Touch the Water, Touch the Wind Read online

  That nothing exists and nothing has ever existed. Neither he nor his equations and discoveries and signs, our after-dinner discussions, neither my son nor I myself, neither this hand nor the words it is writing. Nothing whatsoever. A dancing bear. A laughing fox. Nothing.

  I, Ernst Cohen, at this moment, tonight, on the point of concluding this my last observation, hereby testify: here and now, with my very ears, I can hear the stars singing. There is no possible answer to the question, Is this in itself a sufficient proof that the stars are singing.

  I may add that if I tried to grasp the melody, to repeat it, to reproduce it—there is no doubt that I should sing it out of tune.

  Furthermore, it is late. And the night is cold.

  42

  Whenever Elisha Pomeranz recalled his wife, he could not remember her voice, but he could almost see her hair, the line of her neck and the curve of her shoulder, her gentle, dreamy fingers. And as from a great distance he could see the late afternoon light slowly fading around the belfry of St. Stephen's Church, and the street lights coming on one by one along Jaroslaw Avenue, hesitantly, wrapped in a yellow haze, as though reluctant to mar the color of the night. And the endless forests around the town of M——, in which there were quiet, decent things which a man could look for all his life and never find: bushes, stones, huts, squirrels, wild flowers, unbelievable wild flowers. There were foxes and hedgehogs, the song of the night breeze, the breath of empty paths.

  He saw Stefa, slender and noble, silhouetted against the parapet of the bridge at night, smoking, facing toward the water the darkness the invisible forests, her back toward him. He himself standing apart a few paces behind her, not addressing her, not reminding her of his presence, not reminding her of the passing time, standing humbly, thoughtfully, almost desperately, he too smoking quietly. And just beneath their feet the river and the bridge, making no concession or allowance, ceaselessly flowing in two conflicting directions. The two crossed streams were love.

  Stefa came home to the hills of Galilee on the morning of the day that Ernst died. The same morning, almost at the same time, Yotam too appeared, hurrying back from Argentina to take his leave of his father. Dying parents, Yotam thought, exercise a power over you that they have never had before. And when your father dies you will pick him up and carry him inside you all your life like an unborn child or a malignant growth, he will accompany you through all your rebellions, he will never again be angry or punish you but only laugh quietly inside you. All your life.

  Naturally, Audrey too arrived in time: along with Jeff and Sandy and guitars, here as a volunteer, to work in the fields and in the evening to dream in the wood and at night make love. Audrey bronzed by the Red Sea sun, flashing revolutionary sparks, calling everything in the world by a new and more fitting name.

  The day of Ernst's death was hot and sunny. Early summer, harsh merciless light, angry yellow stubblefields, the harvest almost over, three black crows seemingly nailed to the sewing-room roof. And the radio brought the grim news of concentrations of enemy troops on all four borders.

  People furiously exchanged opinions and speculations. Interpreted the signs. Seized on circumstantial clues. Voiced desperate hopes.

  Ernst had been sent home from the hospital the previous afternoon because instructions had been issued to discharge civilian patients, because his illness was incurable, and because Ernst himself had insisted on going home.

  On account of the stifling heat his bed had been brought out onto the porch, and there the Secretary lay with his eyes open. He made a simple calculation and discovered that he had lived some twenty thousand days. He realized that for half this time, absurdly, he had tried to squander time, to speed it up, to leave the first ten thousand days behind him, so as to reach the point where exciting things start happening as soon as possible. He had resented the irritating slowness of those first days. Whereas in the second half, in the last ten thousand days, he had subsided gradually into regret at the passing of all that had gone before: places, sounds, faces, smells, broken-down doors, paths he had never trodden, paths he would never tread again, nostalgia, yearnings, longings whose pain could only be driven away with other longings, he had become an addict, a slave, and the days in the second half had flashed past with vindictive, almost comic, speed. Like tiny figures in a silent film. And then this will-o'-the-wisp had appeared at the last moment, the peace of the mighty silent elements, the stars, the sea, the wind, the sands, darkness, music. Was there or was there not any substance in all this mirage. The powers of sober reflection which you have nurtured and trained for years and years abandon you now when you need them as you have never needed them before. Or perhaps they too were merely hidden traitors, making fun of you, pulling faces behind your back, fiends in disguise, demons and hobgoblins.

  Ernsts features suddenly regained their long-lost expression of surprise and disappointment, the left eyebrow raised in discreet irony and veiled rebuke, "How could you have done such a thing."

  There are various conflicting accounts of Ernst's death. Not long afterward war broke out, everything changed, minor matters were swept aside. According to one version, Ernst himself apparently decided to spare himself several days of agony and either took—or was given by his two mistresses acting on his instructions—an overdose of the morphine which had been prescribed to relieve his pain. And died within the hour. Others maintained the contrary, that he refused even to take the drugs which were essential to keep him alive for another week or two, that he terrorized the two women, dashed the medicine in their faces, threw the pills on the ground, and would not answer their questions with so much as a nod.

  Whatever the truth of the matter, Ernst lay on his bed on the porch with the Lebanon Mountains behind him and the Syrian Heights to his left, and beyond the heights the legendary city of Damascus: its rivers Abana and Pharpar, myrrh and frankincense on the hidden side of the trenched and fortified hills. Ernst's two aged mistresses, little Vera, all shriveled yet almost violently energetic, and tall, stooping Sara, with her thinning hair and her skill in making weird ceramic animals, sat with him all the time, almost day and night.

  Occasionally one or other of them would take a damp handkerchief and soothe Ernst's gray hair, his temples, his mouth which still formed single carefully chosen words which pierced Yotam like nails as he sat nearby on a stool saying nothing and silently hating his own love for his dying father.

  Sometimes Vera and Sara would get up nervously in unison and patrol the concrete path angrily together as far as the corner of the house and back again to the porch and the invalid's bedside. If Sara served Yotam a glass of tea, Vera would hasten to stroke his short-cropped hair. If Vera put a cushion behind his head, Sara wiped the perspiration from his forehead with the same damp handkerchief she had used to cool his father's brow. And whenever in an incautious moment the two women's eyes met, such meetings were always as brief as they could possibly be.

  There is always a sense of something out of place in the death of a veteran pioneer in a well-organized, well-to-do kibbutz: as if some rule has been broken, the authority of one of the committees flouted, a discordant misdemeanor committed, the principle of seniority challenged, or even an enlightened ideal infringed. Something out of place, something that cannot be passed over in silence, or perhaps, on the contrary, something that cannot be mentioned at all, in case the general equilibrium is disturbed, or a dangerous precedent set.

  And so a sensible, reasonable man, a broad-shouldered man, a man possessed of an excellent sense of proportion and clearheadedness which have never abandoned him even in times of crisis, such a man writhes in sweat and agony under a sheet on his bed on his porch in broad daylight, utters a jumble of names, dates, and places, for some reason passes complicated comments on subjects of which he knows nothing, such as the Caribbean Sea or Eights of cranes in autumn in another country, reaches out to clasp his thin son Yotam in his big tortured arms, tries to remember the name of an old book, the name of a Czech n
urse, and cannot; his heavy body swelling with rage, he utters a vague protest, gurgles, pushes away something that no one else can see, throws a faint sentence to Yotam in his native tongue, lets out a slight sob or belch, beats his brow with a blind fist, and is gone.

  43

  Ernst died at ten past four in the afternoon. A little earlier, toward the end of the morning, Stefa arrived at the kibbutz. She was wearing a summer frock with an abstract pattern of green lines. She was driven by the man with bat's ears. He leapt out and opened the car door for her with a waiter's alacrity and comically broad gestures; then he took her arm lighdy and told his handsome young men to walk ahead and point out any steps or obstacles in their way, and so, as if to the accompaniment of a cheap bold march tune, the little procession wended its way toward Elisha Pomeranz's room.

  Twenty-five paces from the door of the house all the men halted. Brimming with tact, their tense stance displaying their deep consideration and respect, they left Stefa to cover the final stage of her journey alone and undistracted. How pale she looked. Even her lips were white. She went inside and the door closed behind her.

  The fair-haired young men would remain for a while; they had orders to survey the locality, or perhaps to count the mountains and hills and compile an index of valleys until the receipt of further instructions. As for their master, he weighed anchor and was away, a little man with monstrous ears in a big wide car. He hummed some Jewish ya-ba-bam to himself, thumped the steering-wheel a couple of times, and pondered for a while a serious tactical error of Rabbi Jacob Emden, and Rabbi Jonathan Eibeschutz's failure, to his dying day, to exploit his opponent's blunder. For once the little man did not say much, even to himself. All he said was: Nature reigns supreme on mountain, vale, and stream. Gematcht. Geendikt.

  44

  Powerful pent-up forces were accumulating hour by hour. War was brewing. A tense heat filled the air. A panting. A strange stillness. The sun-scorched corrugated-iron roofs radiated a white-hot hatred. A belated spring blazed over the hills and plains. Not a bird was to be seen. The unharvested corn rustled drily as if sensing smoke. No dark forests here, Stefa, to flee to. Only white light. No abandoned huts to hide in, no last-minute chance to found a Goethe Society. Everything is enclosed. Everything is open and dazzling. Another war, but no water, no darkness. Run-Jesus. Its just as the Ruthenian doctor foretold, and his one-armed organist friend. They foresaw it all.

  The harvest was halted. Even the weeding of the cotton fields ceased, because all the young reservists had to rejoin their units. The older women cleaned out the air-raid shelters and picked flowers for wreaths for Ernst's funeral, which was to take place the next day. Elderly members, some of them shrivel-skulled like the ancient revolutionaries who ravished Stefa in Krasnoyarsk, others heavy-jawed and stubborn, their gnarled features expressing an almost prophetic rage, were summoned for emergency tasks. They pushed loaded handcarts from place to place, sorted cans of food, distributed candles and paraffin lamps, made up packages of cookies, filled water containers.

  Even Ernst's two mistresses, despite their bereavement, were put to work crisscrossing windows with strips of gummed paper. Young Yotam, confused and frantic, volunteered to help dig pits and trenches. He was in a turmoil of indecision, because he could not come to terms with war, with the digging, with his father's death, with beef-canning; his whole life suddenly struck him as hopelessly confused and contradictory. Furthermore, the spadework was too much for him. His hands developed painful blisters, and when the blisters burst, and the salt sweat trickled into the open sores, and the dust, and the filth, the pain was severe and Yotam bit his lip and fought back a tear. On the other hand, he was happy and proud to show his father how he could bear hardship and how far he had dug. His father laughed soundlessly and his teeth showed big and white and amazingly strong. The son redoubled his efforts, began to dig hysterically, scattered soil in all directions, attacked the hard earth with his spade in a blind rage, with rapid ineffectual strokes, flailing like a drowning man. Before long he had hit his own foot, bled a little, and calmed down. His wound was dressed, and he was sent to sit down in the shade of the trees. There he encountered Audrey, who was preparing first-aid kits and rolling bandages. He introduced himself, spoke, received an answer. Audrey changed his dressing and agreed with everything he said. The hours flew by, she was ready to dry his sweat with her hair; and he took her by the shoulders and raised her to her feet.

  Since Yehuda Yatom's son Shaulik had been mobilized to command his tank unit, it was necessary to put Pomeranz in sole charge of the sheep. There was a knock on his door at six o'clock in the evening. His guest accompanied him to the sheep pens and it was after dark when they made their way back to the dining hall.

  Supper was eaten by the light of paraffin lamps, because the electricity supply was cut off. Those of the older members who were not away in the army or on special guard duty on the perimeter, together with the women and children, discussed over their meal the developments that might be expected. There were some who held that the moment of crisis had already been reached and that from now on there would be a gradual relaxation of tension. Some refused to believe that the outside world would stand aloof from the course of events. Others analyzed the news and interpreted the signs. And still others maintained that the worst was still to come.

  Many of those who were silent were not listening to the discussions but were thinking of Ernst lying all alone in a black-draped coffin set on four chairs on the large veranda of the recreation hall. Thanks to the power cut the coffin now lay in total darkness. And the easterly breeze brought the sounds and smells of the night to ruffle the shroud and perhaps even remove it to examine the wood and the slight gaps between the boards. These forces, everyone knew, were not friendly; they were not on our side.

  There were a few who openly pronounced Ernst's name, and wondered what he would have said this evening, in the light of the new situation. It was not easy to get used to Ernst's death. There were even some who could not touch their food. They simply drank tea.

  After the meal they all returned to the various tasks they had undertaken. Pomeranz and his guest were requested to work through the night in the stores. There was not a soul, elderly invalids and nursing mothers included, who did not volunteer for special duties. And when there were no more jobs left to be done and the night was so deep that even the silhouettes of the mountains to the east were swallowed up in the darkness, they all began frantically cleaning. There were no further preparations to be made, so they scrubbed the floor of the clinic, they sprinkled the basins in the shelters with powerful disinfectants, they brushed the mosquito screens in the dining-hall windows, they sprayed concentrated insecticides in the outhouses, and they swept the concrete paths.

  Out of the dark night came the sound of engines and the usual prattle of frogs and chorus of crickets. The sound of the crickets seemed much more distinct, much louder and more penetrating than on previous nights.

  In the course of the night efforts were made in various quarters to allay the threat of war. Heads of state passed urgent messages. Various sources spread rumors to prevent desperate reactions. There were threats, there were insistent pleas. Emanuel Zaicek appeared simultaneously in many different places; knowing no rest, clad in the bear's skin, with his staff in his hand and his knapsack on his back he crossed lands and seas and wherever he came he preached to the people. There were no young men among his hearers: some had been called to arms, others were drinking in taverns or sleeping in their beds. Women, old folk, and little children eyed him with deep suspicion, half-hearing his voice gently caressing its every word; some cast stones, other kindlier souls offered him alms and broth. The philosopher Sartre and his circle drew up and circulated a carefully worded Open Letter addressed to the Arabs and other men of good will, imploring them to show restraint. And the secretive little man who had just brought Stefa home to her own land hurried on to his new task without even pausing to visit his shabby bachelor rooms o
n the outskirts of Old Bat-Yam. Quick as lightning as dusk fell he took off in a military aircraft for Malta. There he sat in a hotel bar and talked till the early hours with three American representatives in civilian clothes. The Americans were very discreet, pleasant looking and well spoken, with fine manners and a precise sense of humor. The little man, for his part, treated them to an exaggerated display of politeness, and addressed them in a patient Talmudic singsong which after an hour or two had the effect of slightly numbing their senses. He larded his speech with proverbs and pointed syllogisms, leavened it with rhymes and sayings, skipped from subject to subject, made jokes at his own expense, painted elaborate word-pictures, then suddenly declared that enough was enough—we may not see the wood for trees, but there's no smoke without a breeze, as any man of sense agrees.

  At two o'clock in the morning they consented. And not because he had got the better of them in argument, but because they were all three suddenly, simultaneously, and totally convinced that that was indeed how matters stood, that was what had to be done, and there was no conceivable alternative. At three o'clock he took off again for home, and by seven o'clock the same morning he could be seen eating a leisurely breakfast of omelette, roll, salad, and yoghurt in a small milk bar in Ben-Yehuda Street in Tel-Aviv.

  At about the same time in Baden-Baden, the brothers were gathering in the chapel of the Dominican friary. They offered up prayers for peace for all men, and all morning long they tolled the bell.