and dad will worry,” Gaddi persisted, rising from his chair.
“All right, let’s go. Excuse me,” I said to a young man sitting next to me, “do you happen to know the time?” He showed me his watch, afraid to utter a word.
I took off my prayer shawl and skullcap and handed them without glancing up to a new congregant who had just arrived. The small boy rose too and made his way toward us, but Gaddi hurried up the stairs away from him and we stepped out into the spring day. The street was filled now with both adults and children. Cars streamed down the hill. I walked still staring down at the ground. What guilt they managed to infuse in you. Not that you ever believed but for a long while you didn’t disbelieve either. Leave God out of this Naomi said right away.
We continued back up the street. Gaddi strayed into a field and returned with a bent metal pipe. He stopped by a tree to pick leaves for his last silkworm that hadn’t yet spun a cocoon. Suddenly I felt that we were being followed by a car driving slowly behind us. I stopped. So did it. The light reflected from its windshield was too blinding for me to make out the driver. We turned into Ya’el’s narrow street and climbed the stairs to the apartment. The living room was still dark. Ya’el and Kedmi were in the kitchen, sitting at a table piled high with breakfast, with matzos and pitas side by side, both eating ravenously. Kedmi still wore his pajamas and was in high spirits.
“Last night you made off with our daughter and this morning it’s our son, eh, grandpa?”
“Gaddi keeps having these pains in his chest. You have to take him to the doctor tomorrow.”
“It’s nothing,” said Ya’el. “He’s just imagining it.”
“Still…”
“All right, we’ll take him,” said Kedmi.
“Is that a promise?”
He looked at me, amused.
“It’s a promise. Where have you been?”
We told him about the new synagogue in the kindergarten.
“Didn’t I tell you they were taking over this country?” he shot back. “Before long we won’t even be allowed to drive a car on Saturday. We’ll have to get around on roller skates.’’
I asked him what happened last night at the police station. He had actually filed a complaint against the sergeant, who would, he claimed, retain that rank for the rest of his life. I asked him again about his murderer. Did he really think that he was guilty?
“Do I think that he’s guilty? What difference would it make if I did? My job is to keep the judge from thinking it.”