28
How long were they together? Five weeks, maybe six, depending on whether you counted work camp or not, time enough for Gideon and Aron to lavish the treasures of their childhood on Yaeli, the profusion of their stories and secrets and plans, and sometimes Aron worried they were sharing things before they were ready to, but he tried to persuade himself that here he could count on Gideon, on his confidence and instincts and brains, because Gideon probably knew better what was okay to tell her and what wasn’t and where to draw the limits, and Gideon told her quite a lot, almost everything, in fact. And the way he talked, you’d think it was all a big joke, that nothing was serious to him, and he kind of bragged too, at Aron’s expense sometimes; he even lied, though Aron never said a word, because he didn’t want to embarrass him.
On Thursdays they walked Yaeli to her ballet class in the Valley of the Cross and waited outside for her like bodyguards. One time Madame Nikova passed by them, diminutive and wrinkled, and stopped and turned. “Always the two of you are with her, no?” she asked in her thick Russian accent. They nodded. Madame Nikova glanced astutely from the boys to Yaeli. There was a flicker of amused approval in her eyes. Her crimson mouth assumed a smile, and Yaeli bowed her head as though feigning modesty. The old ballet mistress seemed about to say more, perhaps she was reminded of her past, but she seemed to think better of it and turned away again, and Aron had a sneaky suspicionthat such things were not unknown, that theirs was not a unique and unprecedented relationship; that the outcome was inevitable.
Later, when they walked her home, Yaeli’s mother invited them in. Yaeli had three big sisters who looked so much like her that through his half-closed lids, Aron could enjoy a vision of the mother and her daughters, Yaeli times five, like milestones over the years to come.
Yaeli’s mother was pretty. She was petite like Yaeli, smily and direct, maybe too direct at times. She walked right into Yaeli’s room and sat down cross-legged on the rug with them. And although she was a Bible teacher she talked like a young person, not like his parents. It was even a little jarring sometimes, once he heard her say “Son-of-a-bitch!” and didn’t know where to bury himself. She let Yaeli call her by her name, Atara, and they shared each other’s clothes and hugged and cuddled in front of everyone, and her cheeks turned pink, he was pleased to discover, whenever she talked about her boyfriends in the Haganah, or when she made them listen to all six sides of The Magic Flute,and hummed along with Papageno and Papagena. And her eyes glistened with a joy and a longing she didn’t even try to disguise, so Aron, who was amazed that she and his parents were the same age, wanted to ask his mother and father what they did in the days before the War of Independence, when Yaeli’s mother was out on night raids and fighting Arabs face-to-face. Gideon told Atara he really envied her and her generation for living in that glorious time, and she ruffled his hair and said, Don’t talk nonsense, she hoped to God his generation would never know anything like that glory. Aron knew Atara’s choice would strongly influence Yaeli’s, and he tried his best to show her he was worthy of her daughter, that he was reliable and neat and clean and came from a good family, but he couldn’t help feeling she didn’t like him. She seemed much fonder of Gideon, even though he put his feet up on the table and imitated different accents, things he’d never done before; he even let Atara teach him to dance the debka properly, and she pranced around the salon with him, barefoot and jubilant and young, and Aron looked down at his hands. She’s so light on her feet, he thought to himself, nothing weighs her down, and he peeked out shyly through his lashes at the dancing presence and the flashing mysteries, and his spirits flagged as he suddenly imagined Yaeli and Gideon having happy memories like this someday, because of their childhood and youth camp andschool trips and dances and even their stupid arguments, while he—what was he but a shirker like his parents. Always Aroning.
Once a week he and Gideon took Yaeli to the movies. They went halfsies on her ticket and she sat between them. After the movies they would treat her to a falafel or a shewarma, which she quickly devoured, and then they’d buy her pumpkin seeds in Bahari’s Lane, furtively peeping at the prostitutes but never saying anything. Then they’d go to Café Allenby for a frozen custard, a Creambo, and chocolate twisters; she had an alarming sweet tooth, and Aron worried about those pretty white teeth. On the bus home they always stood up so neither of them would miss the chance to sit with Yaeli. They tried their best to be fair to each other: when Gideon was sick, Aron skipped walking Yaeli home in order to keep to their three-way agreement; on Saturday nights, when the kids from Gideon’s youth group passed Yaeli’s Scout troop in the street, the two of them ignored each other, out of loyalty. Aron, who was probably in bed pretending to read just then, tortured himself with the thought that although he could trust them both wholeheartedly, Gideon and Yaeli existed together, even apart, in a world from which he was excluded. He and Gideon, when she wasn’t there, could speak of nothing but Yaeli. She filled their lives, and they carried her between them in gentle wonder. Every day she seemed to grow wiser. Wiser than either of them. They would go over and over her seemingly innocent remarks, looking for hidden meanings, discussing her taste in movie stars and pop singers; they went out and bought her a book of poems by Esther Kal, and read it aloud together before presenting it to Yaeli, and then they had a long conversation about it and felt how mature they were becoming. Every Thursday they would check her horoscope in Woman’smagazine, and peek at each other’s birth signs to find out what their love life held in store, and then they would listen to the Hit Parade on the radio and send in a postcard with Yaeli’s name on it for the big drawing, and because Yaeli had a subscription to Maariv Magazine for Youththey would read it cover to cover so they’d have something to talk about, and spend more time together, more and more and more.
But there was one thing marring Aron’s happiness: the bickering and arguing between Gideon and Yaeli. They drove each other crazy, those two, and God only knows what might have happened if Aron hadn’tbeen around to smooth things over with his silences and serious demeanor. Anything Yaeli said about public issues would set Gideon off, and his promises to Aron were promptly forgotten when she answered his orations with some smiling, skeptical remark. Even on Gideon’s birthday, when they went to Cafe Nava, they got into an argument. It started—who cares how it started, there was always some reason—Gideon said something about musicals, that they were stupid and superficial, and it was disgraceful the way they were starting to catch on in Israel, and Yaeli said she thought they were fantastic, that she’d give anything to dance in a musical someday with costumes and scenery and a huge cast, and when they’d finished exasperating each other, they fumed in silence, looking off in opposite directions, and then flared up again so suddenly Aron hardly noticed, till he heard Gideon say that school uniforms give youth a healthy sense of group identity and Yaeli stuck her tongue out: pffff!she made an offensive noise, that goody-goody outfit made her feel like a prisoner, and Aron stopped listening, bored with them, and looked up at the gray-blue sky, the evening sky of Jerusalem, as he waited patiently for the quarrel to subside, and tried to think of a special way to celebrate Yaeli’s birthday two weeks from now, she and Gideon were the same sun sign, and next winter all three of them would celebrate his birthday, and he stirred the tall glass before him, annoyed with Gideon for ordering filter coffee; Gideon didn’t like coffee, how could anyone like coffee or beer or cigarettes, no one in the world could stand the taste, it was all an act, he would never pretend for them, not even when he was eighty, so why did Yaeli have to order grain coffee, and he woke up to the sound of tempers flaring. “I personally wouldn’t use makeup,” Yaeli chafed. “But if an unattractive girl wants to help nature out and make herself look good, I say why not.” “By painting her face?!” Gideon exclaimed, turning white and sitting forward, his eyes glaring green and his voice aquiver. “Nobody will be able to scrape it off and get to the real girl underneath!” “I take it you speak from personal ex
perience, Gideon?” Silence. Aron guessed he’d better say something quick to clear the air and pry Gideon’s face away from Yaeli’s, but something was wrong, there were muddy-green whirlpools in her eyes, and Gideon’s eyes were so deep inside them, so fixed and smoldering, the waves of fury receded and the strange muddy green gave way to an eerie catlike gleam; Aron was bewildered, he didn’t know how to conciliate them, for though it seemed to him thathe had listened to their every word, as usual he was left out or, rather, he had sunk into a cherished memory, a familiar memory, yes, about how he felt when Yaeli emerged like a butterfly at ballet class, because by falling in love with someone you save them from death in a way, not to mention yourself. “So what do you say, Kleinfeld, can we hear your opinion on the subject?” asked Yaeli, tearing her face from Gideon’s with cool impatience in her voice. “Would you like to share your thoughts with us now, or go on stirring your milk shake like a loon?”
He stopped abruptly and stared at his still fluttering fingers. Then he glanced at Yaeli with a helpless grin. Her face before him, her beautiful angry face; the defiant cast of her nose making her look almost predatory. And her eyes had never shone so fiercely green before, where did she get that green, and Aron gazed into them, trying to understand, to correct an error, diving and vanishing into himself and reemerging with unexpected vigor, with a life-or-death intensity, in a torrent of words and declarations. “I want to decide at what age I’ll die! I want to die when I reach thirty! On my thirtieth birthday! While I’m still young and strong, before old age sets in!” Shut up, will you shut up already, you’re making a big mistake, look at the expressions on their faces. “I want to commit suicide! When I hit my peak! I mean it, that way you can be happy, because you always know the end is coming, so you live your life to the fullest, you’re never bored, you never waste time …” His voice was fading. He mumbled, turning pale. Why didn’t I shut up. A hollow silence followed, people at nearby tables stared, all around his error loomed, his social gaffe, his breach of the rules of conversation, of the boundaries separating him from others. Shame and humiliation filled his heart, for his self-betrayal, for having divulged something unacceptable. “Kleinfeld the philosopher,” said Gideon, with a quick glance at the surrounding tables, and the three of them laughed a little too much, and Aron thought all was lost, all was illusion, he was not redeemed, not yet redeemed. Unconsciously he wound his fingers tightly around his wrist and began to squeeze, counting in silence, but he shook himself out of it. Enough of that! No more! Yet something had shifted in the distant darkness, stirred as if under the sea.
As Yaeli’s thirteenth birthday approached, Aron came up with a brilliant idea—they would bake a huge sweet challah in her likeness. Gideon was ecstatic and called it the most dynamite Ari plan ever. Aron treasured these words in the round little place that was like a miniatureplanet earth inside him, where he could be really happy sometimes at night watching a misty apparition with peach-colored cheeks and almond eyes take on life and substance, but mum’s the word.
They went to Aron’s father and asked him to help them bake the challah, telling him only that it was for a girl in their class. They didn’t mention her name. Papa chuckled and gave Aron an affectionate slap on the shoulder, you could see he was pleased, and he said, “Never fear, Moshe’s here,” and that they did right to come to him, with his experience, twelve years at Angel’s bakery; he hadn’t always been a pencil pusher at union headquarters, no sirree; up until the accident, he had an honest job, breaking his back under the flour sacks and sweating like a demon on the night shift.
And so, for two feverish, flour-dappled hours, they commandeered the kitchen and went to work. Papa whistled while he stirred in the flour, eggs, margarine, and water, and then he showed them how to knead and roll the dough till it rose. As usual, he overdid the quantities, and squishy balls of cloven dough lay scattered around the kitchen table. Then he greased the baking pan with margarine, reveling in the movement of his hands, while the two boys shaped Yaeli’s face, her healthy cheeks, the defiant nose, and the smile of amusement on her lips, the lower one pouting slightly—oh, that willful mouth—and then they stuck in two almonds for her eyes, and Aron studied them, shook his head, slanted them a little more, and smiled: there she was, Yaeli, looking up at them, a veritable replica of herself.
Then they shaped her slender neck. Aron felt sweet all over as he rolled it between his palms, so fragile, too fragile to bear such happiness. At times like this, when he could feel his soul grow deep and wide, he was sure that soon, very soon, the depth and width of it would be all-pervading. His love empowered him, even when it hurt; and his gift for loving was equal to anyone’s: no one could hide this sky from him. Papa chuckled and said maybe it was time to steer the tanks around and head south to the interesting places, and Aron, who never lacked for inspired ideas but was often weak on execution, began having second thoughts.
Papa ignored his hesitation. He asked if the little lady had titties yet, and were they shaped like this or like this? Or maybe like this? He squeezed the puffy balls of dough: Like this? Like pears? Like grapefruits? Huh? Whuh? Spreading his fingers he dug into the dough, hisface glistening with perspiration. Aron buried his eyes in the table, and Papa said playfully, “Don’t tell me you fellas are blushing, huh? You know, if you wanna make a statue you gotta do it right. A la naturel!”Gideon blurted out that she didn’t, well not yet anyway, and Papa shrugged and said, “Flatfooted, huh?” And smacked the balls of dough with his open palm. “Never mind,” he said consolingly, pinching out a pair of sweet childish nipples. “They’ll grow. Even Sophia Loren was flat as a board once.” They continued in silence. Aron made one arm and Gideon the other. Aron formed the tender wrist and was almost tempted to lick it into shape. Now and then his eyes darted to the two flat patties of dough on the table. Papa took the arms from him and Gideon, and joined them precisely to the body. He used a knife to smooth the shoulders and examined his handiwork with satisfaction, and Aron remembered the old days, before Mama turned Papa into a clerk with tenure and a pension plan, when he used to get up at 2 a.m. to go to work. Aron, aged four or five, would slip into Papa’s place in the double bed beside Mama; Yochi, her eyes still closed, would curl up in Aron’s bed, with its thicker, softer mattress; Grandma would stumble out of her alcove, looking small and bewildered, and sleepwalk over to Yochi’s warm, empty bed, where she would nestle, sucking her thumb till she fell asleep again. Papa would stand in the doorway in his overalls, watching the rustling traffic of quilts and nightgowns, holding the cold door handle, refusing to be torn away. Will you go already, thought Aron before the door closed behind Papa, pressing himself into the hollow he’d left in the bed, cuddling up to his softly moaning mother, who drowsily offered her warm behind while he—a fervent Jacob—stole Esau’s blessing from his blind father, Isaac, with a twinge in his heart, snuggling closer as the hushed “Gooodbye” sounded forlornly from the hall—let him please just leave—and an icy draft made them shiver in their beds.
The kitchen, with the door shut to keep out his indignant mama, was filling up with steam. Aron modeled Yaeli’s leg in dough, compassionately forming the still-childish knee, then sliding down to work on the ankle till it was trim and shapely. When he caught a glimpse of Gideon scrutinizing him, he quickly changed expression. Papa took Yaeli’s legs from them and laughed: the contrast was so striking! “You like ‘em zaftig, huh”—he elbowed Gideon—“with lots of meat on ’em, huh? Wuh? Something to grab!” But Aron wasn’t listening. He noticed thatGideon had forgotten the space between her toes. Gideon didn’t love her like he did, he reflected, he wasn’t committed to her all the way.
“We finish her tuchis and we’re through,” said Papa, turning to the oven.
Aron peered at Gideon and both of them blushed. Then, in unison, so neither would be first, they picked up the remaining balls of dough and started shaping them. Aron could almost feel it arching under his fingers. Gideon worked intently, his eyes a little b
lurred. Aron molded an apple-shaped buttock and placed it on the table. Gideon set his creation down beside it and Papa laughed again. “You wanna tell me these are from the same girl?”
Then he said, “Now, close your eyes. From here on in, it’s adults only.” He laid the buttocks in the well-greased pan, joining them at the hips. Then, leaning forward over the froglike limbs, he gravely cut a slit between them with the horny curve of his yellow fingernail.
“Schoin, gemacht! Now we cover her up good so nothing shows!” And he sprinkled sesame and raisins all over like a farmer sowing seed.
Then, with a he-man swagger, Papa shoved the sweet challah into the oven, and before long, the fresh, intoxicating fragrance of baking challah filled the air.
29
“So what say, Aronchik, do we start sewing a wedding suit?”
At supper they teased him. Papa joked about seeing him down by the rock with Yaeli and Gideon, and Mama said someone reported spotting the three of them at the movies. They were positively glowing: the dreary gray curse of recent events seemed to have suddenly lifted. Papa poked his face into Aron’s and inquired, amid howls of laughter, what the lady’s father did for a living, and Mama reflected that Yaeli’s family name—Kedmi—sounded, eppes, like it might have been changed to cover up what it was before. She interrogated him closely about their house: when did they last redecorate, how big was their refrigerator, and was Yaeli’s mother the same Kedmi who bought an expensive wig from America, because, you know, she hastened to explain, her eyes shining, sometimes a woman wants a wig to make the neighbors jealous, but sometimes it’s to hide her baldness, which may run in the family; she pursed her lips self-righteously. “Nu, enough already, Mamaleh,” chided Papa. “It’s a little early to talk about hair and balding, I think, but how’s about inviting your girlie home to meet us, Aronchik, so we can take a good long look at her.”