Touch the Water, Touch the Wind Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

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  About the Author

  Copyright © 1973 by Amos Oz

  English translation copyright © 1974 by Harcourt Brace & Company

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

  www.hmhco.com

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Oz, Amos.

  Touch the water, touch the wind.

  "A Helen and Kurt Wolff book."

  Translation of La-ga'at ba-mayim, la-ga'at ba-ruah.

  I. Title.

  PZ4.0989To [PJ5054] 892.4'3'6 74-12178

  ISBN 0-15-690772-0 ISBN 13: 978-0-15-690772-9

  eISBN 978-0-547-56396-1

  v2.1213

  1

  Poland. Early winter. 1939.

  A Jewish schoolmaster by the name of Pomeranz had fled from the Germans and gone into hiding in the forest. He was a short man with tiny eyes and thick, vicious jaws. He looked like a spy in an American comedy.

  He was a teacher of mathematics and physics in the Mickie-wicz National Gymnasium in the town of M——. His spare hours were given over to some kind of theoretical research; the secrets of Nature aroused a powerful passion in him. Rumor had it that he was on the verge of producing a discovery in the field of electricity or magnetism. And above his upper lip he lovingly cultivated a thin, nervous mustache.

  At first Pomeranz hid in the depths of the forest in a deserted hut which had belonged to a woodcutter named Dziobak Przywolski. This Przywolski had been killed the previous spring by the peasants. They had chopped him to death with an ax because he always walked about the forest wearing an orange pointed hat and red boots, casually performed small wonders in front of the villagers, and claimed to have been born of a virgin. Among other things he had the power of healing an aching tooth by means of spells, of seducing a young peasant girl with the help of liturgical chants, of rousing the shepherd dogs to mad barking and then calming them down with a wave of the hand, and of levitating slightly at night, if only the wind was right. He was also in the habit of belching, and of stealing chickens left and right.

  One Good Friday the woodcutter boasted to the peasants that if they hit him with all their might with his ax the ax would break. So they hit him, and the ax did not break.

  Pomeranz sat alone in the abandoned hut, contemplating the gradual disintegration of the roof beams, listening with strained ears to the restlessness of the forest at night, to the savage wind lashing the cowering treetops, to the whispering sadness of leaves.

  He was left to himself day and night. He thought about many different things.

  Far off down the forest slopes, where the undergrowth lapped at the river, German engineers dynamited all the railway bridges. Because of the murky distance and the thick moist air there was a delay, a hesitation almost, between the flash of each explosion and the low rumble of thunder. This delay, momentary though it was, gave an almost comical appearance to the whole spectacle, so that Pomeranz in his hide out was assailed by doubts. And, indeed, a few days later, on receipt of fresh orders, the same engineers reappeared, in the grip of a feverish enthusiasm, and began measuring the river and furiously rebuilding everything as it had been before; they stretched steel cables, planted concrete piles, erected a pair of twin prefabricated bridges, and restored everything to its former state.

  But once again the distance and the autumn light bestowed an unreal, almost absurd, character on the frantic activity at the foot of the slope: tiny human figures, voices losing themselves among the hills, and the patient gray skyline. Time and again at evening melancholy forces landed and overran the forests and hills with dull, murky darkness.

  Bread and water were provided him by an old sorceress from the village.

  Terrified peasants would approach on tiptoe, occasionally depositing a roast goose at a safe distance from the hut, and vanishing instantly into the bosom of the forest. Dziobak Przywolski, the belching son of a virgin, had warned them in advance that he would soon return in another guise.

  Or perhaps there were no peasants and no sorceress, and no roast geese, but Pomeranz lived there in a state of pure spirit, lacking all physical needs.

  2

  Stefa Pomeranz did not go into hiding in the forest with her husband, but stayed behind in her home in the town of—. She taught German thought in the same Mickiewicz Gymnasium, and even maintained a postal and telepathic correspondence with Martin Heidegger, the famous philosopher.

  She was not in the last apprehensive of the Germans. In the first place, she abhorred wars, et cetera, and had no faith in them. Secondly, from the racial point of view she was only Jewish up to a point, and in outlook she was a devoted European. Moreover, she was a fully paid-up member of the Goethe Society.

  Stefa stayed alone all day long in her artistically furnished little apartment, where she spent a few hours each day preparing the latest studies of Professor Zaicek for publication. Outside, disturbing things happened: Pomeranz ran away, Poland collapsed, German planes bombed the factories to the south, the railway repair sheds, and the army barracks, armored cars streamed down Jaroslaw Avenue all night, at dawn flags were changed, and Stefa closed every single shutter in the house in disgust, and the windows too.

  Long and lean on the sideboard in her study stood an African warrior carved in wood and covered in war paint. The warrior seemed poised to spring at a dainty pink nude girl in a Matisse painting on the wall opposite, threatening her night and day with his huge fierce manhood.

  Two ancient Siamese cats, Chopin and Schopenhauer, kept Stefa company. They slept curled up together on the rug in front of the open fire, filling the apartment with calm and tenderness. Sometimes Stefa thought she heard Pomeranz's slippered footsteps in the hall and his low cough, and once in the early hours of the morning her name was distinctly whispered. Here were his shaving things, here was his dressing gown, a smell of tobacco, a reminder of his silence. Everywhere there reigned an aggressive, uncompromising cleanness, shining kitchen and gleaming bathroom, tidy shelves and sparkling chandeliers. Stefa stayed alone all these days, behind her closed shutters. Gradually the apartment filled with a faint smell of perfume. From the picture rail, high above the piano and the many vases of flowers, a menacing bear's head stared down glassy-eyed at the sleeping Siamese cats.

  The be
ar's expression was one of patient irony, verging on ultimate tranquillity.

  Stefa was a beautiful, proud woman. From her youth on, all the local intelligentsia had wooed her with ideas and literature. Such an intelligent, artistic young lady, they had said, and now in a fit of caprice she suddenly gives herself to the dreamy son of a simple watchmaker. Such whims, they said, always die away as quickly as they are born. And the very name Pomeranz is absurdly incongruous for Stefa.

  And indeed, when the Germans began to surround the town of M——, the dreamy son of a watchmaker fled alone to the forest, abandoning Stefa to her admirers, the local intelligentsia.

  She hoped that he would succeed in surviving the present events and that she would see him again someday. She did not want to call her feelings by one name or another, but she sighed for him and had great faith in his powers.

  Night by night the German guards made shooting sounds in the distance. The electricity was subject to frequent interruptions. The tradesmen became noticeably slacker. The dustman and postman neglected their duties. The drunken gardener, who was nicknamed by everybody "Run-Jesus," suddenly without asking permission took to living in the woodshed at the bottom of the garden, insolence and a secret menace flashing in his eyes. He grinned, flattered, spoke a lot, came and went as he pleased. And the maid, Martha Pinchme-not, as suddenly abandoned poor Professor Zaicek, in whose house she had worked for the past seven years. She was criticized by everyone, and there were those who saw in her move a bad omen for the future. Professor Zaicek, the pride of the city, was an elderly widowed scholar, whose name was well known all over Europe. He possessed a Karl Marx face deeply scored by suffering and wisdom.

  The military governor of the town, a certain Baron Joachim von Topf, issued an edict: the army was compelled to requisition the Gymnasium buildings. For the time being all classes were canceled. The Baron saw fit to append to the edict a word of apology to the citizens: the hardships of wartime would soon be over, and before long a new order would be established.

  But the difficulties increased. The streetcars stopped running, prices soared, and the ancient belfry of St. Stephen's Church—an architectural gem in Florentine style—was damaged by a stray bomb. Nightly the sound of bricks was heard clattering in the ruined church. Sometimes the falling bricks struck the bell at night, giving rise to numerous superstitious rumors. Even in the circles of the Catholic intelligentsia the view was expressed that everything was possible.

  Various people, including some eminent citizens, abandoned the city. In the middle of Jaroslaw Avenue stood a burned-out streetcar, and a chestnut tree lay uprooted for several weeks. Professor Zaicek several times complained to intimate friends of an acute inflammation of the bladder. Grim and even wild rumors spread: women in the marketplace said that poor Jews, or priests, or perhaps only consumptives, were being transferred elsewhere by the authorities. The rumors were virtually impossible to trace, verify, or substantiate. In back alleys petty speculators proliferated nauseatingly. Even the library was temporarily closed.

  Stefa was smitten by a secret disappointment. The war, for all its horrors and its vulgarity, had offered a certain possibility of rejuvenating Europe, of refreshing worn-out ideas, and of being a participating observer of a mighty historical event, but in fact on all sides there was nothing but drabness and pettiness. One night some drunken soldiers smashed the historic stained-glass windows of the Concert Hall. The statue of Adam Mickiewicz was defaced with a thin mustache which bore a remarkable resemblance to that of the vanished teacher of physics and mathematics; unruly soldiers, or schoolboys who had run riot in the night. On the corner of Magdalen Lane a Swabian corporal addressed Stefa in such illiterate German that she was appalled. Suddenly it dawned: time was running out. Stefa had never been very strong; she suffered from migraines in the morning.

  Worst of all, postal communications with the outside world were rapidly deteriorating. The old stamps were withdrawn from circulation. Pianos were requisitioned from several houses. The new order tarried in coming. Over all, with sly tranquillity, the bear's glass eyes looked down. And from the grocers' shops Portuguese sardines vanished as if they had never existed.

  3

  Early in 1940, with the first breaths of a bizarrely out-of-place spring, Pomeranz sallied forth from the hut in which he had hidden all through the winter and began to move from place to place. He assumed by turns the various garbs of herdsman and railwayman, peasant and priest. Gently, pensively, he glided south, southwest, and south again, a slow, almost bashful caressing movement across the dense forests. When the hunt was near he hid all day in barns on the outskirts of Godforsaken villages. At the onset of dusk he would leave his hiding-place and stand lean and erect in the darkness until he was cloaked in night, and then he would play softly on a mouth organ. The Polish air was instantly saturated with music. Pomeranz pawed the muddy ground, gathered an inner momentum, belched, sweated, leaned his elbows on the music he had discharged round about him, flailed with his arms, struggled and pulled, got the wind behind him, and finally uttered a soft grunt and wrenched himself free from the grip of gravity.

  He rose and floated on the dark air, his body slack after the effort, borne high and silent over woods and meadows, over churches, huts, and fields.

  So he overcame all the obstacles in his way.

  He had once learned, perhaps from his wife, that time is subjective, an affection of the mind. And so he had a low opinion of it.

  Even material objects, if you plumb their depths, are no more than vague images. In brief: ideas cannot be perceived, and perceptible objects can never be grasped by thought.

  Ergo, nothing exists.

  Germans, forests, huts, ghosts, wolves, dawn-stench of villages, haystacks, vampires, muddy streams, snowy expanses, all seemed to him a clumsy, ephemeral convergence of abstract energies. Even his own body appeared to him to be a willful tide of transient energy.

  As he passed his frostbitten fingers across his brow he suddenly seemed to touch a star. Or as he clasped his frozen legs together in the snow in the forest at night he seemed to be struggling to reconcile two opposing ideas. He learned to devour whole marrows and pumpkins and follow them with raw mushrooms.

  Yet he spared the music, and for the time being refrained from reducing it to its mathematical structure. He was saving this possibility for a moment of despair, a last resort, an ultimate weapon. In the same way he dispelled the memory of his wife and his home: longing was a poisoned snare, a lethal dart. Throughout his journey he kept in his pocket a little mouth organ. He could rise in the air, soar high into the night, even discard his body, by means of a change of tune. And into his worn red boots he stuffed sackcloth against the biting cold.

  Solitude and wandering trained this educated Jew to eat raw potatoes, to quench his thirst with handfuls of snow, to mislead the noses of old wolves, to plant his footprints backward in the snow to baffle all pursuit. He had the power of feeling his way, using his thoughts like radar beams, through the tangled network of forest paths. So he eluded the German guards and bands of partisans, avoided minefields and trip wires, made his circuitous way along the valleys among hostile villages, untouched by foxes, vampires, or villagers with axes. And in his tattered sleeve he carried a grubby certificate of baptism in the name of Dziobak Przywolski, son of Mary.

  If suffering got the better of him, he would forget his pride and emerge at dusk from the forest darkness, aided by the long shadows and deceptive twilight, scare a solitary peasant woman and plunder a goose or some eggs or a woolen kerchief. These forest regions, cursed by damp and darkness, were unloving and unloved. Closing in on all sides, offering no escape. So he passed on from darkness to darkness as if he too were cloaked in darkness.

  4

  Days and nights passed, and his foot became painfully inflamed. Melancholy overcame him, or perhaps for a moment he was carried away by longing. In one of the caves he lost his seven-league boots, or his hood of invisibility fell apart. In sh
ort, the music died away and the dreamy son of a watchmaker grew weaker and weaker until he was captured by a German patrol.

  A lame, rotund major with rimless spectacles took the certificate of baptism from the prisoner and studied it so thoroughly that the writing grew faint. Then he raised a single, narrow eyebrow and ordered the short Son of Mary to be taken to the cells: the brow, the vicious eyes, the heavy jaws, his smell, and that insolent mustache, the expression of a spy in a comic film, and on top of it all the torn robe of an itinerant priest, everything about him was obviously suspicious. Furthermore, the boredom and the fleas were playing havoc with the major and his men.

  The cell was nothing more than the filthy cellar of an abandoned monastery or seminary: crosses and obscene drawings covered the walls. And the cold was piercing and tormenting.

  Pomeranz suddenly recalled a conversation which had taken place years before. Stefa had taken him to the Philosophical Soirée of the Goethe Society. The intelligentsia of the town of M——were involved in a discussion of political vis-à-vis metaphysical wrong. Bright, bespectacled young men, all of them thin, gazed covertly at Stefa's legs, then at her plain, silent husband, and back again at her long-lashed eyes. Dream-stricken Stefa. When the first exchange of witticisms had died down, Professor Zaicek spoke about conflicting ideas and their universal tendency to circularity. His Karl Marx face silently radiated, as always, an agonized wisdom, and his voice when he spoke was tender and tired. Eventually they drank tea and nibbled cakes, and in the small hours of the morning they beguiled Stefa into playing some sad études, while they all gazed at her waist with moist eyes.

  In the afternoon Pomeranz was brought up out of the cellar and interrogated tediously and offhandedly: where, when, why, what he had seen, about the potato crop in the Poznan region and the fish in the Vistula. In the middle of the interrogation they lost interest in him; three corporals came into the room and some others arrived and they started to play cards and left Dziobak Przywolski alone till the telephone was mended or Reutenberg came and decided or something.