They had not kissed or embraced; only the proprietary way in which she had picked some lint off his jacket and then smoothed a wrinkle on the shoulder indicated their relationship.
"What then? You go to learn something?" Then teasingly, "What can they teach you?" To Miriam he explained. "She sees all her old cronies— from Jerusalem, from Haifa, even from Tel Aviv. Some of them live right in the city with her, and she doesn't get to see them except at these conferences."
Gittel's manner with him was matter-of-fact, and the pride she had displayed when talking of him to Miriam she now carefully concealed. Her tone, when she spoke to him. was mildly ironic, but when she referred to his girl, it became a studied and bitter sarcasm. On his part, his answers were tolerant and good-natured; but sometimes he was stung to momentary anger, and he made a biting response, usually in Hebrew, as though his native language gave him greater scope for emotional expression or perhaps to avoid offending his hostess.
"Her father didn't let her come because he thought maybe it wasn't kosher here?" Gittel asked.
"Look. I told you that over the phone because I didn't want to argue with you. But it was my idea for her not to come tonight."
"Oh, you didn't want her to meet me? You are maybe ashamed of your mother?"
"Don't worry. You'll meet her. And Miriam and David will meet her, I hope. But not together, at least not the first time. Because you'd say something and then we'd fight. And I don't want to spoil the Sabbath for David and Miriam. She wanted to come, but I persuaded her not to."
"Shall we go to the table?" the rabbi suggested mildly.
They stood behind their chairs while he intoned the kiddush for which Uri had replaced his beret with a black silk yarmulke. Gittel said nothing, but the twist of her lip showed her disapproval. When they sat down to eat. she said. "That bit of silk is holier than your Army beret? It covers more maybe?"
He smiled good-naturedly. "To get out of uniform, even just a little bit. makes you feel that you're really on leave."
"This is a reasoning I'm sure your girl understands better than I do. You saw her today, I suppose."
"Yeah. I saw Esther." he said defiantly in Hebrew. "We disengoffed in the park for a while, and then I hitched a ride here. What of it?"
The rabbi pricked up his ears. "Disengoffed? What is it. to disengoff?"
Uri laughed. "That's Hebrew they don't teach you in the yeshiva. David. It's Army slang. In Tel Aviv there's this big. wide street, full of cafes, the Disengoff. The boys go there and just stroll with their girls. So to disengoff is just to walk along with your girl."
"With a mother, you understand, David, you don't disengoff," said Gittel. Then to her son, "I'm surprised her father didn't insist you go to shul with him, to the Wall probably."
"He asked me, and if I weren't coming here, I would have gone. He doesn't go to the Wall. He goes to a little shul in the Quarter, and I like to go there."
"He has preferences in shuls, my son. He's getting to be a regular rabbi. Every day he puts on phylacteries and prays—"
"So what? You want to remember something, you put a string around your finger. So what's wrong if I tie a strap around my arm and another around my head—"
"To remind you of what?" his mother demanded.
He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. Maybe that when I am alone on patrol. I may not be alone. There's a chance of catching a sniper's bullet or stepping on a mine. It's not pleasant to think that it is just a matter of luck, that if you hadn't taken one extra step, it wouldn't have happened. It's better to think that there is a great design of which I am a part. yes, and even of which my being shot is a part. Look, all this business here, the candles, the wine, the challahs, the whole idea of the Sabbath— it's beautiful. Can something be beautiful and have no meaning? You yourself light the candles at home."
"The Sabbath is not really religion." said his mother stoutly. "It's a major sociological contribution that we have made."
"Aren't all religious practices sociological contributions?" said the rabbi mildly.
Gittel canted her head to one side and considered. "Your husband has a curious way of looking at things. Miriam." she said. Then to the rabbi: "You may be right, but even a major sociological innovation can in time become a mere superstition. Take my son—"
"Oh, come on. Gittel." Uri protested, "there must be other subjects of conversation besides me. Did you get to see Sarah?"
"I saw her, and I saw Avner. too. He was there at the hospital when I came in. And I told him to his face. 'Avner Adoumi.'1 said, 'if you want your wife—'"
"Yes, I know," Uri interrupted. "He should give up his job."
"You still didn't explain why it's so dangerous." said the rabbi.
"The exact nature of his work. I don't know." Gittel said, "only that he's a high government official—"
"Come on. Gittel. you know very well he's in the Shin Bet." said her son.
"I know nothing of the sort. Neither he nor Sarah ever told me, and I wouldn't think of asking. And I should think you, in the Army, would know better than to mention it."
"Why? You think David and Miriam are going to spread it around? Maybe I ought to go out and see her while I'm in the city."
"When? Tomorrow? You can't. Your friends, the religious, won't let you because you would have to ride. No visitors at Hadassah on the Sabbath. Even Avner can't go see his own wife. By them it's a terrible crime. So they impose rules on the rest of us. They're not even true Israelis; they don't even talk the language—"
"And the bunch of Anglo-Saxons and Yekkies that run Hadassah and your hospital, too. you call them real Israelis? As for the language, they don't even want to learn it. Some of them have been here thirty veers or more and still can't read a Hebrew newspaper or understand a Hebrew news broadcast."
"So there is a 'real Israeli' question here?" said the rabbi pleasantly. "I suppose that's a sign that the state is fully established. During the formation and founding of a state there's usually no time for such arguments."
"You don't understand. David." said Uri earnestly. "You haven't been here long enough. It's a matter of principle—"
"No, Uri. it's a matter of logic." said the rabbi firmly. "Anyone who is a citizen of Israel is automatically a real Israeli. Some are perhaps more typical than others. I suppose that a Pekinese is a less typical dog than a foxhound, but he is still a real dog. What else could he be? Your test of language would exclude a lot of people who came here and died to establish the country. Your own father, I understand, did not speak Hebrew."
"My husband was a Yiddishist," said Gittel stiffly. "He did not speak the language out of principle."
"So the religious groups, some of them at least, don't speak it out of principle either." said the rabbi. "They consider it a holy language and hence not to be used for mundane things."
"No one really objects to their not speaking Hebrew or to their strange dress and outlandish costumes for that matter." said Gittel. "What we object to is that they are less than fifteen percent of the population and they try to impose their customs on the rest of us."
"Would you deny to a political group the right to use their intelligence to increase their influence and propagate their ideas?" the rabbi demanded. "And remember, with them, it's a matter of not just political principles. They may be mistaken, but they think they're carrying out divine commandments."
"Fanatics!" said Gittel. "That's what they are."
The rabbi tilted his head to one side and smiled. "Even fanatics have their uses. They form one end of the normal curve that comprises all of us. If they were a little nearer the center, then those on the other end would have been just that much farther away. If a couple of hundred years ago we had all been 'enlightened.' would we be a people today?"