‘transgressed.' And they added iniquity to transgression when they hurled groundless accusations and all sorts of stuff and nonsense at me. But history itself, objective reality, came along and proved in black on white how they had wronged me. And the worst offenders were Comrade Hopeless and Comrade Useless, Tabenkin's cat's-paws. Full stop. Yet there was a time, when we were young, that I liked them both. I even liked Tabenkin sometimes, before he became a rabbi. And they liked me up to a point, too. We dreamed of improving ourselves, of improving the whole world. We loved the hills and the valleys, and the wilderness up to a point. Where were we, Rachel? How did we get here? Where were we before?"
"Tabenkin's beard, I think."
She filled his glass with Coca-Cola, a drink that he had lately come to be so fond of that it had taken the place for him of both tea and lemonade. Only he insisted on calling it "Coca-Coca," and nothing his daughter said would make him change. (He also pronounced the names of the two political parties Poalei Zion and Hapoel Hatza'ir, and even his own name, with a marked Yiddish accent.) He insisted on letting the Coca-Cola stand for a while until the bubbles had all subsided before he raised the glass to his cracked lips.
"How about that student of yours," the old man said suddenly. "What do you think? He's an anti-Semite, isn't he?"
"What makes you say that? What has he done to you?"
"He hasn't done anything. He just doesn't like us. That's all. And why should he?"
After a moment he added:
"I don't like us much myself. There's no reason."
"Pesach, calm down. Adel lives here and works for us. That's all. He works to pay for his lodging."
"Wrong!" the old man roared. "He doesn't work for us, he works instead of us! That's why he digs under the house at night, in the foundation or in the cellar."
Then he added:
"Cross that out, please. Don't write any of this. Neither what I said against the Arab nor what I said against Tabenkin. At the end of his life Tabenkin was totally senile. Incidentally," he added, "even his name was false. The fool was so smitten with the name Tabenkin, Ta-ben-kin—three proletarian hammer blows! Like Cha-lya-pin! Like Marshal Bul-ga-nin! But in fact his original name was simply Toybenkind, Itchele Toybenkind, Itchele Pigeonson! But that little son of a pigeon wanted to be a Molotov! A Stalin! A Hebrew Lenin he wanted to be!
Na,
I don't give a damn about him. I won't say a word about him, for good or ill. Not a word. Abigail, make a note: Pesach Kedem is totally silent on the subject of Tabenkin. A nod is as good as a wink."
Midges, moths, mosquitoes and daddy longlegs congregated around the light on the veranda. In the distance, from the direction of the hills, orchards and vineyards, a desperate jackal howled. And opposite, in front of his hut that was lit by a feeble yellow light, Adel got up slowly from his step, stretched, wiped his mouth organ with a cloth, took a few deep breaths, as though trying to draw all the expanse of the night into his narrow chest, and went indoors. Crickets, frogs and sprinklers chirped as if in response to the distant jackal, now joined by a whole choir of jackals somewhere nearby, in the darkened wadi.
"It's getting late," Rachel said. "Maybe it's time for us to stop, too, and go indoors."
"He burrows under our house," her father said, "because he simply doesn't like us. Why should he? What for? Because of all our villainy, our cruelty, our arrogance? And our hypocrisy?"
"Who doesn't like us?"
"Him. The goy."
"Daddy, that's enough now. He's got a name. Please use it. When you talk about him you sound like the last of the anti-Semites yourself."
"The last of the anti-Semites hasn't been born yet. And never will be."
"Come to bed, Pesach."
"I don't like him either. Not one bit. I don't like all they've done to us, and to themselves. And I certainly don't like what they want to do to us. And I don't like the way he looks at
"Tabenkin's beard, I think."
She filled his glass with Coca-Cola, a drink that he had lately come to be so fond of that it had taken the place for him of both tea and lemonade. Only he insisted on calling it "Coca-Coca," and nothing his daughter said would make him change. (He also pronounced the names of the two political parties Poalei Zion and Hapoel Hatza'ir, and even his own name, with a marked Yiddish accent.) He insisted on letting the Coca-Cola stand for a while until the bubbles had all subsided before he raised the glass to his cracked lips.
"How about that student of yours," the old man said suddenly. "What do you think? He's an anti-Semite, isn't he?"
"What makes you say that? What has he done to you?"
"He hasn't done anything. He just doesn't like us. That's all. And why should he?"
After a moment he added:
"I don't like us much myself. There's no reason."
"Pesach, calm down. Adel lives here and works for us. That's all. He works to pay for his lodging."
"Wrong!" the old man roared. "He doesn't work for us, he works instead of us! That's why he digs under the house at night, in the foundation or in the cellar."
Then he added:
"Cross that out, please. Don't write any of this. Neither what I said against the Arab nor what I said against Tabenkin. At the end of his life Tabenkin was totally senile. Incidentally," he added, "even his name was false. The fool was so smitten with the name Tabenkin, Ta-ben-kin—three proletarian hammer blows! Like Cha-lya-pin! Like Marshal Bul-ga-nin! But in fact his original name was simply Toybenkind, Itchele Toybenkind, Itchele Pigeonson! But that little son of a pigeon wanted to be a Molotov! A Stalin! A Hebrew Lenin he wanted to be!
Na,
I don't give a damn about him. I won't say a word about him, for good or ill. Not a word. Abigail, make a note: Pesach Kedem is totally silent on the subject of Tabenkin. A nod is as good as a wink."
Midges, moths, mosquitoes and daddy longlegs congregated around the light on the veranda. In the distance, from the direction of the hills, orchards and vineyards, a desperate jackal howled. And opposite, in front of his hut that was lit by a feeble yellow light, Adel got up slowly from his step, stretched, wiped his mouth organ with a cloth, took a few deep breaths, as though trying to draw all the expanse of the night into his narrow chest, and went indoors. Crickets, frogs and sprinklers chirped as if in response to the distant jackal, now joined by a whole choir of jackals somewhere nearby, in the darkened wadi.
"It's getting late," Rachel said. "Maybe it's time for us to stop, too, and go indoors."
"He burrows under our house," her father said, "because he simply doesn't like us. Why should he? What for? Because of all our villainy, our cruelty, our arrogance? And our hypocrisy?"
"Who doesn't like us?"
"Him. The goy."
"Daddy, that's enough now. He's got a name. Please use it. When you talk about him you sound like the last of the anti-Semites yourself."
"The last of the anti-Semites hasn't been born yet. And never will be."
"Come to bed, Pesach."
"I don't like him either. Not one bit. I don't like all they've done to us, and to themselves. And I certainly don't like what they want to do to us. And I don't like the way he looks at
Similar Books
