Death Had Two Sons Page 7

  He read the above and felt ridiculous. What would Kalinsky know about fertile soil, or the Jordan valley, or the poets he cared for. He knew warmth was expected of him, but warmth was not an abstract quality to be produced and floated off. He continued all the same.

  ‘I understand you remarried and have a daughter. I should like to hear more about your family. Did you come across any people who saw mother before she died? When was Shmuel taken away from you – is there really any hope of finding him? I would like to think that you might consider leaving Poland to come to Israel. I shall try to make you feel at home here, it is a tough country, a wonderful one, and the only home one can take for granted.

  ‘I live with three classmates in a comfortable room, we work eight hours a day now that school is over and the evenings are devoted to reading, cinema, theatre, music and just spending the time with friends. I have a friend here, a boy named Yoram. He is older than I am, is in the army and a native of Gilad. Everything that is good in me, and about my life, I owe to him.

  ‘How old is your daughter? I am sure she would love it here, it is a paradise for children. As you see, I have forgotten Polish and Yiddish completely, and I shall have your letters translated. Do you live in our old house?

  ‘Funny, a girl asked me if I was ever spanked by you, I could not remember.

  Awaiting your letter,

  Daniel.’

  It had nothing to do with what he wanted to write. Perhaps he should have lied and told his father how happy he was, how often he thought of him all these years, how he was longing to fall into his arms. He did not feel anything, he did not want to commit himself more than he did and he was relieved when Yoram was not to be found. He sealed the letter, wrote the strange address on an airmail envelope and disposed of it as if it contained something contaminating. He felt free again, as if the act of writing settled the account, as if the letter was a final word, a heavy duty performed, and lying on his stomach, his hands supporting his head, he was engulfed again in his favourite book of Hebrew poems, carried with its images to elephants in the sky, lightning in cats’ eyes and the rounded limbs of distant maidens.

  Chapter Five

  When Kalinsky opened the door and saw the young man smiling he knew immediately.

  ‘May I come in?’ the man asked.

  Dora appeared in the kitchen doorway and then stood in front of him awaiting a verdict.

  ‘I have a letter for you. Daniel is alive and well.’

  ‘And Shmuel?’

  ‘We don’t know yet.’

  Kalinsky did not hide his excitement. His hands were trembling as he opened the letter and he looked at the hand-writing for a few seconds before he realized it was in Hebrew.

  ‘Shall I translate it for you?’

  Miriam came in and sensing the importance of the moment held her mother’s hand in silence. The young man’s voice was deep and pleasant and every word he uttered while reading seemed to add a beam to a bridge. Across time – Dear Father – across countries – Gilad, Jordan, the valley – across hearts. When he finished Haim asked shyly if he would read it again, which he did. This time Kalinsky stopped him to ask questions and his smile was replaced by a compassionate look. He was participating, he was there, and the voice was that of his son.

  They opened a bottle of vodka and raised their glasses and when the man left Haim took the letter and caressed it, telling Dora she needn’t cry and repeating and memorizing the lines to Miriam. Late that night he wrote a letter to his son.

  The last days of summer. A drying season in yellow and dust with bursting grapes and armies of flies. The valley is ploughed dark brown and the wind is the carrier of clouds if not yet of rain. Sweaters are spread on the lawn to air and some of the young girls begin to knit. The river is at its shallowest and the birds migrate south to warmer climates. When the letter reached Daniel he put it in his pocket and pretended to forget about it until the evening. It was written in Polish and there was only one man in the Kibbutz who could read it to him, the shoemaker. Daniel in all the years he had been there, exchanged perhaps six phrases with the man, and here he was, in his room, trusting him with this most personal thing. Zvi put his spectacles on and offered Daniel some coffee. They talked for a while about work, Daniel seemingly relaxed and patient. Zvi looked at the letter, nodded to suggest he understood the handwriting and in a rather amusing dramatic voice began to read, stopping every now and then as if unsure about a word, then resuming.

  ‘My little boy,’ it started,

  ‘Is it your father’s first letter?’ he asked, not looking up.

  ‘Yes, I am sorry to trouble you,’ Daniel added.

  ‘Very interesting, very interesting,’ Zvi murmured.

  ‘So, my little boy. It will take many letters to tell you all that happened to us since the war, or during it. Now that I know you are well and happy it doesn’t matter really and we can look forward to the years to come. Unfortunately we learned about your mother’s death from a woman who was with her to the end. She died of disease in a labour camp, not in the gas chambers.

  ‘Shmuel was separated from me, the way you were. There was nothing I wouldn’t have done, and nothing I could do to help it. I cannot believe I am actually writing to you, my Daniel, and you are sitting somewhere and reading it.

  Zvi looked up at him, and Daniel motioned him to read on.

  ‘Our old house was in ruins when I returned to Warsaw and with the help of Dora, your stepmother, we managed to face the hard years and once again I am working and relatively comfortable. Your sister Miriam goes to school. She keeps asking about you, please send us some pictures. The way I remember you does not help me to reconstruct the image of a young man. I heard about the Kibbutz resembling the Kolchoz, is that so? It is strange to think of you in the army, there was never a soldier called Kalinsky … There was never a farmer in the family either. I cannot offer you much right now, if we can save some money we shall come to visit and then decide about leaving Poland. Right now it is impossible. I used to read poetry when I was your age, it was then that I met your mother, may she rest in peace. I don’t remember ever spanking you, I don’t think I ever saw you cry either. I once spanked Shmuel because he hurt you. He used to play the piano beautifully. I seldom go to synagogue but I shall now, and offer a prayer of thanks. Please describe to me everything about your life, your friends, your village. Is the Jordan anything like the Vistula? Dora joins me in sending her love, so does little Miriam. I am a very happy man now, my son,

  Your father.’

  Daniel couldn’t sleep. For a while he imagined the hospital ether and iodine odours invading his room sterilizing it, suffocating him, then he smiled. He had lived almost thirty years with his body, so many nights, and yet every night he moved and tossed and turned to find the best position for sleep. It was ridiculous, he thought, for a grown-up not to know whether he slept on his back, or side, and yet he did not. He realized he had taken off all his clothes before he fell asleep and when he stood up naked and walked to the window he felt he would like never to dress up again. He wondered whether the doctor was sleeping with his girl – surely not in the barracks where he lived – and flung the shutter open. Stars were disappearing fast and the moon not to be seen. The morning star bright and close threatened the arrival of another hot day and the light gray gave way to a cloudless pink horizon. In Gilad they are out in the fields he thought, and once again he remembered that he ought to get himself a new watch, it had been ten years since he lost it.

  What are you dreaming about Kalinsky? He had a desire to cross the road and tiptoe through the silence and the whiteness and watch the man sleep. He remembered the first letter Kalinsky wrote him and the ones that followed. Nine years of letter-writing. Five happy ones and four of misery, every letter adding to the pattern: bits of information, little complaints, big expectations, at times a poetical line, more often, a pragmatic description of events.

  I learned to know you Kalinsky. Your headaches and you
r rheumatic pains, your shop and the state of your affairs. I could almost understand your letters without a translation. You grew old in them, and your face wrinkled, you were losing your hair and your eyesight and you were evading my questions, evading issues, offering no comfort, remaining a detailed abstract. Rina said I would learn to love you through the letters. It never happened. Every letter substituted a drab reality for an illusion. Every line carried you away from me, until – when you were waiting for your visa to enable you to come – I hardly bothered to read them. You asked about the price of bread and vegetables and I wanted to tell you about almond trees in blossom. You wanted me to enquire about apartments and jobs and I did so saying always – a relative of mine – never my father. Yoram’s parents suffered from malaria drying marshes when they were newcomers and you wanted me to find out about exchange rates. I wrote you back, Kalinsky. Do you have my letters? I sent you some photographs – you wrote and said they made you cry, I resembled my mother. We knew Shmuel was dead. Did you know all along? Did you feel it in your knees and guts one day, the way people do?

  You read about the border clashes and you wrote me worried letters, you lost me once, you said, and you could not bear to lose me again, not realizing that when you lost me in the back yard and I was six, it was forever even if my ghost met you in the port of Haifa so many years later. Miriam’s letters touched me, she had pride, Dora’s letters had warmth and curiosity and yours were screaming a need, many needs, and fear, many fears, and I could not answer the need nor calm the fear.

  The morning star disappeared. On the hill a few camels were grazing elegantly, swaying long necks and merging with the colour of the dunes turned gold with the first light of day. Daniel was tired and the room was cold and the night nurses left the hospital now looking neat and fresh.

  Our letters never touched, never crossed, Daniel thought. We took parallel roads and when circumstances made them meet – they refused to. I will come to visit you one of these days, when I am sure I can play the part.

  They drew the curtains in the hospital and Daniel closed the shutters and returned to bed pulling the sheet above his face. Kalinsky woke up feeling a strong pain for the first time.

  When Daniel was eighteen he was drafted. He had looked forward to it because being in uniform for him meant a change, equality with Yoram and adventures. The first few weeks distinguished him as a good soldier. He was eager to volunteer, to help, to obey. He had the discipline some of his mates lacked and an ability to operate alone at the same time. He volunteered as a paratrooper and the physical discomforts of being in this unit did not bother him. He coveted the silver wings and the red beret and somehow he even looked forward to the moment when he could send his father a picture of himself all decorated, an officer perhaps. The situation on the borders worsened and he had to stay in camp on week-ends as well, which turned Gilad into a remote memory composed of white shirts, hot water and good books.

  When he jumped for the first time he experienced the usual fear, almost unexpectedly, and a few seconds later under the large dome of the parachute, an utter relaxation and a desire never to reach the approaching hard surface. He was afraid whenever he jumped, although his fear had nothing to do with the possibility of falling down with an unopened parachute. It was an illogical fear of the vacuum, of the speedy fall, of the lack of control knowing that the sensation which followed would be the happiest he had known. Special boots, new slang, the red hat on his head looking like an anemone in a wheat field, the graduation ceremony. Yoram and Rina were there, and it was then that he noticed for the first time that something was happening between them.

  The silver wings were attached to his starched shirt, above the pocket. Yoram had them, many others had and deserved them, but these were his, and he touched the metal as if it was sacred. Haim Kalinsky, he thought, what do you know about jumping into empty space waiting to be jerked by the opening of the white canopy.

  He wanted to be alone with Yoram the day he graduated but it was impossible with Rina around. Her own conscription was due soon and she was making plans for the three of them – secret missions, desert patrols, night raids, brilliant victories. They drove to Gilad together after the ceremony and on the way Yoram told him he was thinking of marrying Rina when she was through with the service.

  When Rina was kissed and rejected by Daniel she knew he was unapproachable. After Daniel had gone into the army she met Yoram often, at first to ask about Daniel’s progress and later for long walks gathering wild flowers and watching birds. She told Yoram Daniel did not want her, and when he held her hand once – crossing a stream – she sensed his strength and warmth and having crossed the stream left her hand in his. Yoram was shorter than Rina, but their two smiles could fill the world with glee and if she and Daniel had in common a certain sadness about some things, she shared with Yoram all that was bright and laughing. He kissed her on the harvest’s stubble and behind hay stacks and he wove summer flowers in her curls and counted her freckles. Yoram loved with joy and innocence and she knew it was something to be grateful for though the first tremble of Daniel’s touch never recurred and his gray melancholy still hovered above her when alone. She took to wearing dresses rather than shorts or slacks and though not curvy or buxom her body acquired a pleasant roundness where the thighs met the hips. Yoram decided to leave the service in a year unless war broke out and they would get married between Gilad and Shimron in their favourite spot under a eucalyptus tree.

  Daniel was not made to feel lonely. He was happy about Rina and slightly jealous about Yoram, but once again he discovered the joy of being left out. He was alone without a need for a richer content and this did not bother him either. A few favourite poems drove away the budding worries as to his future, his deeper interests or desires or dreams.

  He was made a full member of Gilad in a short, touching ceremony and small children on the lawn approached him, wanting to touch the new wings and try on the red beret. Kalinsky wrote an anxious letter. Were there not other things to do in the army, he wondered. After all he was an only son and the leftover of a great tragedy and perhaps he should be stationed in some HQ office. He was proud of him, too and there was something touching in the way he expressed his pride – Imagine, he wrote, a Kalinsky paratrooper, unbelievable! Your great-grandfather was a small merchant in Cracow and your ancestors were never closer to God than the height of a three-storey building. My son, high in the sky, alone, floating. He wanted to know who was responsible for folding the parachutes and now that he had his wings would it be necessary for him to do more jumps. Miriam was taking Hebrew lessons, determined to make it to Israel even if she had to go alone, and her pride was worth the fear and the discomfort. Daniel received a new watch from the Kibbutz secretary and his vacation was cut short by news of border tensions and the unit’s mobilization.

  Daniel discovered the ease with which he could kill. Not the joy, nor the hatred, nor the thought process of justifying the pressure on the trigger. Simply the thoughtless automatic obedience which resulted in a lifeless lump of a body somewhere in the dark. He was not a fierce soldier, but he was an excellent soldier. He loved his mates and he was quick during the night battles which were frequent then, and even when exhausted his senses were alert – detached from his mind and heart, animal-like and tense and quick. He had nobody to think about, he had no responsibilities, he was doing a job. In a few months he had a reputation as a reliable and courageous reconnaissance expert. He was especially fond of two boys in the small unit, a Yemenite and a Hungarian referred to as ‘Black and White’. They were inseparable though utterly different in character and inclinations. During a raid across the lake one night they were both killed and for the first time in his life Daniel felt a sense of loss, of fear, of the proximity of death and the fact that survival was not to be taken for granted. When he was next involved in battle he shot to kill with a new sensation, crying as he released the grenades, ‘For the Black and for the White, and once again for the Black …�
�� The enemy now was not an abstract idea, nor a historical obstacle in the way of complete national freedom. The enemy had to do with tomb-stones, with faces remembered alive and joking, with the sensation of shaking a strong hand which melts away suddenly and disappears leaving his own hand empty and turning it into a fist. The enemy now was the blackness where friends were sighing when wounded and the dawn light on stretchers when they were brought back. When his two friends were killed and the unit reassembled in the barracks, they spread their personal belongings on a camp bed and each of the living ones took some object of the dead. He had a pair of socks belonging to the White one, and they were clean and mended if not new. A friend was never left behind to be taken prisoner and Daniel was used to the weight of a human body, wounded and bleeding. The commander was a friend, the cook was a friend, ranks did not matter and the unit remained small and family-like, but even this clannish atmosphere could not soften the tension created by inevitable thoughts of – sooner or later it will be my turn. Courage surpassed the humanly possible, but then so did some of the tasks demanded of them and friendship could be, and frequently was, interrupted only by death.

  Daniel was stationed in the south, as was Yoram, and later towards the spring of the following year Rina joined them. She looked good in her uniform and her sergeant’s stripes gave an air of protectiveness rather than authority. Yoram was completing his service and Daniel was about to go to an officers’ training school in spite of his resentment of the idea, but their few months together in Beer-Sheba were all dust-trails behind speeding jeeps, excursions to canyons and unexplored wadis and exposure of each of them to a landscape that stripped one of shadows, defences and mannerisms. They had their own slang and they needed fewer and fewer words to express what they felt. The bridge over the wadi was their meeting place. When Daniel was on a patrol or a raid Yoram and Rina waited at the bridge and he never failed to come, tired, covered with dust, at times scratched or lightly wounded, at times frustrated when nothing had happened.