And at least he did not consider her Jericho Café crowd traitors and scum, as Noah seemed to. Noah’s attitude was intolerable. All her friends had served in the IDF. All still did their reserve duty. Most scrounged their livings by working at two or three jobs. Some had fought in the Six-Day War, several had been wounded. Daphna knew the military life all too well; knew pilots who had died, knew their widows and orphans. The air force was great, but so what? She had endured childhood nightmares of her father crashing in flames, and now she had to worry about Dov, and even her baby brother Danny was applying for flight training. Meantime the politicians schemed and lied to keep their jobs, wars broke out every few years, the generals screwed up, and the boys paid with their lives, or their legs, eyes, and arms. That was the plain Jericho Café truth about Israel, not the threadbare Zionist myth that Noah was still trying to live up to.
Such were Daphna’s ruminations as she rode a bus to Rashi Street, and climbed dark creaky stairs to Shimon Shimon’s studio. A dirty skylight on the top floor showed the ceramic doorplate with his name, black flames on gold: SHIMON SHIMON. She tentatively knocked. No answer. Louder knock. Nothing. She pressed the doorbell, and its raucous ring made her jump. Heavy treads approaching, sliding of a lock, a muttered Arabic obscenity, door opening. In droopy underwear, the ceramicist peered at her, scratching his red beard with one hand and his hairy belly with the other.
“Hello. Am I early? I can come back later.”
“You’re who? Oh, yes, you’re Daphna, aren’t you? Right, right, Daphna. No, no, come right in.” He grabbed a bathrobe from a hook. Daphna went inside, and Shimon Shimon closed the door.
Noah’s missile boat was docking about then. He had been working since dawn on an automatic gun-loader that had jammed, for an exec had to be everywhere and do anything. He hurried to his quarters to get out of his greased-up coveralls, and dress for the wedding. At last a chance to see Daphna and smooth things over! He had not seen her since their quarrel. The navy had to keep constant watch for seaborne terrorists, and the nights on patrol were long and monotonous. Noah had much time to think, looking at the black waves, the crowding stars, and the lights of home sending up a glow on distant clouds. What to do about that provoking Daphna? In the draggy hours on watch, visions and sensations of their lovemaking haunted him, but she had drifted into that disgusting Jericho Cafe set. A vexing problem, for he remained infatuated with her.
A letter from Cherbourg lay on his cot. A picture of Julie Levinson slid out of the envelope, and to his surprise, the writing was in childish large-lettered Hebrew.
Dear Noah,
These are the first words I have ever written in Hebrew besides exercises!
You remember Shmulik Tannenbaum, your navy supply officer who came back to Cherbourg and married my friend Yvonne? They now have two babies, and Shmulik is giving Hebrew lessons to make extra money. Our class is small, five girls counting me, and two fellows. All the others plan to make aliya.
(It has taken me half an hour to write this much! I have to keep looking up words in my French-Hebrew dictionary, which is not very good.)
I and my parents will visit Israel right after Yom Kippur, only three months from now. I talk better than I write, so you can talk to me then in Hebrew to test me! (A joke.) You probably have forgotten how I look, so I enclose a picture (my verb forms are awful, I know).
We will only stay three weeks, but it will be nice to see you again. I have a boyfriend but he is not Jewish, he works in a bank. I think that is why my parents are taking me to Israel. But don’t worry, they don’t hope to match up you and me. Anyway by now you must have married Daphna! If so I hope you are happy and I would like to meet her.
Your friend,
Julie Levinson
P.S. — Time, 2½ hours!
In the picture she wore a jogging suit and a soft cap. Her face was thinner, hard to recognize. This was Julie’s first letter in a long time. Noah could not write easily in French, he hated to make the slightest error, and once he saw Daphna again he had let the correspondence dwindle and lapse. He dropped the letter and picture in a drawer. Poor Julie!
As he dressed, Noah heard on the radio a roundtable of experts disputing about Sadat’s move, mainly throwing up gassy clouds of bafflement and verbiage. He was baffled, too. L’Azazel! Could Egypt really be giving up the fight? Was Israel no longer in peril, after a quarter-century of cliff-hanging? Egypt was the powerhouse of Arab enmity. Without Egypt the front was broken, and without the Soviets the Egyptians were helpless. Chasing down those terrorists in rubber boats was no career for a man; would he never have a chance to fight in a war? He set out for the wedding in a fresh uniform, hoping he could take Daphna somewhere afterward. The damned Jericho Café was a good two hours away, thank God. Perhaps she would even come to the Dan Hotel for the night. That was the way of ways to put a fight behind them.
Daphna’s Aunt Yael also ran a dissatisfied eye over her more extensive wardrobe, wondering what to wear for a mid-July strictly religious wedding; which, however, she was not about to miss. The sleeveless pink shantung would be coolest, but Elohim, no! The Ezrakh was officiating, the great Talmud scholar Benny so much admired, and to such holy men bare arms and bare breasts were all one. The blue pima cotton then, with sleeves below the elbow. If naked wrists were too immodest, haval! She was not coming to Shayna Matisdorf’s nuptials looking like a pious frump. That was the bride’s game.
Despite the hold she had on Yossi in their two children, Yael never quite shrugged off the sense of that religious old maid as a threat. Of course sneaked meetings with Kishote, even surreptitious telephone calls, were much beyond that goodie-goodie, though they were routine to the shmatas (loose women) he fooled with. But most men in the long run needed love, not shmatas, and that was the standing menace of Shayna. Yael was sleeping alone these days. The flame was out. She had not tricked him with Eva, and he knew that. Still, he clearly wanted no more children, at least with her, and he was employing the one unfailing contraceptive, cool distance. Otherwise she could hardly complain. He was good-humored, he seemed reconciled to things as they were, and how much time did other army wives get to spend with their husbands, anyway? Nevertheless, seeing with her own eyes Shayna Matisdorf removed from circulation was well worth killing a business day.
“Got to wash off the desert dust, first thing,” Kishote said, coming in with a clatter of tankist black boots, as she was affixing a gold lion pin to the pima cotton. “How are you, Yael? You look elegant.” He was unbuttoning his green blouse, omitting any kiss or hug, though he had not been home for weeks. “Where are the kids?”
“Aryeh’s dressing up. Eva’s in kindergarten. We won’t bring her. There’s a pressed uniform in your closet.”
“I’ll wear a shirt and slacks.” He kicked off the boots.
“So, Shayna gets married at last,” she ventured. He nodded without a word, stripping down to sweat-soaked briefs, a muscular glistening figure. “Yossi, what about Sadat?”
“Sadat? Good question.” He ran a hand over his face. “I suppose I should shave.”
“Have things changed at the Canal at all?”
“Dead quiet, but there’s always plenty to do.”
“Is it serious, his expelling the Russians?”
“Very serious.” He went into the bathroom.
In the car heading up the coastal highway Aryeh, now a lanky fifteen but still beardless, sat beside the driver, turning around to look and listen as his parents discussed Sadat’s move. “Sharon called a staff meeting that same night,” his father said, “to exchange ideas about it. We were still talking when the sun came up. Five explanations emerged, or should I say survived.”
“Let’s hear.”
“Well, one, the Russians were denying him first-line armaments, or charging too high a price.”
“Oversimple.”
“Maybe, but just like the Soviets. Two, the Egyptian people, especially the army, hate the Soviet presence. The crude Russians
treat them like dirt, even their senior officers. We know that’s true. Three, Sadat had to do something bold and popular after bluffing and doing nothing in 1971.”
“That’s more like it,” said Yael. “It’s what I think.”
“Well, Sharon thinks it’s none of those. The last two are bad, and one’s worse than the other. Four, Sadat’s decided to tilt his foreign policy to America, because Washington’s where he can get the most leverage against Israel. Five, the Russians wouldn’t let him plan to attack Israel, because that would end détente and might drag them into nuclear war with America. He kicked them out to free his hands for war.”
At this Aryeh opened wide eyes.
“Oo-wah,” exclaimed Yael. “Sharon’s the pessimist, as usual.”
“Abba, what do you think?” Aryeh said.
Kishote looked at him with affection. “Me, think? When I’m ordered, I fight.”
The ceremony began as soon as Benny Luria arrived at Michael’s apartment with the Ezrakh, the aged scholar famed for his grasp of Torah law, and for never having set foot outside the Holy Land; hence his sobriquet, which meant “the Native.” Benny had met him years ago, through the bereaved parents of a pilot lost in a training accident, and they had struck up an unlikely but continuing friendship. Shayna had known the Ezrakh all her life, and that he would conduct her wedding was taken for granted.
Chanting the blessings under the canopy, the Ezrakh looked and sounded no older than he had five years ago at Reuven’s circumcision in this same room, in the same rusty black hat and ankle-length threadbare black coat. His voice was weak, yet the hand that held the cup of wine was steady. Yael saw the ring go on Shayna’s finger. Michael Berkowitz missed the glass on the first stamp, then crunch! The thing was done. “Mazel tov! Mazel tov!” cried the guests crowding the small flat.
But there was no outburst of song. Vibrations of romance or erotic excitement were not in the air of this stooped skullcapped professor’s second marriage, to his associate in her thirties. Stepping out from under the canopy, Shayna embraced Reuven, leaning on his crutch nearby. She was adopting the crippled boy, Yael thought, and the handiest way to do it was to move in with the professor. Well, anyhow that was that, Shayna was locked away.
But the next thing Shayna did was to kiss Don Kishote! This struck Yael as not only unladylike, but against the religion. Shayna strode to Yossi through the relatives, neighbors, and friends in her plain gray dress, the white veil thrown back on her head, and planting a kiss on his lips, murmured something to him. Then she and her limping groom went off to a bedroom for the yikhud. Kishote looked after her with an expression that Yael had seen him direct at Aryeh in his baby years, and nowadays at little Eva, but never at her; a wistful tenderness that quite smoothed away his half-humorous half-menacing look. Shayna was disappearing into that bedroom and from his life, Yael perceived, but not to make room for her. The professor’s wife would just leave a hole.
The yikhud custom required the bride and groom to absent themselves in a room, with witnesses to observe that they were sequestered inside long enough — in theory, of course — to consummate the marriage. Meanwhile, all in a congenial tumult, the guests divided for the wedding repast by generations; parents at one long table, sons and daughters at the other. “Where to all the devils is Daphna?” Noah asked Dov Luria, who had arrived in uniform just as the ceremony began. It was doctrine in the Luria household that Noah Barak remained the main hope to keep Daphna from going entirely to the dogs. Dov calmly lied that she had a cold. He meant to track Daphna down right after this dowdy affair, to give her hell; and that Shimon Shimon too, if any funny business was going on.
“She told me she was coming,” said Dzecki, “but I figured she would duck out. Too many girls she knows are getting married. Weddings depress her.”
Galia Barak spoke up. “I haven’t seen Daphna Luria forever, not since I went to America. Is she still so beautiful?”
“You’re the beauty now,” said Dov. “My sister’s a crone.”
At this compliment from a Phantom pilot, Galia colored up. Shorter than his father, heavy-boned, with a flat Slavic face traceable to shtetl genes, Dov did not need good looks to fascinate a seventeen-year-old. Dov was now aiming for flight leader, with little spare energy for girls, but still he thought this black-eyed Galia Barak wasn’t bad at all. He had last seen her years ago at some army gathering, a sullen plump kid with bad skin. Quite a change! And quite a family, these Baraks. Worth bearing in mind.
Aryeh had sat himself next to Dov. He was already the taller of the two and better-looking, with abundant blond curls and his mother’s peachy skin. “Say, Dov, what does the air force think about Sadat kicking out the Russians?”
“I know what I think. A few will leave by air in front of the cameras, and sneak back by sea. It’s a TV stunt to start another phony peace offensive.”
“Well, I don’t agree. I say the Russians wouldn’t let Sadat plan to attack Israel, because that might drag them into nuclear war with America. He’s getting rid of them to free his hands.” Seeking attention from the pilot, Aryeh was citing the one reason his father had given that he clearly understood.
Noah, Dov, and Dzecki glanced at each other. Pretty good for fifteen! Over the noisy talk in the room, Don Kishote called, “Dzecki!” and beckoned him to a corner, where he spoke low. “Didn’t I see you working on the roller bridge prototype, when I visited the Jeptha yards?”
“Yes, sir. I’m in Amos Pasternak’s battalion.”
“And you’ve made first sergeant, eh?” He tapped the insignia on Dzecki’s uniform. “Isn’t your draft service almost over?”
“I may sign up for another year. The bridge is a challenge, sir.”
“Tell me about the bridge.”
“Well, sir, there’s not too much to tell yet. So far we’ve assembled only two sections. They say there will be eighty.”
“Do the sections roll?”
“Like a dream. Linking them up is what’s tricky. They tend to come apart.”
“What’s the problem, exactly?”
Dzecki started to talk jargon about joints and bearings, rigid and flexible elements. Kishote interrupted. “Did you go to engineering school in the States?”
“I graduated from law school, sir. But I like machinery.”
When Shayna and her husband emerged from the bedroom the guests were in a jollier mood, having eaten and drunk. They all stood, clapped hands and sang. Her veil discarded, Shayna looked rosy and serene. From the round low table where the small children sat she plucked up Reuven, who wore a brace on a leg. Waving a camera, Nakhama Barak, who had been drinking a lot, pushed her closer to the limping Berkowitz. “A picture! A picture! Everybody stand back! Smile, bride and groom! Shayna, get Reuven to smile!”
She kissed the boy and said softly, “Well, Reuven? Aren’t you happy?”
Reuven put both hands to her cheeks and smiled. “Perfect!” Flash. “One more!” Flash.
Dzecki Barkowe thought he must be mistaken, seeing a small tear roll down Colonel Nitzan’s brown cheek. Only women cried at weddings.
Daphna’s visit to Shimon Shimon’s studio started tamely with talk about the Sadat news. He showed her a mizrakh he was making for an Orthodox Belgian diamond dealer, a colorful ceramic of sunrise over the Temple Mount to be hung on an eastern wall; explaining like a university lecturer details of clays, glazes, and firing techniques, too fast for her to follow. Next he handed her a lump of raw red clay from a cluttered work stand. “Make something, motek.” One of his cats, a big gray torn, was asleep on the stand, so she set about fashioning a slumbering cat. He watched with amusement for a while, then read Yoram Sarak’s weekly, glancing now and then at her work as she intently molded and remolded the clay. “You’re facile,” he said, as the cat took form. “You have hands. That’s something.”
“All right, there it is,” she said at last. “A cat.”
She gave it to him, rather proud of it. He turned it here and
there. “Hm. Proportions not too bad. Tail has a nice curve. Listen, it’s not a dog or a monkey, it’s a cat. Fine.” He was setting out bread, cheese, and wine on a bare wooden table. “Let’s have something to eat.”
As they ate and drank he talked eloquently about the art and the marketing of ceramics. Once he jumped up to take a ball of clay and form it into a convincing turtle, giving her pointers on how to work the stuff. It was all fascinating, and when he sat down on the bench close beside her and clinked glasses to toast a budding artist, she saw nothing wrong with that. But on the refill he put an arm around her, and with the next glass he attempted a kiss, and Daphna was off and running.
The celebrated ceramicist came lumbering after her, exclaiming about her beauty, until he fell over another cat, a yellow-striped beast that let out a hair-raising yowl as Shimon Shimon thudded to the floor. Daphna halted, guffawing. The ceramicist weaved to his feet. “Laugh, will you, you little devil?” He lurched for her, and again she fled, not especially surprised or outraged, giggling as she kept her distance, and with it her virtue, such as it was. The wine slightly dizzied her, and made it all seem funny. But Shimon Shimon expertly closed in on her until he had her backed up to the worktable, where she seized the first thing that came to hand, a heavy red clay figure. “Please stop this foolishness, Shimon. By your life, I’m not interested.”