Death Had Two Sons Page 11

  ‘I’ll bring the rest of his things from the camp.’

  There was a little kerosene stove in the room, but somehow the fresh air felt warmer. Rina was sitting in the jeep waiting and he knew she preferred not to go in.

  ‘Where are you off to?’ someone asked.

  ‘Jerusalem,’ he said, turning the jeep away from the house, from Gilad, from the cemetery and the river.

  He missed his watch. He had lost his sense of time because he felt no hunger and the accumulated fatigue of days did not signal approaching bed time. The noise of the engine prevented conversation and when they stopped in Tel-Aviv for coffee he felt a sudden attraction to the big city. He could bury himself in its glitter and smell its new smells and feed on new tastes and shapes and meanings. The Jordan was now as far away as the Vistula and he had no home once again and smiling for the first time in many days he felt a strange sensation of freedom. They headed east into the hills as the sun was setting in the west behind them. The intimacy of the winding mountain road made Rina think aloud and he knew he need not worry about her. He felt a chill as they climbed towards the lights of Jerusalem, and for the last few kilometres he had the strange sensation of not driving at all but rather being pulled by the big magnetic clasps of the city.

  It was early but the streets were deserted. A few people could be seen, heavily clad, hurrying for shelter and drops of rain glittered on the rough stone surfaces of the buildings. The city looked underlit and he drove slowly as if trying not to disturb the eternal sleep of holy ghosts. He left Rina in front of an old house where she shared a room with another student and said a quick good night. There was nothing to say. For a minute the pride was gone from her face and she turned to go, humble and yielding.

  He parked the jeep and walked along a narrow street in the religious quarter. His own footsteps echoed towards the sleeping wall, the border, the other Jerusalem. All the windows had shutters and only when he passed the large Yeshiva building could be heard a vague human sound, a monotonous incantation of prayers which the wind tossed into the air, turning it into a wailing cry. It meant nothing to Daniel though the strange sound sent a shiver through his spine. He tightened his battle jacket and tried to concentrate and think of his father. His thoughts chased each other madly, deliberately avoiding Yoram’s fresh grave and he reached the end of the street where a border sign made him turn back.

  Moonless night, starless night, and all the roads were blocked suddenly. He could not go to battle again, he had no desire to return to Gilad, Nechama’s body knew too much and somewhere on another continent there was a man he did not know who claimed his love. He would tend to Kalinsky first he thought, and drove to the Jerusalem camp where he could spend the night.

  There was something awkward about Daniel the next morning. Used to open fields or the army atmosphere of excitement and informality he was lost in the corridors of the Jewish Agency looking for his file. People were sitting on benches patiently waiting to find solutions to life-long riddles. He was told to wait outside and two women pointed to the bench where he obediently occupied the offered seat.

  ‘Are you looking for someone you’ve lost?’ the older one asked.

  ‘I’ve found them,’ he said casually.

  ‘You’re a lucky man,’ said the younger woman. ‘Did it take years?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, attempting to put an end to the unwelcome exchange.

  ‘The thing is not to lose hope,’ said the first woman. ‘I’ve been looking for my boy for twenty years now.’

  He looked at her. Her hair was white but her face unwrinkled. She was dressed in black and there was a wedding ring on her finger. He could not help thinking of his mother, the way he remembered her. Her hair would never turn white in his memory, her face would remain radiant and smooth and beautiful, her body lush and young. They called his name.

  Horowitz sent him to Levy and Levy gave him the file and told him to go to another room, to Rosenberg, and he ended in front of a middle-aged man behind a steel desk.

  He had no reason to feel belligerent, yet he did. Something in those faces disturbed him. They had a patient kindness. Their looks indicated an effort to get involved, to display human understanding, to show care, and yet there was saturation in their weary eyes. They had heard too much, they had seen it all, they were witnesses to the greatest joys and even greater tragedies and they were touched too often. Somewhere along the shelves loaded with files they had acquired a horrible sense of proportion. They knew what really mattered, they were detached from the small distresses, they were taken, perhaps unqualified, through labyrinths which should be closed to strangers and their eyes reflected the superior knowledge of the profoundest of sources.

  ‘You’re a lucky man,’ the clerk said.

  ‘A woman outside said the same,’ Daniel remarked thoughtlessly.

  ‘They are still waiting for a visa, but it’s easier now. Have they decided to immigrate?’

  ‘I have to find out about conditions, jobs, a place to live in – things like that.’

  ‘Couldn’t they stay with you in the Kibbutz?’

  He tried to picture Gilad but could produce only an enlarged view of the cemetery hill.

  ‘They could try it, but I doubt if they would care for it much. Kalinsky is a merchant.’

  ‘You mean your father? I see. There are some shops in Beer-Sheba, and we shall take care of him at the beginning. He can get a small house there on good terms and learn Hebrew. The other big towns are more difficult right now.’

  He thought of the flowers in Nechama’s room, of the dust along the main road, of the wild camels and the market day.

  ‘I’ll write him and let you know.’

  The men gave him some forms to fill in, and watched him tensely.

  ‘Have you been fighting in the Sinai?’

  ‘Yes, sort of.’

  ‘If only I were younger! But they kept me here. Civil Defence job. I used to be of better use.’ He smiled at Daniel who shook hands with him and left.

  The sun was out now but it was brisk and cold and he had nothing to do in the city. He called on Rina to find with a sense of relief that she was out and he went to a café crowded with students to write a letter to his father. The first few lines were matter-of-fact; Beer-Sheba, a house, a shop, a new language, difficulties to overcome. Then, forgetting who the letter was addressed to, he wrote of Yoram. ‘We buried my best and only friend yesterday, he died an unnecessary stupid death. With him,’ he wrote, ‘died many things for me and I am not sure what I’ll do next or where I shall be. I am going to leave the army and perhaps leave Gilad. I owed everything that was good in my life to Yoram and I shall never be able to pay the debt.’ He wrote about Rina, Yoram’s girl and about Yoram’s parents and for the first time ended the letter ‘with love’. When he posted it he regretted having written it and wondered how it would sound in Polish.

  There were things to be done, and he was fortunate. He had to go back south and check with the unit, he had to find out about houses in Beer-Sheba, he had to get Yoram’s things from camp. Driving south, towards a warmer sun, he began to realize how much things had changed; he had never asked himself questions before. He accepted what befell him, at times gratefully, at times taking it for granted. The monotony of the road south reminded him of his hunger and need for sleep and when he arrived at camp in the afternoon he went to his room, stopping off in the kitchen briefly and fell asleep fully dressed until the following morning.

  Two weeks later, still undecided what to do next, he received a reply from Kalinsky.

  He found a translator – he hated the thought of one person translating all the letters as if they were a serialized family story and preferred strangers to acquaintances – and listened carefully.

  They would come, if conditions were right. A long list of questions followed, mostly to do with finance and exchange rates and details he knew nothing about. How many rooms would the proposed house have and what about high-school for Miri
am? Would she have to serve in the army? How hot was Beer-Sheba and would it be possible to get something for them in Tel-Aviv? They heard the south was desert and waterless. What kind of goods could they bring in order to sell, was land speculation profitable? The last few lines referred to Yoram. Kalinsky ‘was sorry to hear of Yoram’s death, but that is the way wars are and think of the world war disaster,’ he added, ‘we could have all been lost.’

  White days, white nights, nurses in white on Lipsky’s terrace, white shrouds, the window. He would go and visit Rina, but perhaps he should not go anywhere, not even afterwards. He could sit at the window and look down and watch the living brought in and the dead taken out. He kept Kalinsky’s letter about Yoram. We could have all been lost, it said, as if we weren’t. Although he never talked to him about it, he wanted to wave it in his father’s face, and ask him where Shmuel was and his mother? Who was saved? A man who lost his dignity many times along the road to salvation and gave up his child. That is the way wars are, Kalinsky. How true and how profound, but who chooses? Who bestows upon one the courage to go forward and upon the other stupidity to let him do so, who selects the parents who will cry on the square flat tombstone? Yes, father, you can speculate in land, many do, you can bring goods and sell them, you can have a shop and your house had three rooms and Miriam didn’t serve in the army because she married before her conscription was due and I started asking questions and not liking the answers I got.

  Think of the war disaster, you wrote me, as if it was subject to thought, or self-pity or description of any kind. When they took me away from you they kept me for three months before I ran away and was hidden in the village. Did I ever tell you what these three months were like? Can I remember? They defy memory the way they defy pity or thought, they even defy dreams. My life began in Bari, I was born in Bari on a boat and I grew up in Gilad and all that happened before Bari should be erased from my brain and conscience. You brought to me the years I happily lost, from the first moment we met and during every moment afterwards. Do you remember our first meeting? Did you know how much I waited for that moment, how my hands trembled and my forehead perspired? When I drove to the port of Haifa that day thinking of Yoram’s parents, how they had lost someone far better than the son you were about to find, I could see the boat in the distance, in the dawn.

  Chapter Eight

  The boat emerged from the morning mist, larger than expected, slower and whiter. It was floating on a cushion of fog and for a brief moment Daniel wished it would turn away, like a dream and back slowly to where it belonged, leaving only a vague trace in his memory. Instead it approached steadily and the small pilot boat manoeuvred it to the dock.

  He found himself standing on the quay among others and although there was nothing peculiar about him he felt he was being stared at. He fumbled in his pockets for some papers and entered the small Jewish Agency office.

  ‘Are they going to go directly to Beer-Sheba?’ he was asked.

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘How long has it been since you saw your father?’

  ‘Twenty-one years.’

  ‘I’d better come with you and help you find him. They may want to go with you to the Kibbutz for a few days, it might make it easier for them.’

  ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘How will you speak to them?’

  ‘I don’t know. I speak only Hebrew.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ the man said. ‘Most of the people on the quay are waiting for people they haven’t seen for years. For some it’s the very first meeting. After the first few moments it’s usually all right.’

  Daniel was wearing dark blue cotton trousers and brown shoes. His white shirt was creased at the back from driving and a slight pressure in his stomach made him feel sick.

  ‘I’ll find you in a few moments,’ the man said and Daniel joined the others.

  The boat was parallel to the quay now and large letters announced its name and purpose, Moledet (Homeland). It carried a few tourists, Israelis returning from vacations abroad and three hundred immigrants from Eastern Europe. Women nervously beautified themselves, holding mirrors in trembling hands to cover with powder and lipstick the marks left by twenty years, hoping to resemble childhood snapshots which people were holding in their hands in order to identify relatives. Next to where he stood a large family surrounded a very old man who was crying. Daniel watched with nervous intensity, there was something weird about the old man crying, as if the old shrunken body held no water any more and the tears were the last liquids in the shrivelled man, produced with great effort, drying him up to a skeleton. The old man was helped closer to the water, his eyes dry now, and a girl next to him was told to wave to the passengers.

  ‘But I don’t see anybody,’ she said.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, they see you.’

  It made Daniel shiver. They see me, he thought. Suppose they know and recognize me, and they are waving and I am standing here glued to the cold asphalt with my face pale and expressionless. He tried to smile and lift his hand but the people on the deck seemed one immense blackness, a faceless entity of misery and homelessness. Someone grabbed his arm and he jerked aside. It was an excited woman who gestured to the deck, crying and mumbling.

  ‘My mother,’ she said,’ my mother is there!’

  Stupidly he asked: ‘Where?’ and the woman did not answer and let go of his arm.

  ‘There,’ she said, ‘with the others!’

  So is my father, he thought and now he looked at the faces, each one becoming crystal clear as they were screened by his gray eyes and dismissed as unlikely to bear the name Kalinsky.

  The gangway was lifted and he looked for the official who promised to help him. He was a young man with an old expression and he held a plastic briefcase under his arm. When he caught Daniel’s eye he came nearer.

  ‘Shall we go?’ he asked.

  ‘I’d better wait here. When you see them can you just tell them I’m here, waiting.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  People were disembarking carrying bundles and suitcases and Daniel hid behind the canteen car which provided the visitors with cold drinks and sandwiches. He could sneak out now, he thought, through the other gate, to his car and drive away. He could go south where they would never find him or north to a small village or work on a ship for a while until he could face them, at least until he could talk to them. A man was walking towards him, rather tall and fair and smoking a pipe. He was well-dressed and carried a leather suitcase. For a second Daniel’s heart leaped, it could be Kalinsky, but he realized the man was only ten years his senior. How old is Kalinsky he wondered? thinking about the old man who had just used up his last tears. He watched the children being guided down, it was their Bari trip, he thought and there was no Yoram around to sing a song to them. He thought of Shmuel. Did his father wish then that it was Shmuel waiting for him?

  Then he saw them kiss. He had never seen people kiss that way, consuming each other, embracing each other as if death was next door waiting to tear them apart again and suddenly the whole quay was a scene of tears and kisses and hugs. When did he kiss last, he thought, and remembered Rina’s thin hard lips and Nechama’s lush mouth. He had never embraced a man, never kissed a stranger, is he going to have to kiss Kalinsky? The officials watched proudly. The tears of joy and the reunited families embracing were their achievement. When one of them wiped a tear it was a shy sentimental one, and occasionally a strong healthy porter could be seen doing the same.

  The big clock above the customs house indicated the hours. It was earlier than Daniel imagined and he felt hungry. It would be ludicrous meeting my father munching a sandwich he thought. A young family of Israelis returning home disembarked. They were kissed lightly by a relative and proceeded chatting to the customs house talking about the beauty of Florence, already sharing the acquired experiences. Rumanian, Yiddish, Polish, a porter swearing in Arabic, a child weeping. Perhaps they were not on this boat, he thought, looking at
the people descending, none of whom resembled any of his notions of his family’s looks.

  Then he saw the official. He felt his hands covered with sweat and put them in his pockets fumbling with the small change he carried. The official pointed to a group of people coming down now and Daniel couldn’t see a thing. The boat, the gangway, the dark on white letters saying Moledet, the crowded quay were all blurred now and he could not move. It was not that he was crying, because he was, but his whole body was crying. The tears did not just stream down his cheeks, his eyes were heavy with them and he was choking on them and there were tears thinning his blood making him feel feeble and unstable and he was six years old again and left alone searching for his father. Through the tears he watched them coming towards him and it did not matter now whether Kalinsky was short or tall or thin or young or anything he ever imagined him to be. There was his father, his step-mother, his step-sister and he was not alone for a moment and he was not a brave soldier or a tough farmer or a charming young man or an Israeli patriot, he was again Daniel Kalinsky from Warsaw, son of Haim Kalinsky.

  They stopped now. He still could not see them clearly, although there was only a few feet between him and the group. The official fumbled for words and said in Yiddish to Kalinsky:

  ‘This is Daniel, your son, I’d better leave you alone.’ And to Daniel in Hebrew:

  ‘This is your father and his family. I’ll look for you later.’

  Kalinsky was the one to take the few steps towards his son. First he shook his hand which Daniel never remembered taking out of his pocket, then they embraced. Daniel closed his eyes and felt the man trembling with sobs mumbling his name and a few words of joy. Dora joined them and kissed him and the little girl, who was really a young woman, stood rather shyly and watched them. He noticed how small the man in his arms was and when he opened his eyes all he could see was his father’s thin hair and shabby coat-collar. He had a strange unfamiliar smell, similar to winter clothes brought out of trunks, and in one hand he was still holding a bundle tied with rope. Daniel gently pushed his father away and looked at him. The man was smiling now, touching his son’s strong arm and feeling him the way a blind man gets acquainted with a new object.