said and patted my shoulder. Suddenly his expression changed. “You heard about Levanah’s brother?” he asked in a low voice.
“No.”
“Fell in the battle for the Old City.” I gasped. “Go, go and comfort her.” Then, after a moment of gloomy silence, he said, “It is written in the Scrolls of Fire, ‘In war people kill and are killed, and we need to cry for the living and the dead.’” He closed the door behind me. I knew that he had lost his paratrooper son in the Suez war in 1956.
I sat down in the waiting room and watched Shula as she coped with a stream of phone calls. After a while her image was replaced by that of Levanah, my usual link with the Minister in Charge. In fact, it was thanks to her that I had come to work for him. Two years before, when I had an administrative job in the Ministry, I used to see her in the cafeteria, and one day I told her that Arabic was my mother tongue and that I had a degree in Arabic Studies. A few days later she came furtively into my office, holding in her small hands a number of letters that needed translating. The Minister in Charge had received them from the heads of Arab local councils, following a controversial speech he’d made in the Knesset. I translated them on the spot and even suggested how to reply to them. That’s how it started. Soon after, Levanah introduced me to the Minister in her typically gentle but businesslike manner: “This is the man who has been helping us with Arabic issues,” she said, and in effect made me an unofficial advisor to the Minister and his office. I enjoyed the opportunity to make use of my training and knowledge, even on a voluntary basis and without an official position. Ever since then I had felt committed to my additional employment, and Levanah saw to it that I received up-to-date reviews from various sources, including classified material. I liked her company: there was something reserved about her,her measured gestures, her quiet footsteps. Sometimes I kept her hanging around by telling her Arabic stories, since she knew no Arabic and very few Arabs. But I didn’t want her to think that this was my entire world, so I made a point of talking to her about books, plays, concerts and exhibitions that I had enjoyed. She never stayed long, always apologising that she had to rush back to the Minister’s office. Her loyalty to him was absolute, so much so that I sometimes wondered about their relationship. But then I’d say to myself, nonsense, think of the age gap, the different backgrounds and the risks involved. And anyway, why should she? The Minister was a kibbutz member and family man – what could he offer her?
I sat facing Shula, deep in thought and absentmindedly taking apart and re-assembling a ballpoint pen that was on her desk.
When she had finished making all the necessary calls she went to the security officer and came back with an official document stating my new position. “Now give me your home number…What, you don’t have a phone? We’ll take care of it immediately.” She sat at the typewriter and wrote an official letter to the Director General of the Post Office, got the Minister to sign it and put it in the out tray.
I pondered the unexpected appointment, which had fallen like a fruit from a tree straight into my mouth. The Minister in Charge knew very little about me, we’d never had a general conversation that could have given him an idea what I was like. To his credit, he never asked if I was a party member or close to his political movement. Two years before, when I’d translated the letters from the heads of the Arab councils, he asked me to join him in a meeting with them, where I served as hisintepreter, and a few months later Levanah asked me to prepare a memorandum for him on the teaching of Arabic in schools and universities, and invited me to take part in a meeting with a large group of people. The Minister presented the subject briefly and put a few questions to the
“No.”
“Fell in the battle for the Old City.” I gasped. “Go, go and comfort her.” Then, after a moment of gloomy silence, he said, “It is written in the Scrolls of Fire, ‘In war people kill and are killed, and we need to cry for the living and the dead.’” He closed the door behind me. I knew that he had lost his paratrooper son in the Suez war in 1956.
I sat down in the waiting room and watched Shula as she coped with a stream of phone calls. After a while her image was replaced by that of Levanah, my usual link with the Minister in Charge. In fact, it was thanks to her that I had come to work for him. Two years before, when I had an administrative job in the Ministry, I used to see her in the cafeteria, and one day I told her that Arabic was my mother tongue and that I had a degree in Arabic Studies. A few days later she came furtively into my office, holding in her small hands a number of letters that needed translating. The Minister in Charge had received them from the heads of Arab local councils, following a controversial speech he’d made in the Knesset. I translated them on the spot and even suggested how to reply to them. That’s how it started. Soon after, Levanah introduced me to the Minister in her typically gentle but businesslike manner: “This is the man who has been helping us with Arabic issues,” she said, and in effect made me an unofficial advisor to the Minister and his office. I enjoyed the opportunity to make use of my training and knowledge, even on a voluntary basis and without an official position. Ever since then I had felt committed to my additional employment, and Levanah saw to it that I received up-to-date reviews from various sources, including classified material. I liked her company: there was something reserved about her,her measured gestures, her quiet footsteps. Sometimes I kept her hanging around by telling her Arabic stories, since she knew no Arabic and very few Arabs. But I didn’t want her to think that this was my entire world, so I made a point of talking to her about books, plays, concerts and exhibitions that I had enjoyed. She never stayed long, always apologising that she had to rush back to the Minister’s office. Her loyalty to him was absolute, so much so that I sometimes wondered about their relationship. But then I’d say to myself, nonsense, think of the age gap, the different backgrounds and the risks involved. And anyway, why should she? The Minister was a kibbutz member and family man – what could he offer her?
I sat facing Shula, deep in thought and absentmindedly taking apart and re-assembling a ballpoint pen that was on her desk.
When she had finished making all the necessary calls she went to the security officer and came back with an official document stating my new position. “Now give me your home number…What, you don’t have a phone? We’ll take care of it immediately.” She sat at the typewriter and wrote an official letter to the Director General of the Post Office, got the Minister to sign it and put it in the out tray.
I pondered the unexpected appointment, which had fallen like a fruit from a tree straight into my mouth. The Minister in Charge knew very little about me, we’d never had a general conversation that could have given him an idea what I was like. To his credit, he never asked if I was a party member or close to his political movement. Two years before, when I’d translated the letters from the heads of the Arab councils, he asked me to join him in a meeting with them, where I served as hisintepreter, and a few months later Levanah asked me to prepare a memorandum for him on the teaching of Arabic in schools and universities, and invited me to take part in a meeting with a large group of people. The Minister presented the subject briefly and put a few questions to the
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