will last till you're thirty? I heard one of the youth leaders giving a talk once, and he said that love between modern people ought to be something completely simple and natural, like drinking a glass of water. Still, I don't think one should wallow in it. Moderation in all things. Not like Rivkele, who changes boys every week. But then not like Dalia, either. If a man so much as goes up to her to ask her the time, she blushes and runs away as if they all wanted to rape her. In life one ought to follow the middle path, and avoid both extremes. Anyone who lives without restraint will die young—that's what Stefan Zweig says in one of his books."
We went back to Jerusalem on the first bus after the end of the Sabbath. That evening a strong northwesterly wind arose. The sky clouded over. The morning's spring had been a false alarm. It was still winter in Jerusalem. We abandoned our plan of going into town to see
Samson and Delilah
at the Zion Cinema. We went to bed early, instead. Michael read the weekend supplement of the newspaper. I read Peretz Smolenskin's
A Donkey's Burial
for the next day's seminar. Our house was very quiet. The shutters were closed. The bedside lamp cast shadows that I did not like to look at. I could hear water dripping from the tap into the kitchen sink. I absorbed the rhythm.
Later on, a group of youngsters went past, on their way home from a religious youth club. As they passed our house, the boys sang
Girls are all the brood of Satan;
Apart from one I swear I hate 'em,
and the girls let out shrill shrieks.
Michael put down his paper. He asked whether he could interrupt me for a moment. He wanted to ask me something. "If we had the money we could buy a radio, and then we could listen to a concert at home. But we owe a small fortune in debts, and so we won't be able to afford a radio this year. Perhaps stingy old Sarah Zeldin will give you a raise next month. By the way, the plumber who mended the hot-water system was very pleasant and charming, but it's broken down again."
Michael put out the light. His hand groped for mine in the dark. But his eyes had not yet adjusted to the meager light which filtered through the shutters, and his arm collided violently with my chin so that I let out a groan of pain. He begged my pardon. He stroked my hair. I felt tired and vacant. He put his cheek against mine. We'd had such a nice, long walk today, and that was why he hadn't managed to find time to shave. The bristles scratched my skin. There was a bad moment, I recall, when I suddenly reminded myself of a bride in a vulgar joke, an old-fashioned bride who completely misunderstood her husband's advances. Wasn't the double bed easily big enough for the two of us? It was a humiliating moment.
That night I dreamed of Mrs. Tarnopoler. We were in a town on the plain, perhaps Holon, perhaps in my father-in-law's flat. Mrs. Tarnopoler made me a glass of mint tea. It tasted bitter and revolting. I was sick, and spoiled my white wedding dress. Mrs. Tarnopoler laughed coarsely. "I warned you," she boasted. "I warned you beforehand, but you
would
insist on ignoring all the hints." An evil bird pounced with sharp, hooked claws. Claws scratched at my eyelids. I woke in a panic and flung off Michael's arm. He stirred irritably, mumbling, "You're out of your mind. Leave me alone. I need to sleep. I've got a hard day ahead of me." I took a pill. An hour later I took another. Eventually I fell into a stunned sleep. Next morning I had a slight temperature. I did not go to work. At lunchtime I quarreled with Michael, and hurled abuse at him. Michael stifled his feelings and kept quiet. In the evening we made peace. Each of us blamed himself for starting the row. My friend Hadassah and her husband called. Hadassah's husband was an economist. The conversation turned to the austerity policy. According to Hadassah's husband, the government's action was based on ridiculous assumptions—as if the whole of Israel were one
We went back to Jerusalem on the first bus after the end of the Sabbath. That evening a strong northwesterly wind arose. The sky clouded over. The morning's spring had been a false alarm. It was still winter in Jerusalem. We abandoned our plan of going into town to see
Samson and Delilah
at the Zion Cinema. We went to bed early, instead. Michael read the weekend supplement of the newspaper. I read Peretz Smolenskin's
A Donkey's Burial
for the next day's seminar. Our house was very quiet. The shutters were closed. The bedside lamp cast shadows that I did not like to look at. I could hear water dripping from the tap into the kitchen sink. I absorbed the rhythm.
Later on, a group of youngsters went past, on their way home from a religious youth club. As they passed our house, the boys sang
Girls are all the brood of Satan;
Apart from one I swear I hate 'em,
and the girls let out shrill shrieks.
Michael put down his paper. He asked whether he could interrupt me for a moment. He wanted to ask me something. "If we had the money we could buy a radio, and then we could listen to a concert at home. But we owe a small fortune in debts, and so we won't be able to afford a radio this year. Perhaps stingy old Sarah Zeldin will give you a raise next month. By the way, the plumber who mended the hot-water system was very pleasant and charming, but it's broken down again."
Michael put out the light. His hand groped for mine in the dark. But his eyes had not yet adjusted to the meager light which filtered through the shutters, and his arm collided violently with my chin so that I let out a groan of pain. He begged my pardon. He stroked my hair. I felt tired and vacant. He put his cheek against mine. We'd had such a nice, long walk today, and that was why he hadn't managed to find time to shave. The bristles scratched my skin. There was a bad moment, I recall, when I suddenly reminded myself of a bride in a vulgar joke, an old-fashioned bride who completely misunderstood her husband's advances. Wasn't the double bed easily big enough for the two of us? It was a humiliating moment.
That night I dreamed of Mrs. Tarnopoler. We were in a town on the plain, perhaps Holon, perhaps in my father-in-law's flat. Mrs. Tarnopoler made me a glass of mint tea. It tasted bitter and revolting. I was sick, and spoiled my white wedding dress. Mrs. Tarnopoler laughed coarsely. "I warned you," she boasted. "I warned you beforehand, but you
would
insist on ignoring all the hints." An evil bird pounced with sharp, hooked claws. Claws scratched at my eyelids. I woke in a panic and flung off Michael's arm. He stirred irritably, mumbling, "You're out of your mind. Leave me alone. I need to sleep. I've got a hard day ahead of me." I took a pill. An hour later I took another. Eventually I fell into a stunned sleep. Next morning I had a slight temperature. I did not go to work. At lunchtime I quarreled with Michael, and hurled abuse at him. Michael stifled his feelings and kept quiet. In the evening we made peace. Each of us blamed himself for starting the row. My friend Hadassah and her husband called. Hadassah's husband was an economist. The conversation turned to the austerity policy. According to Hadassah's husband, the government's action was based on ridiculous assumptions—as if the whole of Israel were one
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