“Did you leave out any other details?” we asked firmly. We meant to straighten out the memories once and for all. These recollections were the fruit of so many stories, and suddenly, in the midst of a postcard from Grandpa Yosef — the first to lose his mind — now this grandpa was going mad too. We waited.
“She had a little yellow parasol. She carried it rain or shine.”
We were a little thrown off by the combination of rainy England and yellow parasols. How did the dance fit in? And what was the difference between an umbrella and a parasol? Like weary painters, we were forced to refinish our imaginations with the right colors. Joyce the dancer grew darker and more beautiful. The trivial objects that surrounded her also took on the appropriate characteristics (we threw in scarves, high-heels, purses). The exhausting engagement in color and details almost caused us to overlook the true hero of the evening, the supposedly unruly Grandpa Yosef. We still did not understand his fascination with the Caribbean, nor how these islands of palm trees had found themselves caught up in a life of prayer shawls, chopped liver and pickled herring with onion. At the edge of his postcard we identified a grease stain that demanded rigorous investigation. Was it possible that Grandpa Yosef was secretly committing transgressions over there? Ultimately, the source of the stain was officially determined to be okra, or possibly coconut. Case closed.
In his third postcard he claimed to have discovered fruits whose existence he had not previously imagined. For the first time in his life he was eating without knowing the names of the foods. He also expressed his astonishment at the color of the ocean, the peoples’ eyes, the way night-time appeared. He wrote that as far as the purpose of his travels was concerned, he was not getting much closer, but the bottom line was that he did not find himself sensing any regret. We remained puzzled by all the mysteriousness — what was he up to there?
It was a good thing the Gulf War broke out, replete with Scud missiles, plastic sheeting, and gas masks. Grandpa Yosef’s postcards tumbled into our post boxes as if from a faraway world, filled with coconuts and treasure chests and his increasingly worried enquiries as to what was happening over here. On a series of grease-stained postcards, he attempted to commiserate with our missile anxieties. Even years later, when the synagogue congregation reminisced about the Gulf War days, Grandpa Yosef would whisper apologetically, “And there I was in the Caribbean…” He was never sure how to utter this truth, especially in front of guests who had come to spend the Shabbat with relatives. They looked at him in astonishment — the Caribbean?
And indeed, he tried to come home early due to the Gulf War, so he could worry with us. He informed us of his intentions and was rebuked — he should stay there and complete his trip. We told him to stay where he was and agreed to follow his instructions regarding what to do with his needy neighbors during these stressful days, for as long as he was gone. The instructions were precise, like those for tending to plants. The postcards specified what to watch for with Mr. Bergman and what to do if Mr. Pepperman turned up again with old papers from the Municipality. The names of Mr. Cogen, Ella Pruchter and Itcha Dinitz reached us like the coconuts in the Tarbut encyclopedia, traveling the seas in their tough shells, finding islands to wash up on and take seed. Each postcard was signed by the palm tree himself, Grandpa Yosef, always adding a tail-end of questioning — Perhaps he should come home early after all? He did not imagine the extent to which his early return would have gotten us into trouble. Because in his empty apartment, in the meantime, a tenant had been installed. A tourist.
A short while after Grandpa Yosef’s departure for the Caribbean, I received a phone call from Professor Shiloni, his academic advisor. He informed me that Dr. Hans Oderman, a research colleague from Frankfurt University, was arriving on the next El Al flight to make his way to the University of Haifa, where he would spend time on a research grant.
And the problem?
“Well, we agreed that he would be a guest in my home, but all of a sudden my in-laws from New York have turned up. They heard about Saddam Hussein’s threats and came to show solidarity, the nuts, instead of inviting me to their place. And now this young man, Dr. Oderman, tells us he’s decided not to cancel. He too believes that now is the time to support the people of Israel. So I thought that if Yosef’s apartment was empty, perhaps, just until I find something better, we could put him there. Only temporarily, until we come up with something. Just until the first missile lands here, and then all the friends of Israel will be gone in a flash.”
“He’s German?”
Embarrassment in Professor Shiloni’s voice. “Yes…. Is that a problem?”
“No, no, of course not.”
The elderly residents in Grandpa Yosef’s neighborhood were trying on gas masks, and I would be housing a German in 8-b Katznelson.
I didn’t have to pick him up at the airport. Someone else brought Dr. Hans Oderman of Frankfurt to the faculty lounge at the University of Haifa, where we were introduced. Six-foot-three-sapphire-blue-eyes-golden-locks shook my hand.
“Nice to meet you.”
A limp handshake.
I politely carried his luggage and led him to my car. A simple drive. No conversation. We drove down the Carmel hillside through Neveh Sha’anan and round the bends that hug the mountain. I looked at him as he sat erect and glanced at the cascading landscape. He stared at the lights, the intersections, the industrial zone in the valley below us. Our eyes met briefly. His were islands of steel. I looked at his hands resting firmly in his lap over the safety belt. Six-foot-three-inches of neatly divided parts. We passed by traffic lights, junctions, and the colorful commercial area. Heavy industry sprawled on both sides. Fences, chimneys, guard towers. The objects stood out against the landscape, distant deviations that looked as if they were running toward the road, waving, urgently introducing themselves. I drove among barbed wire and guard huts with a Nazi poster child sitting beside me.
The industrial stench provoked a look of discomfort on Hans Oderman’s face. He wondered where he was being taken to. Breaking out of his polite silence, he tried a few lines. But the conversation did not progress much. Hans Oderman sensed the reservation in my voice and wondered whether everything was all right. He began to apologize even before I could reply. He was afraid something had been imposed upon me and asked again if everything was all right. He could always find a hotel room, he said.
“Everything is all right.”
But then I took advantage of an uneventful stop light near Volkan Intersection:
“I just want you to know that, personally, I have a bit of a problem with Germans. That my parents’ families were obliterated in the Holocaust. That I won’t buy German appliances. That I fought with my wife because she bought a German washing machine. That I won’t drive a Volkswagen because I haven’t forgotten that in the war they employed Jews as slave laborers at vw factories. That all the cars you see on our roads, including lots of vws, are to my mind a desecration of the honor of those who died in slavery. That even so, I have nothing against you personally.”