Where the Jackals Howl (23 page)

“That's it. You've had more than enough. And now, good night.” He turned to go.

But she ordered him to come inside and he obeyed her. She took off his sweaty shirt. When he asked if he could wash his face, she said neither yes nor no, but instead she switched on the light in the aquarium and turned off the overhead light. He began to apologize or to plead but she cut his stammering short by pressing him to her, sweaty, steaming, unwashed, and embarrassed, and conquered him in silence.

I
N A
small village run on sound principles there are no secrets, nor can there be any.

Just before six o'clock in the morning, the neighbors saw Zeiger emerge, subdued, from Batya Pinski's door. By seven o'clock the news had already reached the sewing room. Some of us, including Felix and his wife, Zetka (who had previously been married to Zeiger), saw a positive aspect to this new development: after all, the whole situation had been unnatural and full of unnecessary tensions. Now everything would be much simpler. Martyrdoms, Mediterranean tragedies, emotional arabesques were irreconcilable with the principles according to which we guided our lives.

Even these people, however, could not accept what ensued with equanimity. Zeiger was the first, but he was not the last. Within a matter of weeks, news had spread of various peripheral characters' finding their way to Batya Pinski's room at night. She did not even turn up her nose at refugees, or at eccentrics like Matityahu Damkov. Her silent, noble melancholy had turned into something better left unnamed. And her face was becoming ugly.

Within a year or two even little Ditza was going around with soldiers and birds of passage. We were unable to devote our full attention to this unhappy episode, because the struggle to drive out the British was reaching its climax, and then regular Arab armies invaded the country; they reached the very gates of our kibbutz, and we repelled them almost barehanded. Finally all was calm again. Hordes of refugees poured in from all directions. Zeiger's relative, a middle-aged woman, also came, as a tourist, and dragged him back to Philadelphia with her. We were all sorry to see him go, and there were some who never forgave him. Felix accepted a central party position and graced us with his presence only on weekends. As for Batya, her last embers died. Ditza ran away again and again to the pioneering camps and the newly emerging settlements in the desert; again and again she was brought back. Her mother took to her room. She announced that her condition would not permit her to work any more. We did not know what this condition was, but we decided not to ask too many questions. We left her alone. We were all relieved when Ditza finally married Martin Zlotkin, the son of the well-known banker. Batya accepted the marriage and the presents of expensive furniture from the young couple calmly. It was the fish that were now in the center of the picture. The electric kettle was always on the boil. It seemed as though it was all over for her, when the matter of Abrasha's literary remains came up and it was decided to publish his collected essays along with his letters from Madrid. Just as Felix had promised at the victory celebrations: we would not forget our comrades who had sacrificed their lives. And Felix it was who, despite all his commitments, did not forget, and made the kibbutz-movement publishing house finally tackle the job. The widow waited day by day. The fish swam across the picture without blurring it. They were cold but alive, they were not subject to the law of gravity, since they could hover effortlessly in the water. Last night's storm will bring Abramek Bart; but it's two o'clock already, and he hasn't come yet. A man like him will be able to understand the delicate matter of the dedication; he won't make any difficulties.

B
UT I
can't receive him in my dressing gown. I must get dressed. I must tidy the room, if it's not tidy enough already. I must get out the best china, so that I can serve the tea properly. And open the shutters. Let some fresh air in. Freshen up the biscuits, too. But first of all, get dressed.

She went to the sink and washed her face repeatedly in cold water, as if to mortify her flesh. Then she ran her bony fingers over her face and hair in the mirror and said aloud, There, there, you're a good girl, you're lovable, don't worry, everything's all right.

She put a little makeup on and brushed her gray hair. For an instant she caught a glimpse in the mirror of the old witch the children called Baba Yaga, but at once she was replaced by a noble, lonely woman unbowed by her suffering. Batya preferred the latter, and said to her: No one else understands you, but I respect you. And the book is dedicated to Batya, a devoted wife, the fruits of my love and anguish.

Just as she pronounced these words she heard the squeal of brakes in the clearing in front of the dining hall. She leapt to the window, still disheveled because she had not had time to put the hairpins in place; she flung the shutters open and thrust her head out. Abramek Bart, director of the publishing house, got out of the car and held the door open for the secretary general of the movement.

Felix appeared from nowhere to greet them both with a warm yet businesslike handshake and a serious expression. They exchanged a few words and walked off together to inspect the damage and the reconstruction work, which had been proceeding ceaselessly since early in the morning.

S
HE FINISHED
getting ready. She put on her burgundy-colored dress, a necklace, and an unobtrusive pair of earrings, dabbed a few drops of perfume behind her ears, and put the water on to boil. Meanwhile the blue daylight poured in through the open windows. Children and birds were shrilling joyfully. The streaming light seemed to dull the water in the aquarium. The old Spanish tune came back to her lips, and a warm, deep voice emerged from her chest. The song was compelling and full of longing. In the old days, in the distant thirties, the Spanish freedom-fighters and their sympathizers all over the world had been forever humming it. Abrasha could not stop singing it the night he left. A decade or so later, during the Israeli War of Independence, it had acquired Hebrew words. It was sung around the campfire among the old shacks by pale-faced soldiers who had recently fled from Europe. Night after night it had drifted among the kibbutz buildings and had even reached Batya Pinski:

 

The first dish to be served
Is your beloved rifle
Garnished with its magazines . . .

 

Suddenly she made up her mind to go outside.

Bursting out among the fallen trees and broken glass, she saw the sky peaceful and clear over the hills, as if nothing had happened. She saw Matityahu Damkov, his bare back glistening with sweat, mending a water pipe with silent rage. And farther away she could see the empty spot where the wooden shacks, the first buildings of the kibbutz, had stood. Workers were rooting among the wreckage. A few goats grazed peacefully.

She reached the clearing in front of the dining hall at the very moment when Felix was escorting his guests back to their car. They were standing by the car, presumably running over the main points of their discussion. Up to that moment Felix had kept his glasses in his shirt pocket; now he put them on again while he jotted down some notes, and at once he lost the look of a general and regained his habitual appearance of a philosopher.

Finally they shook hands once more. The visitors got into the car and Abramek started the engine. As he began to maneuver his way among the beams and scattered planks, Batya Pinski darted out of the bushes and tapped on the window with a wrinkled fist. The secretary general was momentarily alarmed and covered his face with his hands. Then he opened his eyes and stared at the terrifying figure outside. Abramek stopped the car, rolled the window down a fraction, and asked:

“What's up? Do you need a lift? We're not going to Tel Aviv, though. We're heading north.”

“Don't you dare, Abramek, don't you dare leave out the dedication, or I'll scratch your eyes out and I'll raise such a stink that the whole country will sit up and take notice,” Batya screeched without pausing to draw breath.

“What is this lady talking about?” asked the secretary general mildly.

“I don't know,” Abramek replied apologetically. “I haven't got the faintest idea. In fact, I don't even know her.”

Felix immediately took command of the situation.

“Just a minute, Batya, calm down and let me explain. Yes, this is our Comrade Batya Pinski. That's right, Abrasha's Batya. She probably wants to remind us of the moral obligation we all owe her. You remember what it's about, Abramek.”

“Of course,” said Abramek Bart. And then, as if assailed by sudden doubts, he repeated, “Of course, of course.”

Felix turned to Batya, took her arm gently, and addressed her kindly and sympathetically:

“But not now, Batya. You can see what a state we're all in. You've chosen a rather inconvenient moment.”

The car, meanwhile, was disappearing around the bend in the road. Felix took the time to see Batya back to her room. On the way he said to her:

“You have no cause to worry. We'll keep our promise. After all, we're not doing this just for your sake, there's no question of a personal favor to you; our young people need Abrasha's writings, they will be the breath of life for them. Please don't rush us. There's still plenty of time; you've got nothing to worry about. On the other hand, I gather you didn't get your lunch today, and for that you have reasonable grounds for complaint. I'll go to the kitchen right away and tell them to send you a hot meal: the boilers are working again now. Don't be angry with us, it hasn't been easy today. I'll be seeing you.”

T
HERE WAS
still the aquarium.

Now the fish could get the attention they deserved. First of all the old woman inspected the electrical fittings. Behind the tank there was concealed a veritable forest of plugs and sockets, of multicolored wires, of switches and transformers which kept the vital systems alive.

From a tiny electrical pump hidden underneath the tank, two transparent plastic tubes led into the water. One worked the filter, and the other aerated the water.

The filter consisted in a glass jar containing fibers. The water from the bottom of the tank was pumped up into the filter, to deposit the particles of dirt, uneaten food, and algae, and returned to the tank clear and purified. The aerator was a fine tube that carried air to the bottom of the tank, where it escaped through a perforated stone in a stream of tiny bubbles which enriched the water with oxygen and inhibited the growth of algae. These various appliances kept the water clear and fresh, and enabled the fish to display their array of breathtaking colors, and to dart hither and thither with magical swiftness.

A further electrical fixture without which the aquarium could not function was the heating element, a sealed glass tube containing a finely coiled electric wire. The glowing coil kept the water at a tropical temperature even on rainy days and stormy nights. The light and warmth worked wonders on the gray-green forests of water plants in the depths of which the fish had their home. From there shoal after shoal emerged to pursue a course that was unpredictable because subject to unknown laws. The quivering tails suggested a heart consumed by longing, rather than mere pond life. The fish were almost transparent; their skeletons were clearly visible through their cold skins. They, too, had a system of blood vessels; they, too, were subject to illness and death. But fish are not like us. Their blood is cold. They are cold and alive, and their cold is not death but a liveliness and vitality that makes them soar and plunge, wheel and leap in mid-course. Gravity has no power over them.

The plants and stones emphasize this by contrast. The sight of a school of swordfish swimming gently through the hollow stone arouses a grave doubt in the widow's mind. Is death a possibility, and if so, what need to wait, why not plunge in this very instant.

She presses her burning forehead against the glass. It feels as though the fish are swimming into her head. Here is peace and calm.

Breadth distracts the mind from depth. Depth also exists. It sends wave upon wave of dark stillness up toward the surface. And now the surface of the water reflects the crest-shorn palm trees.

The daylight fades and the windows darken.

Now she will close the shutters and draw the curtains. The kettle will boil again. More tea—this time in one of the china cups she has brought out specially. The fish are clustering around the underwater lamp as if they, too, can sense the approach of night.

A blue-tinged crystalline calm descends on our hills. The air is clear. The day's work is done. May she repose in peace. May the fish swim peacefully through her dreams. May she not be visited in the night by the crest-shorn palm trees. A last procession passes through the hollow stone. Darkness is coming.

1963

J
EPHTHAH WAS BORN
at the edge of the desert. At the edge of the desert his grave was also dug.

For many years Jephthah roamed the desert in the company of wandering tribesmen close to the borders of the land of Ammon. Even when the elders of Israel came down to seek him in the desert and raised him to be judge of Israel, Jephthah did not leave the desert. He was a wild man. It was for his wildness that the elders of the congregation chose him as their leader. All these things befell in lawless times.

Jephthah was judge for six years. He was victorious in every war he fought. But his countenance was ravaged. He did not love Israel and he did not hate his enemies. He belonged to himself, and even to himself he was a stranger. All the days of his life, even when he sat within his own house, his eyes were narrowed as if for protection against the dust of the desert or the dazzling light. Or else they were turned inward, because nowhere around could he find.