She held out two leather wrist straps. “You forgot these,” she said.
He took them from her and shoved them into his pocket quickly and savagely.
“I wasn’t going to steal them,” she said. “I gave them back to you, didn’t I?”
“Where did you find them?”
“On the table.”
“They’re not mine,” he said. “They’re Dov’s.” He took them out of his pocket and looked at them for a moment; then he put them back.
“Did Dov tell you where he was going?”
“He said he’d be back around ten,” Esther said. “He said something about going to the airport. They left together. Dov and Dov.” She touched Israel’s shoulder, and he spun around; half of his face was still covered with soap. “What do you think? Will he help us?”
“With what?”
“Will he do something about those men?”
“Esther,” Israel said, “Dov isn’t twenty anymore. He’s tired.”
“Well, I’m twenty,” Esther said. “I have the right to expect something more from life. I spent two years in the army, then I married my Dov.” She fell silent and stood there, leaning against the window ledge. He could see a drop of sweat at the base of her short, straight nose. “I only see him at night,” she said. “He’s always worked like a horse, but then those men came here and nobody wants to help him.”
“Dov is tired,” Israel said. “He didn’t have an easy life. And now he can’t take any risks.”
They heard heavy footsteps in the hall and turned around; Dov’s father stood in the doorway.
“Yes,” the old man said. “He won’t take any risks. He burned everything behind him and came here like a worthless bum to eat his brother’s bread. He’s not too old for that, and he knew he was not risking anything by coming here; he knew his brother loved him and would share his last piece of bread with him.”
“And what do you think he should do about those men?” Israel asked.
“What’s done, or should be done, with thieves,” the old man said. “No matter what people think.”
“I hate violence,” Israel said. “I came here so that I’d never have to look at it again.”
“I see,” the old man said. “You came here so you’d never again have to look upon violence. Beautifully said, Israel.” He took a step toward him. “Do you think the men who came here before you had this country handed to them on a plate?” he asked. “No, Israel. Nobody gave it to them. To take it, they had to resort to violence, and the best of them died doing it, as usually happens. How can you, a Jew, speak to me of violence?”
“You’re an old and religious man,” Israel said. “It wouldn’t be proper for me to argue with you.”
“You wouldn’t know how to,” the old man said. He stepped up to Israel and took him by the arm. Israel shivered. Although it was almost a hundred and forty degrees, the old man’s hand was cool and dry.
“Look at him, Esther,” the old man said. “He’s unique. He should like violence. All weak men do.”
“Do you want some tea, Pop?” Esther asked.
“No,” the old man said. “I want you to look at him. Look at him, Esther.” He watched her in silence, his lined face twitching slightly; he continued to hold Israel’s arm in his bony hand. “I asked you to look at him, Esther,” he said again.
She turned her head and regarded Israel. Her expression didn’t change; her gaze was intent, but indifferent.
“Would you want him for your husband, Esther?”
“I already have a husband, Pop,” Esther said quietly. “That’s the only answer I can give you.”
“Would you like to have him in your bed, Esther?” the old man asked. “Look at his arms, Esther. I bet I’m stronger than he is.” The cool hand tightened its grip on Israel’s arm. “Would you go to bed with him, Esther, if you didn’t have a husband and could do whatever you liked?”
Once again she fixed her eyes on Israel, and they studied each other. She gazed at his tired, alert, and handsome face; he stared at her thick hair and strong, brown neck.
“No,” she said.
The old man released Israel’s arm and patted Esther’s cheek. “You’re a good child, Esther,” he said. “I’m sorry it is one of my sons that will ruin your life.”
“Does a man have to believe in violence and beat up people to deserve respect?” Israel asked.
“No,” the old man said. “He doesn’t. He can die like all good Jews did.” He turned around and began to walk away. When he reached the doorway, he stopped and faced them again; and again they saw his wrinkled face and his madman’s eyes. “Why don’t you have a child, Esther?” he asked suddenly.
“We’ve been married only three months, Pop,” Esther said, not looking at either of them. “We thought we would wait awhile—”
“I can’t wait,” the old man said impatiently. “I’m eighty years old, Esther. At this age every day is a gift from God. I want to see my grandsons before I die. My older son won’t have any children, so it is my younger son’s duty to give me that joy. I’ll ask you again a month from now, Esther. Remember, I love you like my own daughter.”
“Yes, Pop,” she said. She stepped up to him. “Pop, I want to ask you something.”
“Yes, Esther?”
“What will happen to Dina, Dov’s wife?”
“Nothing, Esther,” the old man said. “Nothing happens to women throughout their lives. They come into this world and they die unchanged.”
“But what do you think should happen to her, Pop?”
“I don’t know, Esther. You heard what my son said. He came to me and said his wife was going to give birth to a bastard.” He paused. “When I was a kid, my father bought a German shepherd bitch. But he didn’t keep a close watch on her and one day she was covered by a mongrel. When she whelped, we went to the river and drowned the pups. And the next day my father took the bitch and his gun and went to the woods. He never told me what he did with her. What d’you think?”
“Your father was a wise man, Pop,” Esther said. “That’s what I think.”
“So do I,” Dov’s father said and went out into the hall. They listened to the heavy tread of his receding footsteps, and then they heard his quiet, monotonous voice; he had begun to pray.
“You don’t have an easy life with him here,” Israel said. He was still looking at Esther, at her strong neck and thick eyebrows, which came together above her nose, just like Dov’s.
“You won’t either,” she said.
“Dov was right,” Israel said softly. “He’s cruel like a child. Like every old person, like my mother.”
“Where’s your mother now?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I just know where I buried her.”
They heard through the window the roar of the jeep’s engine and the squeal of brakes; a moment later Dov marched into the kitchen. He took off his shirt and threw it on the floor.
“Go to the airport, Israel,” he said. “I had the brakes fixed; they should work fine now. The plane’s landing in a few minutes.”
“I wish you’d go the first time,” Israel said.
“Yeah, I know,” Dov said. “But I want you to go. Maybe you’ll turn my luck.”
“Listen, Dov—”
Dov reached into his pocket for the car keys and tossed them to him. “The plane’s coming.”
“Dov,” Israel said, “I think they’re right, all those people who feel we shouldn’t stick together. Your father is right, your brother is right, and so was the fat guy who lent you his jeep. I don’t believe I can turn your luck.” He went up to Dov, who had lowered himself into a chair, and looked at his heavy brown shoulders, glistening with sweat. “I’ll go back to Tel Aviv, Dov. I’ll find myself a job there.”
“You won’t find one,” Dov said. “You couldn’t find one before.”