knew me by my maiden as well as my married name. He is certainly no longer alive. I felt glad when he said to me: "Mrs. Hannah Greenbaum-Gonen: Your initials spell the Hebrew for 'festival'; I pray that all your days may be festive."
March ended. Half of April passed. The winter was long and hard in Jerusalem in 1950. At dusk I would stand at the window and wait for my husband's return. I would breathe on the glass and draw a heart pierced by an arrow, clasped hands, the letters HG and MG and HM. Sometimes other shapes, too. As Michael's form appeared at the end of the street I hurriedly wiped them all off with my hand. From the distance Michael thought I was waving to him, and he waved back. When he came in my hand would be wet and frozen from wiping the windowpane. Michael liked to say: "Cold hands, warm heart."
From Kibbutz Nof Harim a parcel arrived containing two sweaters knitted by my mother. A white one for Michael, and one for me in blue-gray wool like the color of his calm eyes.
11
O NE BLUE S ATURDAY , a sudden spring struck the hills, and we set out to walk from Jerusalem to Tirat Yaar. We left the house at seven o'clock and walked down the road to Kfar Lifta. Our fingers were intertwined. It was a blue-steeped morning. The outline of the hills against the blue sky was painted with a fine brush. In the clefts of the rocks wild cyclamens nestled. Anemones blazed on the hillside. The earth was moist. Rainwater still lay in the hollows of the rocks, and the pines were washed clean. A solitary cypress stood breathing ecstatically below the ruins of the abandoned Arab village of Colonia.
Several times Michael paused to point out geological features and to mention their names. Did I know that the sea had once covered these hills, hundreds of thousands of years ago?
"At the end of time the sea will cover Jerusalem again," I stated with conviction.
Michael laughed.
"Is Hannah also among the prophets?"
He was lively and cheerful. From time to time he picked up a stone and addressed it sternly, reprovingly. As we climbed up to Castel a large bird, an eagle or a vulture, came and circled high above our heads.
"We're not dead yet," I exclaimed happily.
The rocks were still slippery. I slipped deliberately, in memory of the stairs at Terra Sancta. I told Michael, too, what Mrs. Tarnopoler had said to me the day before the wedding, that people like us get married like the idolators in the Bible, like in a Purim game. A maiden fixes her eye on some man she has met by chance, when she might have happened to meet someone entirely different.
Then I picked a cyclamen and laced it through Michael's buttonhole. He took my hand. My hand was cold between his warm fingers.
"I'm thinking of a trite saying," Michael said with a laugh. I have not forgotten a thing. To forget means to die. I do not want to die.
Liora, my husband's friend, had Saturday duties and could not be free to entertain us. She merely asked if we were well and returned to the kitchen. We had lunch in the dining hall. Afterwards we sprawled on the lawn, my husband's head in my lap. I was on the verge of telling Michael about my pain, about the twins. A gnawing fear restrained me. I kept quiet.
Later we walked to the spring of Aqua Bella. Near us, at the edge of the small wood, sat a party of boys and girls who had bicycled from Jerusalem. One of them was mending a puncture. Snatches of conversation reached us.
"Honesty is the best policy," the boy with the puncture said. "Yesterday I told my father I was going to the club, and instead I went to see
Samson and Delilah
at the Zion Cinema. Who do you think was sitting behind me? My father in person!"
A few moments later we overheard a conversation between two girls.
"My sister Esther married for money. I shall only marry for love. Life isn't a game."
"As a matter of fact, I don't mind telling you I'm not entirely opposed to a little free love. Otherwise how can you know at twenty whether your love
March ended. Half of April passed. The winter was long and hard in Jerusalem in 1950. At dusk I would stand at the window and wait for my husband's return. I would breathe on the glass and draw a heart pierced by an arrow, clasped hands, the letters HG and MG and HM. Sometimes other shapes, too. As Michael's form appeared at the end of the street I hurriedly wiped them all off with my hand. From the distance Michael thought I was waving to him, and he waved back. When he came in my hand would be wet and frozen from wiping the windowpane. Michael liked to say: "Cold hands, warm heart."
From Kibbutz Nof Harim a parcel arrived containing two sweaters knitted by my mother. A white one for Michael, and one for me in blue-gray wool like the color of his calm eyes.
11
O NE BLUE S ATURDAY , a sudden spring struck the hills, and we set out to walk from Jerusalem to Tirat Yaar. We left the house at seven o'clock and walked down the road to Kfar Lifta. Our fingers were intertwined. It was a blue-steeped morning. The outline of the hills against the blue sky was painted with a fine brush. In the clefts of the rocks wild cyclamens nestled. Anemones blazed on the hillside. The earth was moist. Rainwater still lay in the hollows of the rocks, and the pines were washed clean. A solitary cypress stood breathing ecstatically below the ruins of the abandoned Arab village of Colonia.
Several times Michael paused to point out geological features and to mention their names. Did I know that the sea had once covered these hills, hundreds of thousands of years ago?
"At the end of time the sea will cover Jerusalem again," I stated with conviction.
Michael laughed.
"Is Hannah also among the prophets?"
He was lively and cheerful. From time to time he picked up a stone and addressed it sternly, reprovingly. As we climbed up to Castel a large bird, an eagle or a vulture, came and circled high above our heads.
"We're not dead yet," I exclaimed happily.
The rocks were still slippery. I slipped deliberately, in memory of the stairs at Terra Sancta. I told Michael, too, what Mrs. Tarnopoler had said to me the day before the wedding, that people like us get married like the idolators in the Bible, like in a Purim game. A maiden fixes her eye on some man she has met by chance, when she might have happened to meet someone entirely different.
Then I picked a cyclamen and laced it through Michael's buttonhole. He took my hand. My hand was cold between his warm fingers.
"I'm thinking of a trite saying," Michael said with a laugh. I have not forgotten a thing. To forget means to die. I do not want to die.
Liora, my husband's friend, had Saturday duties and could not be free to entertain us. She merely asked if we were well and returned to the kitchen. We had lunch in the dining hall. Afterwards we sprawled on the lawn, my husband's head in my lap. I was on the verge of telling Michael about my pain, about the twins. A gnawing fear restrained me. I kept quiet.
Later we walked to the spring of Aqua Bella. Near us, at the edge of the small wood, sat a party of boys and girls who had bicycled from Jerusalem. One of them was mending a puncture. Snatches of conversation reached us.
"Honesty is the best policy," the boy with the puncture said. "Yesterday I told my father I was going to the club, and instead I went to see
Samson and Delilah
at the Zion Cinema. Who do you think was sitting behind me? My father in person!"
A few moments later we overheard a conversation between two girls.
"My sister Esther married for money. I shall only marry for love. Life isn't a game."
"As a matter of fact, I don't mind telling you I'm not entirely opposed to a little free love. Otherwise how can you know at twenty whether your love
Similar Books
