Death Had Two Sons Read online

  ‘You can write all that. Do you have a photograph?’

  ‘Only recent ones.’

  Stash had pimples and wore glasses and Daniel wondered how he looked when he was four or five.

  ‘Do you know the name of the village or the farmer?’

  ‘No, but they would have it on file because I was taken straight from there to the train for Trieste and then to Bari.’

  There was a sudden silence. Did Stash think Daniel was jealous? Daniel fumbled for his papers. When he looked up at the boy he noticed he was crying behind his glasses and he walked up to him and placed his hand on his neck where the auburn hair touched the blue shirt.

  ‘They wouldn’t write to you unless there was something definite,’ he said, ‘just write the letter and they’ll answer soon. You should be happy.’

  ‘I had a large green car, with front lights,’ the boy mumbled sobbing and clasping the letter as if it were his mother, his sister, his toys, his father and his dreams he walked out of the room, towards the river.

  Daniel was rather frightened and for a few days he found himself watching for the mail. He seldom received letters, never an official one and Yoram’s messages arrived scribbled on the backs of funny postcards. Stash avoided him for a week but he did receive a reply asking him to come to Jerusalem.

  Stash did not return for a few days and Daniel mentioned the episode to Rina.

  ‘You see,’ she said, ‘I told you.’

  She knew she was being tactless and she wasn’t quite sure what she meant by, ‘I told you.’ Even if Stash had found a family – it didn’t provide tall blond fathers to all the war’s orphans.

  When Stash returned he was not alone. A young woman was with him, blond – the colour of Daniel’s hair – and rather plump. He took her to Daniel in the dining room and said:

  ‘My sister, Katia.’

  The girl smiled and put her hand on her brother’s shoulder. They talked awhile. Katia was the only one left of the large family. She had lived in Israel for several years now and was married. Stash was going to stay with her and perhaps leave Gilad and continue to study in Haifa.

  ‘You will visit us,’ she said to Daniel.

  ‘Of course.’ He watched them leave and when he walked to his room he saw them sitting on a bench talking and laughing.

  What could he say to Shmuel if he found him, he wondered. Once they were in the same womb, then in the same house, shared the same toys and sat at the same table. There was nothing to say about that. Would he tell Shmuel about Yoram? Rina? Books he liked? The ache in his back when he harvested the grapes? His fear of snakes? His secret poems? Would he ask him if he remembered the day in the yard behind the barracks when someone decided which of them should live? He knew he could tell him all these, and other things as well as he knew that he was dead. They were all dead. Was he crying when he heard Katia’s laughter in the dark?

  Rina was now in the habit of listening to what is perhaps the most tragic radio programme in the world. Three times a week, just before the news broadcast, for five whole long minutes – ‘Who recognizes, Who knows’. Names, dates of birth, places. Very dry, very boring to whoever is not interested. ‘Mr Cohen of Baltimore looking for his nephew born in Minsk in 1933 to Ruth and Abraham Mendel.’ Each announcement is repeated twice. ‘Mrs Nechama, née Balewitz, looking for her sister born in Odessa in 1909.’ ‘Mr Levy, from Salonika, looking for a younger Mr Levy son of Rachel and Shlomo …’ How many people listen every day, every week, for years? Perhaps – no, it is another Levy. Is there ever a face that lights up? The nephew of Mr Cohen, would he be a truck driver waiting for the news on his transistor radio on the way to Eilat? Does he brake and stop the truck? Does he hurry to a telephone? Suppose someone hears a name and knows the person is dead, would he tell? Is there ever a mistake in identity; so many Levys, so many Cohens, now grown up or pimply or with new names and foster parents. ‘Left Zhashkov in 1885, left Berlin in 1933, born Bernstein to Leah and David.’ His brother in Montreal, her aunt in Sydney, in Jerusalem, in Manchester. Every week, a new jig-saw puzzle made up of sound waves with a clean dry voice that ploughs hearts and minds, and sows hopes.

  One day Rina heard it. It was short and clear. ‘The family of Daniel and Shmuel Kalinsky from Warsaw is looking for information concerning them.’ It was repeated twice and she wished they would go on repeating the names and the words. How could she tell him? She walked to Gilad, reaching it by nightfall, and was told that Daniel was working in the cowshed. Does one just go and say, ‘Your family is looking for you?’ Would they take him away, she wondered and for a brief moment she wanted to harbour the secret and never share him with this new unknown family. He turned to her with a worried look. Perhaps he knew when he looked at her. She avoided his eyes and was unable to speak. He put the spade down, took his shirt and walked to the tap in the yard. He let the water stream down his neck and back and shook bits of dry manure from his sandals.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said, placing a wet clean hand on her shoulder.

  ‘I have to tell you something.’

  ‘Not here, you’re shivering.’

  ‘I ran all the way.’

  They walked in silence towards his room when she stopped abruptly.

  ‘Look Daniel, let’s not play games. I listened to the radio. Your family is looking for you. And for your brother. They’re in Warsaw.’

  ‘Did they say family?’

  ‘Yes. What are you going to do?’

  ‘Take a shower,’ he grumbled.

  She wondered whether to leave him alone or stay and help. Help with what? He was a grown-up man. His muscles moved gracefully when he lifted stacks of hay and his eyes held no sadness. He was not troubled, he was easy and gentle and if he did not care more about the things around him, it was a result of security and not of detachment. What could she add? Hold his hand in hers – how she wanted to – and caress his golden brown skin – how she longed to – and prepare him to face something she knew nothing about. She had a father at home who was a farmer from the Ukraine, she had a mother who was a teacher. They were always there and when they were gone for a few days she was left with a sense of freedom and independence. She looked forward to her army service as it meant leaving home and what could she tell this man in front of her.

  ‘I think I love you Daniel,’ she said.

  It was not dark yet, and birds settled on the pine branches for the night. She did not mean to say it, but all she could see was his back, as she was walking behind him on the narrow pavement, and all she knew was that he was being taken from her, and her freckles burned deep brown in her cheeks. He did not turn to look and she knew he heard her. When he turned to her, opposite his room, she was gone.

  The first thought that passed through his mind was that Yoram was away on manoeuvres and would not return before Saturday night. There could, of course, be other Kalinskys, other Daniels too, and why would they use the radio, they must have had his name on file somewhere, they could have written him a letter. He thought of Stash, who had left Gilad for good. He entered the room. One of his room-mates was asleep and Daniel tiptoed to his cupboard to get a towel and a change of clothes.

  He wished he could stand there under the cold shower for ever. The water parted his hair in the middle and he closed his eyes. The drops slid down his chest and along his arms to form a cool pool around his feet. His skin still retained the pleasant odour of cow manure and August sweat and the coarse soap gradually neutralized it. A desire for Rina flushed through him momentarily as he could hear her voice again but he relaxed until the voice of a friend suggested he had been using the shower for too long. It was the end of a long summer. School was over and he would join the service in two months. It was a summer of work and excursions and a good harvest. A summer of good books and no plans and little to worry about, and he was standing now in a pool of soapy water drying himself knowing he was not alone. Somewhere in Warsaw there was a family looking for him.

  He flung th
e wet towel over his shoulder and combed his hair. The night was hot and humid and the frog song monotonous and consoling. People said good evening to him, someone asked for the time, the dining room lights seemed too bright from the distance and two girls in shorts were giggling. His room was empty now and the bed inviting. He put off the lights and opened the window and the door. Green smells infiltrated the room and he lay on his back. Somehow the air above his chest felt heavy. He had an identity, a commitment, a past, a future – it was all in the humid air weighing him down. He imagined his mother approaching and he was four or five again, and shamelessly he burst into tears. He was frightened.

  The next morning he wrote a letter to the agency. He wanted some details about his family; he wondered whether there was a chance that Shmuel was alive. He was very happy in Gilad and intended to make it his home but naturally he wanted to know what the chances were of meeting his family.

  He showed the letter to the Kibbutz secretary who shook his hand warmly and seemed to be very happy for him. By the evening everybody was congratulating him and asking questions which he could not answer.

  ‘Are they coming over?’

  ‘Will you be going to Poland to bring them?’

  ‘What does your father do?’

  He wanted to be left alone but found himself walking towards Shimron. He felt guilty about Rina, and although her declaration of love puzzled and embarrassed him he wanted to see her.

  Daniel was very fond of Rina. She was a mate, a friend, over-excitable but genuine. He could confide in her and she made him laugh. He was a virgin and when he thought of women they were different from Rina. He imagined them soft-skinned and perfumed. He wanted them dressed in frills and ruffles and the girls he grew up with were handsome and well-built but he was too familiar with them. Their skin had the quality of his own and their legs and underarms were hairy. He was never close to a girl, and his dreams were derived from books and films. He was vain about his looks and at times thought of going to town to one of those cafés which he knew they frequented. He was walking to Shimron now. His feet sank in the layer of dust on the road and he enjoyed the sight of heavy combines silhouetted against the sky awaiting the ignition and the action.

  He reached the Moshav rather late and there was only one light in Rina’s house. Her father’s small car was not in front of the house and he assumed the light was in Rina’s room and gently tapped on the half-closed shutter. It was flung open and the red hair appeared above curious eyes.

  ‘You!’ she exclaimed, and jumped out through the window.

  ‘I was taking a walk. I owe you an apology. I’m all right now.’

  ‘Did you write them?’

  ‘I wrote to the Agency. I should have an answer in a few days.’

  They sat on a pile of stuffed sacks. Rina opened a hole in one of them, let some chopped carobs out and munched them.

  ‘I didn’t know how to tell you. I must have made a fool of myself, but then, how do you deliver this kind of news?’

  ‘You were all right. I’ll adjust to the thought and that’s all. After all, most people do have families.’

  ‘Aren’t you happy, somewhere inside you, you must have felt lonely at times, or jealous of others, or missing something.’

  ‘The truth?’ He paused. She looked very young now. ‘Yes I am quite happy. I never gave it much thought though, or missed it, I had friends you know, never alone.’

  ‘Yoram,’ she sighed. ‘Well, you are both going to be in uniform now, so the gap is closing. He can’t play father any more. Did you tell him?’

  ‘He’s away.’

  ‘I am sorry about the other thing.’ She put her thin long-fingered hand on his.

  ‘I wish I could have given you something in return. I’m very fond of you and you’re very young and I shall be gone in a month and you’ll forget all about it. I am not very good when it comes to talking like this and I can’t say what you want to hear.’

  ‘Will you give me a gift?’

  ‘Of course Rina.’

  ‘Please kiss me.’

  He knew that he was blushing. He took her head in his large hands and softly touched her. He felt her body move towards his and her lips opened. He could taste the carobs on her tongue and feel her teeth, and her hands pulled his head towards her. His eyes were open and he could see her face. She never looked prettier, or sadder, or less desirable to him. He felt ashamed and guilty and tenderly pushed her away.

  ‘We shouldn’t have done it. It doesn’t mean anything.’

  ‘I wanted it so much,’ she said, now composed and smiling again.

  ‘Just something to remember. You may forget it.’ He was thirsty and they went in for some tea. He wished they hadn’t gone in because in the light of the kitchen lamp she was a stranger. He kissed her and for a moment she gave him all that was in her, and now those long limbs and her curly hair moved about like rejected gifts.

  On the day Yoram returned there was a letter in the mail for Daniel. He put it in his pocket and walked to the river bank when others dispersed for their afternoon sleep. It was in a square envelope and his name was typed on it. They were happy to notify him that his father was alive and well. His mother had died in the war and his father remarried and had a daughter. They lived in Warsaw where Kalinsky had a good job and the necessary steps were being taken to inform him of Daniel’s whereabouts. Shmuel was taken away at the beginning of the war, and there was a slight chance that he might be alive somewhere. So the radio announcement would be repeated for a while.

  In Latin letters followed an address in Warsaw and they suggested he write his father there. He could write in Hebrew and the Agency representative would translate it for the family. Was there anything they could do for him? They had discussed with Kalinsky the possibility of immigrating and he seemed to be considering it. If he wanted consultation the social worker handling the case would be at his service, any time. Then followed some warm words of congratulation and a woman’s signature.

  His mother was dead. He knew it was all wrong but what he wished he could do then was to take the letter and throw it to the river and forget the address on it and all that it meant. His heart was beating fast but his head felt empty of thought. The river was shallow and slow and it made its way to the lake, to continue south and die in the Dead Sea – a white majestic death of salt. That terrible moment which he had erased from his memory took shape again, and there they were – his father and Shmuel – walking away from him. Some instinct told him his brother was dead and though the day was unbearably hot he shivered. He replaced the letter neatly in the envelope and found a smooth surface under the trees. Ignoring the flies he fell asleep. When he opened his eyes Yoram was squatting next to him and by the look in his eyes Daniel knew he understood.

  ‘Do you want to talk or would you rather not?’ Yoram asked, making himself comfortable on a severed trunk.

  ‘Not much to say.’ Daniel, when talking to Yoram, looked him straight in the eye, always. ‘I feel terrible and the worse for feeling terrible. It’s sudden, yet it isn’t. The thought has crossed my mind often. What do I do next?’

  ‘You act like a man. You have a new responsibility and you face it. You sit down and you write a loving letter and you find out more about your family and you arrange to meet them and if God or nature meant us to have families I dare say that everything will fall into place.’

  ‘I don’t know the man. My mother is dead, he’s got a new family. I’ve never corresponded with strangers.’ He felt it was too much, and smiled. ‘I’m sorry, I’m being spoiled and harsh and difficult. You’re right of course.’

  They got up to go to the dining room. Yoram was talking, his hand on Daniel’s shoulder.

  ‘You resent the change. You had it comfortable and good and you didn’t have to think. You’re accepted here and it’s a very small world and you didn’t ever pause to think whether it fully satisfied you. I’m your friend, your brother, I know you well, but I’ve often wondered w
hat would it take to pull you out of yourself and shake you up. Make you question things, assess yourself and your life, decide what you want to do and how. Perhaps this is the moment and the push and you’ll be grateful that it happened.’

  ‘There will be two and a half years in uniform now, thank God.’

  ‘You see, that’s your attitude again. Another retreat, another way of life where things are decided for you and planned and thought out to the last detail. I hope you go to an officer training school, I would like to see you responsible for others. What about Rina?’

  Daniel blushed, remembering her narrow lips.

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘She loves you, doesn’t she?’

  ‘She’s young, and once I’m away she’ll be all right.’

  ‘Don’t you feel anything for her?’

  ‘Not that way,’ he muttered.

  They reached the lighted area. A movie was being shown outdoors and they joined a group of people carrying chairs. He sat on the lawn watching the sky rather than the screen, looking for Orion’s sword and winking back to the Pole star. In his mind he was composing a letter to Kalinsky. Could he open it with – ‘Dear Father?’ As a child he called him Papa.

  ‘Dear Father,’ he wrote, ‘you will understand me when I say that this is a very difficult letter to write. Of our life together I remember very little, and we have to find the courage and the love to start something new. Perhaps the knowledge of your being my father should suffice, but I have lived many years, happy years, with your absence, and I know you will fill the emptiness, I also know it will take time and effort.

  ‘Where to start? It would be impossible to describe the past years. I am now almost eighteen. I shall send you a photograph if you wish to have one. I live in a Kibbutz called Gilad. It is in the hot Jordan valley, near the river, and the land is fertile and yielding. I work on the farm when I don’t study, and I shall be joining the army in a few weeks for two and a half years. I was always well taken care of by the people here, and was never made to feel an outsider. I graduated from school this year and if the Kibbutz makes it possible perhaps I will resume my studies. I read a great deal, mostly poetry these days, and I am healthy.’