Death Had Two Sons Read online

  Do you lie there covered with a thin over-washed over-sterilized sheet thinking you have bad bronchitis or do you sense it is bronchogenic carcinoma and talk to it, frighten it away, match its guts, gather all your strength and splendour – the way they say some people do – and combat it clinging to every bit of tissue which is not yet diseased?

  They say men display unexpected courage in their fight to survive. You are not a brave man Kalinsky, do you display this courage? You know you are dying. You must know, you have seen the tests. The black X-ray sheet with the white bones symmetrical, healthy and the visiting tumour you nursed and fed and sheltered.

  The driftwood looks like dried bones in the wadi-bed. Was that what Ezekiel saw, a valley full of driftwood? Daniel sat on a large stone and enjoyed the cold feel of pebbles. They were smooth to touch and dry, as it is only at dawn that the dew blesses the dust, the stones and the thirsty leaves.

  It’s the end of a long way Kalinsky, considering the number of times you were close to the coffin. I sound harsh, almost as if I wished you dead – how could I? But the doctor said – the usual. Not a special spectacular disease and death, not one with a long exotic name, not even a variation on a cancer like Hodgkin’s or leukaemia, just plain lung-cancer, another figure for the statisticians. To think how many death traps you’ve escaped, trusting in God and paying the price and committing yourself to faith which proved a worthy companion, and now – it is quite common, he said. It would have been proper for common people to die of uncommon diseases to crown their common life. Names which never appeared in print could be perpetuated by autopsy reports in professional research books.

  Were you a common man Kalinsky? The tumour does not choose. It is everywhere and perhaps right now in the little mole on my left arm. Or perhaps in the bone of my big toe playing with the pebble an agent is slowly working its way into the bloodstream. Do we breathe it? Or consume it with food? Is it God-sent, the way the ancients believed their more human enemies were?

  You are a common man, but you had an uncommon moment once, and this makes you very distinguished and special.

  We never talked about it, and it hung between us since we met, and we shall never talk about it and though it has remained alive and scarring all these years it will die with you.

  Back in Poland, for the millionth time Daniel reconstructed the story as if he were doomed to night after night. You must remember your house, the first one? In the Muranow quarter. The large piano and the blue-glass vase on it, always with fresh flowers. Family portraits and two oil-paintings of your two sons. It does not matter that with so many others you shuddered on the 1st of October when Hitler entered Warsaw and when you left the house for the Ghetto you buried the gold in the back-yard and burnt the business papers and put on your best suit as did your wife.

  Do you remember how she was taken away when you were out, and you cried and hugged your sons and said she will be back?

  You were still a common man then. A merchant, an honest one I believe, caring for the family and attending services on Yom Kippur. You were never faced with extraordinary situations and your anger or joy or distress had the easy certainty of the middle of the road. Not too much, not too excited, not to get too angry, everything will be all right. You did cry when she was gone and perhaps for once you did not take her for granted and for a few days, until they came for you and your sons, you loved her like you never loved before – the love that depends and misses and longs. The love sent from you, lying there, towards the other bed met an irreplaceable emptiness and crawled back to you chokingly. You always had separate beds, didn’t you? Still, this is not what made you special, because thousands were lying in dark rooms with an emptiness at their side and frustrated anger that could just reach the fists, no farther.

  Then they came for you and the boys. Do you remember, Haim Kalinsky, how good-looking they were? One dark and wiry with brown dreamy eyes – resembling you, kind and friendly and very talented, they said. He was eleven then. He played the piano. He had a golden voice and long fingers and you loved him so much. And the younger, with his mother’s blond hair and gray eyes and long limbs? He was his mother’s favourite, and he believed you when you said she would be back.

  You did not cry when they came for you. You took the boys by the hand and when your little boy asked how would his mother know where he was, you said she would, and told him not to cry.

  Then came that winter day. You were taken out of the line with both boys to a yard behind the barracks.

  You held your big boy’s hand and he held his brother’s and you were still wearing your best clothes as if going for a walk in Lazienki Park. The officers were armed and they told you to stop. You all spoke Yiddish at home so you could understand their German when they told you how nice your boys were. You smiled back – a horrified smile it was – and patted Shmuel’s head, he was nearer to you.

  They are so nice, they said, you can have the choice.

  Did you really not understand what they meant? You told them you did not. There wasn’t much time, they said. You could choose the one who would be shot and be left with the other.

  You did not believe it. How could you? Yet it was a human brain that invented such a simple torture and you were given your moment. What went through your heart then? Did anything? You turned away from the boys and covered your face and screamed. They said they would take both unless you decided and when you turned to look at them – it was a question of seconds – you were never to be the same man again. You were trembling and you were Abraham, and you were God. You could give or take away a life and you grabbed Shmuel who was weeping and could not bear to look at his blond slim brother who made no attempt to hold you or speak, or understand, and you turned your back.

  Why didn’t you kiss me then father?

  Did you think they would kill me there and then? Is that why you hurried so?

  They led me away laughing and talking, they gave me a bar of chocolate.

  Chapter Two

  The small boat was sailing from Bari under a Greek flag. The war was just over and the late summer winds hurried it on its course. A special section was allotted to parentless children and a young volunteer was responsible for them. Daniel Kalinsky was a shy boy and hardly talked even with the other Polish children. He did not know how old he was, so judging by his mature eyes rather than by his undernourished body they put down eleven, with a question mark in brackets. Another question mark next to the parents’ names. They were both marked dead, with a question mark, but this was routine – they were bound to be dead. He could not, or would not, give an accurate description of his parents. She was beautiful was all he had to say about his mother, and as for Haim Kalinsky he could not be made to talk about him. All that was left with him was the memory of the last moments he saw his father, and this memory he could not share. If only by childish intuition, somehow he knew that it was horribly wrong to mention it, not even to Yoram who was always there pulling faces trying to make him laugh, giving him chocolates, or singing Hebrew songs to him which he did not understand. His head was shaved and he was given clothes – too large for him but clean and dry.

  Most of the short journey Daniel suffered from seasickness and during the illegal landing he was simply carried by Yoram, like a bundle, to the front seat of a truck where he dozed off. He woke up in the wooden house which served as a dining room in Kibbutz Gilad.

  He let himself be led by the hand with three other children once he assured himself that Yoram was there – though walking in another direction. The Kibbutz secretariat, after a long discussion, agreed that it would be best not to isolate the adopted children but scatter them among their own. So Daniel was installed with one boy who arrived with him and two other boys his age who were born on the farm.

  During the following few days he was initiated in the way of life of Gilad and he seemed to accept it neither happily nor sadly. He was definitely a well-educated boy and during meals when he was offered food he thanked the gi
rl who served him, in Polish, without a smile. He understood he was in Israel, made no effort to speak the few Hebrew words he had learned on the boat and followed the others in a quiet disciplined way which evoked kind looks from the housekeeper suggesting that she understood how long it took for a grown-up to retrieve his childishness.

  His hair was growing now, which gave him an itchy sensation, and the new clothes he was given fitted him although for a while he refused to wear sandals without socks or unbutton the collar of his shirt. A woman called Rivka was responsible for the children during their off-school hours and Joseph was their teacher. They both could speak Yiddish and although conversation with Daniel was limited, he answered whenever addressed. Yoram had to leave for Europe to escort another party of refugees and he came to say goodbye to Daniel. Be good, he told him, and laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder which sent a shiver through his little body. Rivka was in the room to translate the – when will you be back? – and Yoram laughed heartily. In two weeks he said. He left, and Daniel followed him to the truck unnoticed. When Yoram got into the car Daniel was behind a house waving without being seen and exactly two weeks later Rivka found the boy on the main road leading to Gilad sitting on a mile-stone. He told her he was waiting for Yoram, though he never mentioned him when he was gone, and she explained that the boat was due any night but it might be impossible to land which would cause a delay.

  The ‘adopted children’ were given Hebrew lessons separately, the first words not being the usual ‘Shalom Aba, Shalom Ima’ (‘hello mother’, ‘hello father’) but rather ‘Chaver’, ‘Chavera’ and ‘Moreh’ (‘comrade’, ‘teacher’). Daniel was a good pupil although he was not as anxious to use the new words as other children were. He wrote with great ease and the teacher encouraged his reading by giving him more advanced books. In three months they would be ready to join their age-groups in school, with whom they now shared the after-school hours of work on the farm.

  Yoram came back with more children and Daniel watched them – older children this time – descend from the truck and be taken to rooms. Yoram came to see him in the evening, just when the parents of the two Gilad boys were putting them to bed – they were very good about it and never forgot to say a warm goodnight and tuck in the two boys who were not their own – and this time Daniel did not try to hide his excitement. He could form a few sentences and when Yoram tucked him in and turned to go, he held onto his hand and made him sit on the edge of the bed until his eyes felt heavy and he fell asleep.

  Several small crises marked his period of adjustment in an obvious way – like an unwilled exclamation of fear first time in the cowshed when a cow seemed to charge towards him. The other children laughed and he withdrew into himself for the rest of the day while Rivka explained to them the background of the ‘adopted children’.

  There was a piano in the culture-room and the children were taken there one afternoon to listen to a recital – light and easy compositions – given by a guest from town. With the first notes which filled the room Daniel burst into tears and – as with several similar outbursts – they had to call on Yoram to comfort him. He did not tell Yoram about Shmuel but finally relaxed and was excused from all music lessons.

  A minor crisis occurred when one of the boys celebrated his birthday. He was given a few gifts and Yoram played the accordion for the children who were sitting on the lawn in front of their house. A large cake was distributed and the boy was placed on a chair and lifted twelve times – and one for next year. When Daniel asked when his birthday would be celebrated and the answer was slow to come, he left the room about to cry. Rivka and Joseph discussed the problem, which applied to other children as well, and during dinner Daniel received a piece of paper with a date on it. Even when he found out his real birth date many years later, he still celebrated it according to Rivka’s note.

  When Joseph and Rivka had to write a report about Daniel Kalinsky it was a very short one. ‘Developing satisfactorily considering past hazards. Industrious pupil with an unusual ability and tendency to express himself in writing. Overcame shyness with great difficulties but now participates in social activities. Seems to enjoy physical farm work. Sleeps well and never complains of disturbing dreams. Refuses to refer to the past but it seems that he remembers very little – if any – of his home life in Warsaw. Very attached to Yoram and displays towards him jealousy, moodiness and tenderness which are not as evident in his relations with school mates. Perfect health.’

  No nightmares, no visions of parents invading the smoke of kerosene stove in winter and no ghosts emerging from morning mists in the summer. Yoram was there, only six years his senior, training underground recruits now and on Saturdays they went for long walks along the fields’ tracks. He learned from Yoram the names of flowers, the names of birds, the names of the mountains across the Jordan River and the tunes of songs. Yoram was short and round-faced, blessed with laughter in the pupils of his eyes and hands too large for his body. He had brown curls – trimmed too seldom – and if not handsome, there was a charitable quality to his features which lent his face the beauty that comes from innocent warmth. He laughed at the way Daniel rolled his R’s and laughingly told him to watch out for the girls who would, no doubt, fall for his beauty. When he told Daniel he would like to have a son like him he could not easily understand the boy’s sudden expression of resentment.

  The girls did look at Daniel in a special way and giggled when he blushed. They left a heart-pierced-with-arrow drawing on his desk once and though he tore it up furiously, he wondered whose heart it was. He was tanned in the summer and his muscles well developed, for then he could lift a stack of hay almost alone. He learned to drive a tractor and discovered Victor Hugo and Dickens at the same time and, as for inner life, there seemed to be an undisturbed process of grasping things, digesting them and projecting, in a relaxed way, peace and stability.

  Daniel was back in the main street now and walking towards his flat. The hospital was dimly lit – corridor lights – and the sand ground under his sandals produced a pleasant summery sound. Desert nights are cold and he wondered if Haim Kalinsky was well covered. Are you cold Kalinsky? You can ask the nurse for a blanket, the way Yoram did, except that Yoram’s chill could not be warmed by blankets, there was no blood left in him.

  You died on that winter day Kalinsky. You took Shmuel with you and you died for me and now you are dying again and perhaps all that happened in between doesn’t matter. Did you ever, do you still, think or believe that I forgot your choice? Not your fault, father. Who could face a decision like that? And had you taken me and left Shmuel, and had I survived then, would I have forgiven your ability to choose? I owe you my life because you let them fool you.

  The second window from the corner was open. The white curtain swayed lightly and looked like angel’s wings. The dark foliage of the cypress tree had a priestly quality and there was light in his own window.

  Rina must be back for the week-end, he thought, which reminded him that he had promised to take care of Miriam’s little boy and he was not sure he was looking forward to it. The thought of entering the room and enjoying the solitude of the half-empty flat vanished now. He walked once again around the block and when facing the door tapped gently on it to be let in by a smiling vivacious woman.

  If there was anything Rina did not contribute to the little flat, it was femininity. Her high dusty boots seemed to catch his eye wherever he looked though there were only two of them. A rucksack lay open in the middle of the room spilling out a collection of pottery sherds and the shirts she washed and hung to dry were old army shirts. She was bare-footed and wore khaki shorts which emphasized long thin legs covered with light hairs and bruises. Her T-shirt, clean and white, outlined tiny breasts but her long tanned hands ended in delicate thin fingers. She was two years younger than he was but moved with the swift gaiety of a teen-ager. Her face was covered with freckles which matched her red short-cropped hair – a crown of fire.

  They shook hands a
nd she remembered the kettle had been on – for hours – and when she went into the kitchen he found himself smiling. He was about to sit on the bed when she screamed, ‘Don’t sit!’, and he noticed the large towel on top of the bedspread. Under it were more sherds and he pulled the small chair from the bathroom stepping on bits of clothing and equipment which seemed now to be cluttering the empty places he had enjoyed so much, including the second previously empty room. In the empty room a sleeping-bag was laid on the floor and next to it, in a vase, a bunch of desert plants only slightly revived from a long journey.

  She poured tea in glasses and brusquely demanded, ‘Well, what is it all about? Are you in love with a southern beauty?’ In spite of the answer he was about to give, he had to smile.

  ‘No, it’s my father. He’s very sick.’

  ‘I didn’t know you saw him.’ She was suddenly serious.

  ‘I haven’t yet, and not for a long time before now, but I thought I’d better be here.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Across the road. Second window from the corner.’

  ‘Is he dying?’ She did not know how to pretend or play-act but the tone of her voice indicated the gentleness lacking in the way she phrased her question.

  ‘I think so. What have you been up to?’

  ‘Nabataeans again. The professor is going crazy with his new finds so he stayed near the dig. I’ll go back tomorrow night. My God, how beautiful the things we found are. Is it cancer?’

  ‘Yes, in the lungs. Do you have an extra sheet?’

  As he was never faced with other choices, Daniel accepted Kibbutz life without pausing to wonder. He had nothing before, and everything now, and he was conditioned to fit into this structure. He visited cities several times, always with his school-mates, and it never occurred to him to wish another place was his home. His life was well planned by others – study and work and a few social duties – and if the lack of struggle in any way limited him, he did not know it. He was responsible for the school library at the age of fourteen and was given the pleasure of recommending the books he devoured and loved to others and the joy of watching their grateful enthusiasm when they returned them. He was one of five Gilad children to enrol in the area high school and when he emerged first in his class in several subjects – though he had no parents who could be proud of him – several well-educated people in the Kibbutz shook his hand with an expression of pride. He was not particularly fond of farm work but during the hot harvest season he participated with the others, saving the after-work hours for long sessions with Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky.