But time passed. Day after day, Nahum Asherov sat in the electrician’s workshop, shoulders stooped, glasses sliding down his nose, working on the appliances in need of repair: electric kettles, radios, fans. He told himself: After work today, I will definitely go there. I’ll talk to both of them. I’ll say only one or two things, then I’ll grab Edna’s arm and drag her home. Not to her room in the dormitory, but here, home. How will I begin, though? How shall I put it? Will I get angry or should I restrain myself and appeal to their sense of reason and duty? Yet inside, he felt neither anger nor rebuke, only pain and disappointment. David Dagan had sons who were a few years older than Edna and they had already done their military service. Maybe instead of going there, he should talk to one of them? But what exactly would he say?
From the time she was a child, Edna had been closer to Nahum than to her mother. Although she rarely expressed this closeness in words, Nahum always knew, from some unspoken mutual understanding, what to ask and what not to ask, when to concede and when to stand his ground. Since her mother’s death, Edna had taken it upon herself to drop off her father’s clothes at the laundry every Monday and return with a bundle of clean, ironed clothes every Friday; or she would sew on missing buttons for him. Since her brother’s death, she came to his apartment every day in the late afternoon, made them coffee, and sat with him for an hour or so. They spoke very little, usually just about her studies or his work. Sometimes they talked about a book. They listened to music together. Peeled and ate fruit. After the hour had passed, she would get up, take the cups to the sink, but would leave them for her father to wash after she had left for the school dormitory. Though Nahum knew almost nothing about her social life, he did know that her teachers were pleased with her, and he was proud that she’d learned Arabic on her own. A quiet girl, they said about her on the kibbutz, not impetuous like her mother, but devoted and diligent, like her father. What a shame she had cut off her braids for a short bob with bangs. With her hair braided and parted down the middle, she had looked just like one of those pioneer girls of an earlier generation.
One evening several months before, Nahum had gone to look for her in her dorm room to bring her a sweater she had left in his apartment. He found her with two of her girlfriends sitting on their beds, all playing recorders, practicing a simple scale over and over again. As he came in, he apologized for interrupting, then laid the folded sweater on the corner of the bed, brushed a speck of invisible dust off the table, apologized again, and tiptoed away. Outside, he stood under their window in the dark for five minutes and listened: they were now playing a light, lengthy etude that repeated itself in a melancholy way. His heart suddenly clenched. He walked to his apartment, sat down, and listened to the radio until his eyes closed. At night, half awake, he heard the jackals howling close by, as if they were right under his window.
On Tuesday when he came home from work, Nahum showered, got dressed in his ironed khaki trousers and a light-blue shirt, put on the short, shabby coat that gave him the air of a poor intellectual from the previous century, polished his glasses with the corner of his handkerchief, and started for the door. Suddenly he remembered the advanced Arabic textbook that Edna had left in his apartment. He wrapped the book carefully in a plastic bag, tucked it under his arm, put on his gray cap, and left the house. Vestiges of rain were still visible in the small puddles and on the fragrant, glistening leaves of the trees. Since he was in no hurry, he took a longer path that meandered past the children’s house. He still didn’t know what he would say to his daughter or to David Dagan, but he hoped that something would come to him when they were face-to-face. For a moment, he imagined that the whole business between Edna and David Dagan hadn’t really happened, but existed only in the malicious imaginations of Roni Shindlin and the other kibbutz gossipmongers, so that when he finally arrived at David’s place, he would find him as usual, sitting and drinking an afternoon coffee with some other woman—one of his ex-wives, or Ziva the teacher, or perhaps an entirely new woman. Maybe Edna wouldn’t be there at all and he would simply exchange a few words with David at the door, about politics and the government, and he’d decline to stay for coffee and a chess game but instead would say goodbye and go on his way, perhaps to Edna’s dorm room where he would find her reading or playing the recorder or doing homework. As always. And he’d return the book to her there.
Walking along, he inhaled the scent of damp earth and the faint smell of fermenting orange peel and cow dung coming from the yard and the barns. He stopped in front of the memorial to the kibbutz’s fallen soldiers and saw his son’s name there: Yishai Asherov, killed six years before during the army’s incursion into the village of Deir al Nashaf. All eleven names on the memorial were picked out in copper letters, and Yishai was the seventh or eighth on the list. Nahum remembered how, as a child, Yishai used to say “nake” instead of “snake” and “ractor” instead of “tractor.” He reached out and ran his fingertips along the cold copper letters. Then he turned and walked away, still not knowing what he would say, but feeling suddenly dispirited because since his youth, he’d had a soft spot in his heart for David Dagan—and even after what had happened, he still felt no anger, only embarrassment and mostly disappointment and sorrow. As he began to walk away from the memorial, the rain started again, not in sheets but in a thin, stubborn drizzle. It wet his cheeks and fogged his glasses, and he thrust the plastic-wrapped book under his worn coat to hold it close to his chest. He seemed to be pressing on his heart as if he didn’t feel well. No one passed him on the path, so no one saw his hand pressed against his coat. And perhaps the unlikely relationship between Edna and David Dagan would end of its own accord in a few days? Would she come to her senses and return to her former life? Or would David quickly grow tired of her as he always grew tired of his lovers? She was, after all, a girl who had never before had a boyfriend except, so they said, for a two- or three-week flirtation with Dubi the lifeguard at the swimming pool; while David Dagan was a well-known philanderer.
Nahum Asherov remembered the start of his friendship with David Dagan: during the first few years of the kibbutz, they had been so poor that they lived in tents supplied by the Jewish Agency. Only the five babies lived in the single small house on their land. An ideological debate broke out about who should tend to the babies at night: would only the parents take shifts, or would all the members of the kibbutz? The debate stemmed from a deeper point of contention: did the babies belong, in principle, to their parents or to the entire kibbutz? David Dagan fought for the second position while Nahum Asherov sided with the first. For three nights, the members argued until one o’clock in the morning about whether to decide the question with an open vote or a secret ballot. David Dagan supported the open vote while Nahum Asherov advocated a secret ballot. In the end, they agreed to form a committee consisting of David, Nahum, and three women who were not yet mothers. The majority of the committee voted that, although the children belonged to the kibbutz, at the beginning the parents would take turns minding the children at night. Although their opinions differed, Nahum secretly admired David Dagan’s consistent and unyielding ideological position. David, for his part, respected Nahum’s gentleness and patience and was surprised that Nahum, with his quiet persistence, had actually beaten him. When Yishai was killed in the raid on Deir al Nashaf, David Dagan had spent a few nights in Nahum’s apartment. This strengthened their long friendship. Sometimes they’d meet in the early evening to play chess and talk about whether or not the kibbutz was living up to its principles.
David Dagan’s apartment was located near a stand of cypress trees at the end of a row of houses. He had moved after leaving his fourth wife. Everyone knew that he’d left her because of his relationship with Ziva, a young teacher from the city who stayed on the kibbutz three nights a week. He’d ended things with Ziva when Edna had taken her belongings from the dormitory and moved into his new apartment. Anyone in my shoes, Nahum Asherov thought, would storm in, slap David, grab his daughter, and
drag her home. Or the opposite: he’d go in quietly and stand in front of them, broken and distraught, as if to say, How could you, aren’t you ashamed? Ashamed of what? Nahum asked himself.
And, meanwhile, he lingered a few more minutes in the feeble rain, on the path leading to the door, pressing the book tighter against his chest, the raindrops on his glasses blurring his vision. Distant thunder sounded and suddenly it began to rain harder. Nahum stood under the overhang at the entrance to the apartment and waited. He still had no idea what he would say when David opened the door. And what if Edna answered? David Dagan’s neglected front garden was filled with weeds and thistles, dotted with hordes of white snails thanks to the rain. Three pots of withered geraniums stood on the windowsill. Not a sound came from the apartment. Nahum wiped his shoes on the doormat, took a crumpled handkerchief from his pocket and dried his glasses, replaced the handkerchief, and knocked twice on the door.
“It’s you,” David said warmly, and pulled Nahum inside. “Wonderful. Come in. Don’t stand outside. It’s raining. We’ve been expecting you for a few days now. I was sure you’d come. We have to talk. Edna!” he called out toward the other room. “Make coffee for your father. He’s finally here. Take off your coat, Nahum. Sit down. Edna was beginning to think you were angry with us but I told her, You’ll see; he’ll come. We turned on the heater half an hour ago in your honor. Winter turned up all of a sudden, didn’t it? Where did the rain catch you?” He put his large fingers on the sleeve of Nahum’s coat and said, “We really have to talk about this annoying business of all the youngsters just out of the army who now want to skip working and go straight to college. Maybe at our next meeting we should vote about making it mandatory for them to work on the kibbutz for three years before they enroll at college. What do you think, Nahum?”
Nahum, still wearing his cap, said in a flat voice, “But I don’t understand how—”
David interrupted him by putting a wide hand on his shoulder and saying, “Hear me out; just give me a minute to set things straight. I’m not against higher education, as you know, and I don’t object to the younger generation getting academic degrees. On the contrary: someday every barn worker will have a Ph.D., why not? But never at the expense of the essential work that must be done in the fields and in the animal pens.”
Nahum hesitated. He was still standing in his wet, worn coat, his left arm pressed to his chest to keep the book from slipping. He finally sat down without taking off his coat or cap and without releasing his grip on the book. David Dagan said, “You probably disagree, don’t you, Nahum? Has there ever been a time all these years when you didn’t disagree with me? But we’ve always remained friends.”
Suddenly Nahum hated David Dagan’s thick, neatly trimmed mustache with its threads of gray, and his habit of interrupting and asking for just a minute to set things straight. He said, “But she’s your student.”
“Not anymore,” David said in an authoritative voice, “and in a few months, she’ll be a soldier. Come here, Edna. Please tell your father that no one has kidnapped you.”
Edna came into the room wearing brown cords and an oversize blue sweater. Her black hair was tied back with a light-colored ribbon. She carried a tray set with two cups of coffee, a sugar bowl, and a small jug of milk. She bent down, put the tray on the table, and stood a small distance from the two men, her arms hugging her shoulders as if here, too, she was cold, even though a kerosene heater burned with a clear blue flame. Nahum stole a quick glance at his daughter, then immediately shifted his eyes and blushed as if he had caught a glimpse of her half naked. She said, “There are biscuits, too.” Then, after a pause, still standing, she added in her soft, quiet voice, “Hello, Papa.”
Nahum found neither anger nor rebuke in his heart, only a sharp longing for his daughter, as if she weren’t present in the room, three steps away from him, as if she had traveled to a far-off, alien place. He said timidly and with a question mark at the end of his sentence, “I came to take you home?”
David Dagan put his hand on the nape of Edna’s neck, stroked her back, played with her hair a little, and said comfortably, “Edna is not a kettle. She’s not something you can just take and put anywhere. Right, Edna?”
She didn’t say anything. She stood there next to the heater, her arms hugging her shoulders, ignoring David Dagan’s fingers, and stared at the rain on the window.
Nahum looked at her. She seemed quiet and focused, as if she were thinking about other things. As if she had been distracted from contemplating the choice between these two men, both thirty years older than she. Or as if she had never contemplated the choice in the first place.
They heard the constant sound of the rain beating against the windowpanes and rushing along the gutters. The heater glowed with a cozy fire. Occasionally, they could hear kerosene bubbling through the inner pipes of the heater.
Why did you come here? Nahum asked himself. Did you really think you would slay the dragon and free the abducted princess? You should have stayed at home and waited until she came back. Because, really, all she did was swap a weak father figure for a strong one. And the strong figure will quickly begin to pall. She makes him coffee and takes his laundry in on Monday and returns it on Friday. She’ll probably get tired of all that. If only you hadn’t been in such a hurry to come here in this rain, if only you’d been smart enough to sit quietly at home and wait for her, sooner or later she’d have come back, either to explain herself or because the love had ended. Love is a kind of infection, possessing then releasing you.
David said, “Hang on; just give me a minute to set things straight. You and I, Nahum, have always been connected through friendship despite our disagreements about how to run the kibbutz. And now there is another strong connection between us. That’s all. Nothing bad has happened. At the general meeting, I plan to propose the idea of three years’ mandatory work before college. Obviously you won’t support me but in your heart, you know very well that I’m right on this, too. At least don’t keep me from mobilizing a majority at the meeting. Drink your coffee; it’s getting cold.”
Edna said, “Don’t go. Wait till the rain stops, Papa.” Then she said, “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine here.”
Nahum decided not to respond at all. He ignored the coffee his daughter had brought him. He regretted having come. What had he actually wanted? To vanquish love? A fleeting glint of light from the lamp reflected off his glasses. Love suddenly seemed to him to be another of life’s obstacles; when you confront it, you have to duck your head and wait until it passes. In another minute, David Dagan would probably start a conversation about the government or the advantages of rain. The rare audacity that suffering can sometimes draw from the depths of mild people lent Nahum Asherov’s hoarse voice a harsh, bitter tone. “How could you?”
He shot out of his chair and whipped out the advanced Arabic textbook from his worn coat, intending to slam it on the table hard enough to make the spoons rattle in their cups, but at the last minute he stopped and placed the book down gently as if taking care not to damage it, or the cups, or the oilcloth-covered table. As he groped his way toward the door, he turned around and saw his daughter standing there watching him with a sad expression, hugging her shoulders, and he saw his good friend sitting with his legs crossed, strong hands encircling a cup, his expression a mixture of compassion, forgiveness, and irony. Nahum thrust his head forward and strode toward the door as if he planned to butt it. Instead of slamming it when he went out, he closed it gently, as though afraid of hurting the door or the frame, pulled his cap down almost to his eyes, raised his coat collar, and walked along the wet path that led through a pine grove. His glasses instantly beaded with water. He buttoned the top of his coat and pressed his left hand against his chest as if the book were still tucked inside. And, meanwhile, outside it had grown dark.
Father
SIXTEEN-YEAR-OLD MOSHE YASHAR, tall, thin, sad, and bespectacled, went to see his teacher David Dagan at the ten o’clock break an
d asked his permission to visit his father when school was over and he’d finished work. He planned to stay overnight with relatives in Or Yehuda and get up at four thirty the next morning to catch the first bus back to the kibbutz so he could be there before school began.
David Dagan patted the boy’s shoulder and said warmly, “These visits to your relatives pull you away from us. And you’re almost one of us now.”
Moshe said, “He’s my father.”
David Dagan pondered this for a moment, nodded twice as if agreeing with himself, and asked, “So tell me, have you learned to swim yet?”
The boy, gazing down at his sandals, said that he could swim a little. His teacher said, “And stop cutting your hair so short. With that stubble on your head, you look like a refugee. It’s time you had a decent head of hair like all the other boys.”
After a brief hesitation, he added affectionately, “All right, go. But only if you come back tomorrow before the first lesson. And while you’re there, don’t forget that you’re one of us now.”
Moshe Yashar was a boarder at our kibbutz. He was brought to us by a welfare worker: his mother died when he was seven and when his father fell ill, his Uncle Sami from Givat Olga took in the children. Several years later, when his uncle also became ill, the Welfare Office decided to split the children up and send them to various kibbutzim to live and attend school. Moshe came to Kibbutz Yekhat at the beginning of the school year wearing a plain white shirt without pockets, buttoned all the way up to the neck, and a black beret. He quickly learned to walk around barefoot and dress as we did, in shorts and singlet. We signed him up for the art club and the current events group, and because he was tall and agile, he also found his way to the basketball court. But there was always something of the outsider about him: when we went on nocturnal forays to the food storeroom to scavenge treats for a sumptuous midnight feast, he never came with us. After school, when we all went to work and then to our parents’ houses for the evening, Moshe remained alone in his room, doing homework, or went to the clubhouse where, with his glasses sliding down his nose, he would read all the newspapers from beginning to end. And when we lay on the grass at night and sang nostalgic songs under the stars, he was the only one who didn’t put his head on the lap of one of the girls. At first we called him an alien and made fun of his shyness, but a few weeks after his arrival, we stopped teasing him about his foreignness, which was of a quiet, restrained kind. If someone offended him, Moshe Yashar would look the offender right in the eye. Sometimes he would say in a calm voice, “You’re insulting me.” But he bore no grudges and was always ready to help with any kind of work: carrying, moving, hanging things. He was even willing to help those who’d hurt his feelings, if they asked. After a few months, the “alien” appellation fell away and the girls began to call him Moshik. There was a unique gentleness in the way he behaved toward the girls, a gentleness in direct contrast to our gruff banter. Moshe spoke to the girls as if there were something marvelous about the mere fact that they were girls.