He spends long hours walking by himself in the streets. Who does he see, who does he talk to? He tells me, “Just … just people.” What is this just? Just is how a boy turns into a fatah from too much idleness, too much thinking. The most dangerous are the ones who are forgotten.
But I can’t do without him, I’m more and more dependent on him. I who was once well known as a courageous woman, a lone wolf. For ten years I was alone in this house and felt no fear, and now I begin to be afraid.
My body does not move, but my mind, thank God, is still working, working so hard it almost hurts. It’s hard for me to sleep, to dream dreams. I can’t allow myself to lose consciousness again. I lost it once and a war broke out and the government changed.
The situation is bad. I’m not talking now about prices, to hell with money, we’ll eat onions instead of meat, but the newspapers, the pleasure has gone out of newspapers. Darkness in the eyes and where is mercy? There are too many villains, the mistakes are too great, the dead are too young. He sits there in the armchair facing me, the young Arab, the damned dog, reading quietly, and I sense his enjoyment, how can he help taking pleasure in our sufferings? He breaks off, looks up, watching me quietly as if he doesn’t care and perhaps he really doesn’t care. I want to weep for all the troubles, for the isolation of the state, but I control myself, why add to his pleasure? Sometimes I nearly go to the telephone to call Adam — take him away from here, let him go back to his village, I’m better alone. But at the last moment I relent. Not yet. There is time.
For he has some movements that remind me of my Gabriel. Especially when he wanders around the house at night, when he stands at the window, silent and earnest, gazing into the distance. Young and sturdy, shining white teeth. When he sits at the table with knife and fork quietly finishing his food, I think — God, here I am raising a young terrorist who will slaughter me in the end.
Adam has forgotten him and he doesn’t care. They’ve dumped him here and he’s his own boss. He’s forgotten his mother and his father and his village and taken root here. He’s settled down here very well, it’s as if he was born here and I’m his grandmother. They also lose their roots so easily. He isn’t short of money and all day he searches for entertainment. What is he thinking deep inside, sometimes I really wish I could get inside his head. In the middle of the night I go into his room, sit on his bed and look at him hard, even in his sleep he’s a savage.
The beginning of summer already and it’s warm outside. He still goes about in old winter clothes. I found in a wardrobe a few clothes that were Gabriel’s when he was that age. I offered him a pair of trousers and a shirt. I was sure he’d refuse. But he said nothing, took it all. He didn’t mind wearing somebody else’s castoffs. He took off his own clothes, put on the clothes that I gave him and walked up and down in front of the mirror, smiling, pleased with himself. My heart ached at wasting good clothes like these on him, I had other dreams. Suddenly he came to me and kissed my hand. His own idea, I said nothing. I expected nothing, not even thanks. I almost died, it was so sweet. He touched me to the heart. So did we, as children, at the beginning of the century, used to kiss the hands of the old men as a mark of respect. Where did he learn to do this? The young lips on my skin, a pleasing sensation of freshness. The next day I gave him a jacket the colour of Bordeaux wine. Again he kissed my hand. Ah, God, a little comfort in my last days. I almost wanted to say to him, Don’t call me Mrs. Veducha Ermozo, call me Grandma. But that would have been going too far.
DAFI
Today in the class that was supposed to be history suddenly Mommy came into the classroom as a substitute. Our history teacher went off to do his reserve duty two weeks ago and usually we play basketball instead of learning about the history of Jewish settlement.
Everybody looked at me and I went red, I don’t know why. Mommy has never come into my class before. I thought she’d ignore me completely but the woman turned to me straightaway and asked me which page of the book we were on. I said at once that we hadn’t brought any books with us because we knew the teacher was away. But it turned out that a lot of the children had brought their books along anyway. Little suckers. And then somebody told her the page and somebody else lent her a book and she looked at it for a while and went straight into the lesson.
At first she asked questions and the pupils answered. It was amazing how well she coped with the lesson, even though she hadn’t prepared for a lesson with us. She ran it at first like a question and answer session and there was some noise and chattering going on, some of them tried to annoy her even though they knew she was my mother. Anyway we didn’t feel like doing any work, we were a bit rusty in history. But slowly the class quietened down.
I’ve never seen her so friendly, so good-natured. Sure of herself, keeping control easily. Making jokes, not very funny in my opinion but the others in the class were in fits of laughter. She knew the names of some of the girls and she addressed them by name, asking them questions. She got on particularly well with Osnat, who for some reason was full of excitement, as if there was nothing that interested her more than early Zionism. Her hand was in the air all the time and that pleading voice of hers, “Teacher, teacher.” And Mommy let her do nearly all the talking. Even Tali came to life a bit. The whole class was ecstatic, answering questions, making guesses, and Mommy walked about in front of them, smiling at everybody, even when someone was talking bullshit and she knew it, disagreeing politely, without giving offence.
Wearing the old skirt that I’ve known maybe since I was born, her hair grey, a bit ruffled. The shoes with the worn heels that Daddy’s told her so many times to throw out. And I thought to myself — they’re lucky they don’t have to eat the tasteless food she cooks. If anyone in the class knew about her having a lover they’d drop dead on the spot. I don’t mind her being so friendly in the classroom, she probably thinks she’s doing it for my sake, but then why’s she always so stern at home?
Anyway for half the lesson I sat there saying nothing, even though I did have things to say, because I really love history, but I decided not to get too involved with her. But in the second half I got carried away as well and I put my hand up several times but she never turned to me, as if she wanted to punish me for not bringing the book, though I wasn’t the only one.
The lesson was about the period of the Second Aliyah, and Mommy was trying to explain how few and isolated were the Zionists among the Jewish people, and why they thought that the only option they had was immigration to Palestine. And then I put my hand up because I wanted to say something but she wouldn’t let me, she turned to others, even the ones who put their hands up after me. And I started getting really irritated, all the rest were joining in, even Zaki opened his mouth and said something silly, but she looked right through me as if I wasn’t there. What’s going on here? Mommy was talking about other national movements, about the differences and the similarities. Towards the end of the lesson she asked fewer questions and talked more herself. And I looked at the clock, nearly time for the bell, amazing how quickly the time had passed, and I was the only one with my hand up, I was even supporting it with the other hand so it wouldn’t get tired. I was determined not to give up. Hell, what had I done to her?