grandparents. It will be a glorious heritage distilled from a twisted pedigree. Iâd better jot that phrase down, it will come in handy one of these days. I feel so sad when I think of Gideon and his friends: they exude such an air of shallow despair, of nihilism, of cynical mockery. They canât love wholeheartedly, and they canât hate wholeheartedly, either. No enthusiasm, and no loathing. Iâm not one to deprecate despair per se. Despair is the eternal twin of faith, but thatâs real despair, virile and passionate, not this sentimental, poetic melancholy. Sit still, Gideon, stop scratching yourself, stop biting your nails. I want to read you a marvelous passage from Brenner. All right, make a face. So I wonât read. Go outside and grow up to be a Bedouin, if thatâs what you want. But if you donât get to know Brenner, youâll never understand the first thing about despair or about faith. You wonât find any soppy poems here about jackals caught in traps or flowers in the autumn. In Brenner, everything is on fire. Love, and hatred as well. Maybe you yourselves wonât see light and darkness face to face, but your children will. A glorious heritage will be distilled from a twisted pedigree. And we wonât let the third generation be pampered and corrupted by sentimental verses by decadent poetesses. Here come the planes now. Weâll put Brenner back on the shelf and get ready to be proud of you for a change, Gideon Sheinbaum.
6
S HEINBAUM STRODE purposefully across the lawn, stepped up onto the concrete path, and turned toward the plowed field in the southwest corner of the kibbutz, which had been selected for the landing. On his way he paused now and again at a flower bed to pull up a stray weed skulking furtively beneath a flowering shrub. His small blue eyes had always been amazingly skillful at detecting weeds. Admittedly, because of his age he had retired a few years previously from his work in the gardens, but until his dying day he would not cease to scan the flower beds mercilessly in search of undesirable intruders. At such moments he thought of the boy, forty years his junior, who had succeeded him as gardener and who fancied himself as the local water-colorist. He had inherited beautifully tended gardens, and now they were all going to seed before our very eyes.
A gang of excited children ran across his path. They were fiercely absorbed in a detailed argument about the types of aircraft that were circling above the valley. Because they were running, the argument was being carried out in loud shouts and gasps. Shimshon seized one of them by the shirttail, forcibly brought him to a halt, put his face close to the childâs, and said:
âYou are Zaki.â
âLeave me alone,â the child replied.
Sheinbaum said: âWhatâs all this shouting? Airplanes, is that all youâve got in your heads? And running across the flower beds like that where it says Keep Off, is that right? Do you think you can do whatever you like? Are there no rules any more? Look at me when Iâm speaking to you. And give me a proper answer, or . . .â
But Zaki had taken advantage of the flood of words to wriggle out of the manâs grasp and tear himself free. He slipped in among the bushes, made a monkey face, and stuck out his tongue.
Sheinbaum pursed his lips. He thought for an instant about old age, but instantly thrust it out of his mind and said to himself: All right. Weâll see about that later. Zaki, otherwise Azariah. Rapid calculation showed that he must be at least eleven, perhaps twelve already. A hooligan. A wild beast.
Meanwhile the young trainees had occupied a vantage point high up on top of the water tower, from which they could survey the length and breadth of the valley. The whole scene reminded Sheinbaum of a Russian painting. For a moment he was tempted to climb up and join the youngsters on top of the tower, to watch the
6
S HEINBAUM STRODE purposefully across the lawn, stepped up onto the concrete path, and turned toward the plowed field in the southwest corner of the kibbutz, which had been selected for the landing. On his way he paused now and again at a flower bed to pull up a stray weed skulking furtively beneath a flowering shrub. His small blue eyes had always been amazingly skillful at detecting weeds. Admittedly, because of his age he had retired a few years previously from his work in the gardens, but until his dying day he would not cease to scan the flower beds mercilessly in search of undesirable intruders. At such moments he thought of the boy, forty years his junior, who had succeeded him as gardener and who fancied himself as the local water-colorist. He had inherited beautifully tended gardens, and now they were all going to seed before our very eyes.
A gang of excited children ran across his path. They were fiercely absorbed in a detailed argument about the types of aircraft that were circling above the valley. Because they were running, the argument was being carried out in loud shouts and gasps. Shimshon seized one of them by the shirttail, forcibly brought him to a halt, put his face close to the childâs, and said:
âYou are Zaki.â
âLeave me alone,â the child replied.
Sheinbaum said: âWhatâs all this shouting? Airplanes, is that all youâve got in your heads? And running across the flower beds like that where it says Keep Off, is that right? Do you think you can do whatever you like? Are there no rules any more? Look at me when Iâm speaking to you. And give me a proper answer, or . . .â
But Zaki had taken advantage of the flood of words to wriggle out of the manâs grasp and tear himself free. He slipped in among the bushes, made a monkey face, and stuck out his tongue.
Sheinbaum pursed his lips. He thought for an instant about old age, but instantly thrust it out of his mind and said to himself: All right. Weâll see about that later. Zaki, otherwise Azariah. Rapid calculation showed that he must be at least eleven, perhaps twelve already. A hooligan. A wild beast.
Meanwhile the young trainees had occupied a vantage point high up on top of the water tower, from which they could survey the length and breadth of the valley. The whole scene reminded Sheinbaum of a Russian painting. For a moment he was tempted to climb up and join the youngsters on top of the tower, to watch the
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