Later when they were alone, Ted finally allowed himself to say what they had both been thinking all through dinner.
“Christ, what shits they are.”
“Hey, look, Ted,” Sara answered, slightly giddy from the whole experience, “there are shits at Harvard too. But these were such a bunch of little shits.”
She woke at dawn to find her husband staring out the window.
“What’s the matter, honey?” Sara asked solicitously. “Did it all get to you?”
“No,” he answered quietly, still staring at the town green, “it’s just the opposite.”
“You mean you’re pleased at how they mauled you yesterday?”
“No, it’s this place. It takes my breath away. I think we could be really happy here.”
“Who are we going to talk to?” she asked plaintively. “The trees? The babbling brooks say more than that autistic archaeologist!”
He lowered his head. “Those student questions yesterday were pretty good.”
She did not react.
“The library’s fantastic.…”
She still did not respond.
“This place has got some really fine departments. French, for instance. And that Lipton guy in Physics worked on the atomic bomb —”
“Hey, Ted,” she interrupted gently, “you don’t have to use sophistry with me. This place does have a sense of history. And I know something in you still can’t face the world without the epaulets of ‘Ivy League’ on your shoulders. It’s something I can’t understand, but I’ll have to accept.”
“It’s a nice location, Sara.”
“Yeah, just a three-hour drive from Harvard.…”
“Two and a half,” he said softly.
The breakfast room looked like an orange grove. At every table, couples varying from middle-age to old sat monochromatically garbed. The gentlemen wore orange blazers, their ladies all had Canterbury scarves.
“Is this some kind of reunion?” Ted asked Tony Thatcher as he sat down to breakfast with the dean.
“No,” Thatcher answered, “it’s like this all year ’round. The old grads don’t just come up for the football games — they’re always making ‘sentimental journeys.’ ”
“I can appreciate their feelings,” Ted remarked.
“I’m glad,” the dean replied, “because I’d like to see you here at Canterbury.”
“I take it from your use of the first-person singular that there isn’t unanimity in the department.”
“I don’t think they’d even vote unanimously on a raise in salary. Frankly, what we need is a cohesive force — a solid academic who has both feet on the ground. I want Canterbury to be the number-one small college in the country. Even better than Dartmouth or Amherst. And we can’t accomplish that without attracting men of your caliber. So I have the provost’s authority to offer you an associate professorship on tenure-track.”
“What’s tenure-track?”
“It means after a year the job is permanent. How does that sound to you?”
“To be honest, the thought of a probationary period is a bit unsettling.”
“It’s really a formality,” the dean replied in reassuring tones. “Besides, the men who count up here know what we’ve got in you.”
“Ted, I’ll make the best of it. I really will.”
As they were driving home Sara reiterated in so many words that she had married him for better or worse. And having said for the last time that Berkeley was better and Canterbury worse, she would learn to love the great outdoors.
“Sara,” Ted replied, to reassure himself as much as her, “we’re going to return in triumph someday. I’m going to use the peace and quiet to write a Euripides book that’s so damn good that Harvard’ll come begging on its knees to ask me back. Remember how the Romans groveled to Coriolanus after kicking him out.”
“Yeah,” she retorted. “But the guy still ended up with a knife in his back.”
“Touché.” Ted smiled. “Why did I marry such a clever woman?
“Because you wanted clever children,” she said, smiling back.
But inwardly she brooded, If you really respected my intelligence, you’d be taking my advice.
Jason Gilbert made two important decisions that were to effect the rest of his life. He had come to realize that everything he had done in the previous two and a half years signified a commitment to defend the land of his forefathers. This meant he would stay there and grow roots.
And yet his loneliness weighed heavily on him. Watching the young kibbutz children playing made him long to be a father. But he was not sure that he had a whole heart to offer. He was still angry. And still mourning.
Nonetheless, whenever he was back on leave, he and Eva would sit in the huge, empty dining hail and talk until the early hours of the morning. These were the times when Jason felt most human.
Late one evening he confessed to her, “I don’t know what I’ll do when you get married. Who’ll stay up and listen to me bitch about the world?”
“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” she answered shyly. “Since you’ve been here, I’ve had, as you might say, a shoulder to cry on.”
“But you never actually cry.”
“It was just a manner of speaking.”
“Sure. Like my saying, ‘You’re the one person in this place who holds my hand.’ Just a metaphor.”
“Yes. We are both… metaphors.”
Their glances met.
“I’d like to really hold your hand,” he said.
“And I would like really to cry on your shoulder.”
They put their arms around each other.
“Eva, I really care for you. I want to say I love you. But I honestly don’t know if I’m still capable of love.”
“I feel the same, Jason. But we could try.”
Then they kissed.
The ceremony took place at Vered Ha-Gaul at the beginning of a one-month leave granted Jason upon his reenlistment. The kibbutzniks rejoiced that the couple had chosen to remain among them, even though for long periods of time Jason would be involved in army duty at various — mostly secret — areas of the country.
For Jason the kibbutz had replaced his family. His estrangement from his parents was now almost complete. Eva asked him to invite them to their wedding. But he refused. Instead, the night before, he sat up in their new quarters — a two-room srif with the added luxuries of a small fridge, hot plate, and black-and-white television — and wrote his parents a letter.
Dear Mom and Dad,
I am getting married tomorrow. To Eva Goudsmit, the girl hidden by Fanny’s family during the Holocaust. It’s to her I owe my understanding of what Israel means.
Under normal circumstances I would have invited you. But I know how deeply you disapprove of the direction my life has taken, and tomorrow’s vows only sanctify what I suppose you regard as a rebellion.
I followed your game plan for the first twenty-four years of my life, barely noticing the little compromises I had to make along the way, as I’m sure you barely notice yours. I know you meant well. You wanted your children not to suffer from the stigma of being Jewish.
And that’s exactly what I want for my children.
Here, being a Jew is an honor and not a handicap. My children may grow up in some danger, but they will never grow up in shame.
I will always appreciate everything you gave me while I was growing up. Now that I have grown up, even if you don’t agree with my beliefs, please respect my right to live by them.