In the Envelope of Memory Page 3

  Chapter 8

  Stars

  Not once, during my stay in her home on the kibbutz did my mother mention The Rocky Hill, which was the cemetery for members of the kibbutz, before things changed; my father is buried there, too. She never asked to visit the grave of my amputee father (due to an accident), who was eventually devoured by cancer. His grave was set high up there. So rest quietly, Father, there beneath the cypress on the Rocky Hill, rest calmly – soon, now, I’ll be there with you, father. Father!

  I remember him looking at me with half-closed gray eyes, such sad eyes. I saw death reflected in the pupils of his eyes, crawling like a snake between the lines in his forehead and his cheeks. And I asked myself: what was his life like? What did he want? Did he ever love? ...Seated at our table, I see him shrouded in cigarette smoke, his sad, beloved eyes staring towards the distance, enveloped in dream clouds, as though he were waiting for the ultimate silence. What thought disturbs him? What desire? Why the sadness? But I knew: Oh; in those camps his entire family was gassed by the Nazis, leaving him with an oozing void in his heart, an oppressive void, a shouting void. He couldn’t find a refuge inside himself. He died, my beloved man. There is no solace for me. Only sadness. Only silence.

  I couldn’t bring myself to visit his grave, since that day, when I stood stone-like, dry eyed (dressed in the denim-dress, he liked so much) next to a black hole in which they put the man. There on the Rocky Hill among cypress and pines trees (perhaps now he will have peace and love) they covered the man with the broken heart and amputated hand with black earth: the man I love more than anyone, my father, who has gone from my life.

  I remember in particular one day in the kibbutz: All ten of us would lie on the lawn in front of the dining room after dinner, stretched out on the slightly wet grass: children from my group, usually on Fridays, our heads resting on someone’s thigh or chest or belly; we probably looked like a heap of moving critters. We sang the songs of our country, looking up at the deep blue sky, where every star seemed instilled with the pure light of magic.

  That particular, evening I was in one of my dream-lands, my head on Rami’s belly, (Rami was my closest friend from our group of ten) his head on Dahlia’s thigh. I had not joined the singing; I was staring at the stars, trying to understand their secrets. Suddenly my vision concentrated on a particular star, which seemed smaller than others, and in front of my disbelieving eyes, this star began to move towards me, or was it my imagination? To this day I have not made sense of that phenomenon. Anyway, I waited; my body became still, soft and open; the star kept approaching; its light filled me with utter calm, complete silence.

  Hey, Lani, what’s going on with you? asked Rami. You seem to be glowing all over, your entire face shines like a star. He looked at me curiously, perhaps a little alarmed. Rami, I blurted without thinking, I just swallowed a star. He smiled; you and your fantasies; no one swallows stars; stop being so weird; every day you invent something spooky. Now it is a star you are involved with; the other day it was... he paused. What was it? I seem to have forgotten, it was something about oneness, you had the idea that the entire world is one and that all things in the world are interwoven with one another.

  I stopped him. I said, I read this book, Meditations, by Marcus Aurelius; I stole it from my father’s library. I didn’t understand all of it, but this idea stuck with me; it made so much sense. I tell things as I see them, as they come to me. Now, let’s join the singing. You invent the strangest stories, mainly at night, said Rami, shaking his head. Sometimes you scare us all; like that story about the snake and the woman in the woods. This weirdness is deep in my being, I am the way I am, Rami. I am not able to be different. So let me be, now.

  I was about twelve years old then. I jumped to my feet and ran to my parents little apartment to say hello to my father. Mother was not home. She only came home at weekends, if at all. As I entered, I saw my father sitting at the table in the living room, wrapped in a cloud of cigarette smoke; his somber, beloved eyes gazing outward as if waiting for the final stillness. What was he thinking? What did he want? Why was he so sad?

  Shalom father, I chirped, as I entered the room and began, as was my habit, to jump and dance around the room, circling my father’s chair. He encouraged me: Dance Lani, dance, he would say. I would continue to dance and he would melt. Suddenly I heard him say, Lani, what is it with you, my little girl? What did you do today? He gave me a quick puff of his cigarette. What is it, Lani, you seem so restless? Daddy, I began, then stopped and looked at his face searchingly. Oh, come on Lani, what’s on your mind?

  I don’t think I am from here! I remember announcing a little defiantly. My father’s face assumed an interested, rather amused, expression. So, where do you come from? He looked at me curiously. When I didn’t answer, he said, What makes you think you are from a different place, Lani; want to talk about it? I am not sure I want to talk about it, I said, feeling a little confused and terribly misplaced. I looked at him thinking: I love this man, my father. I can trust him.

  I came from a star, I looked daringly into his eyes, waiting for the words; don’t be silly, Lani, which never came. He just looked at me and waited, lighting one cigarette with another.

  I am different from everyone else… I stopped talking and began to dance again; this time I was practicing my ballet. I pirouetted around the room on the tips of my toes and hummed some music to myself. My ballet teacher said to me the other day that she believes I shall be a great ballerina if I practice all the time (And I did).

  Father sat in silence and watched me through the clouds of smoke surrounding him. He didn’t stop me. I turned to him and said; I look different. I act differently. I even think differently from all my friends. I know they think I am weird; they don’t say so, but I know. It feels peculiar to be estranged from your own friends. Then, something happened; I knew I came from somewhere else, a star. I came from a star. I had to take a breath, I was talking too fast. My father caressed my head and said softly, my Lani from the stars. You are my Lani from the stars. And the name stayed with me from that day on. I was only twelve years old. My father paused, smiled, and then his eyes grew serious. Life is difficult for you. I lowered my eyes. Don’t be sad, my Lani, he said softly, everything has a purpose. I promise you, one day you will not feel weird; the time will come and you will find yourself. Now you must control yourself. You cannot just disappear for hours and cause everyone to search for you. Where do you disappear to, and why?

  Oh, Dad, I said, you know where I go… He nodded his head; yes, I know. I even followed you a few times. Don’t you think, you should go to school? You must learn all that…” NO, I shouted in his face, school is boring, the teachers are stupid. I do not listen to what they say. I can read it in the books, sitting on the Kissing Stone in the woods, breathing, listening to bird songs. Butterflies fan my cheeks. Every now and then I see a black snake slithering among the leaves. Oh, dad, it is so beautiful and I feel so happy. Isn’t it the reason you taught me to read when I was three years old? Please don’t get mad at me now – I know you are not, because when I was a little child I heard my mother say to you, David, David, what shall we do with the child (I hated it when she called me The Child.); I am very worried (I didn’t understand, then, what was she worried about). Anyway she isn’t important. She is never here, and when she is she is mostly angry with me. She told me that when I was born, she was sure that they changed babies and gave her the wrong girl, who was born at the same time. Is it true Daddy? Is it true? He lit another cigarette, Come little Lani, have another puff. I understood then that he didn’t wish to talk about my mother; his eyes became even sadder. I love you so much my one and only Daddy. Tears were stinging my eyes. We were quiet for a while, and then he said: Dance Lani, Dance. I danced and he cried.

  Suddenly I remember myself, a little girl of four, standing next to my father, while he read a book without even glancing at me… as I prayed to the God o
f the Jews for a miracle. I just needed a small one for me, so that my father would see me, pick me up in his arms, hug me and whisper, My child, kissing my lips, that he would caress my hair and touch my cheeks and forehead with the tips of his fingers. God, however, didn’t hear my prayer, and my Father didn’t see me or collect me to his arms; he just read that terrible book. He visited only years later when he was no longer alive. At the very core of the night he came; he uttered not a word, only stood there, head bowed, his body exuding malignant sorrow. The next night he came again. I was waiting for him, awake, my mind quivering and tense; Is it you. Say, is it you? (But of course I knew who he was). He lifted his eyes, a faint smile swept over his mouth, he looked at me for a long time, with beloved, pained eyes and he stretched shadow-arms to me. I arose from the bed, floated toward him on the dusky-dark air, but he melted away. A faint scent of tobacco and rosemary lingered on the air. I remained alone in the night, aching for the solace of the light.

  One night after the moon came out, I walked again to the distant almond orchard that stood in a dream of white blossom. I hid there for many hours and no one knew where I was. When they finally found me, my face was buried in almond blossom. Yet, I was never harshly treated. My father was an enlightened person. Children, he would say, should be treated gently, and lovingly educated with a great deal of patience and understanding. So, you tell me, isn’t that a joke? I wished to be beaten hard and painfully, so that the other pain might go away. My mother was hardly ever there, and mostly a shadow on the cracked walls of the room.

  Chapter 9

  Muse

  In a few moments Teddy will come to my room and gather me to his heart, the smell of sleep escaping from his body; and he’ll whisper into my neck, My one and only love, but maybe not, perhaps he’ll forget. Forget me, just like my father who went to join the dead. Teddy comes to my room and into my bed with a sigh – he doesn’t say love, doesn’t make love, just asks: I ask, what? Time to get up already…? How long have I been awake? Moments of grace are so rare; they steal into our lives very sparingly. I send him off to take a shower, then stand up and shout: Good morning world! The neighbor’s dog barks in reply. (Tomorrow I will sunbathe again in the moonlight.)

  The days gallop by like a familiar dream; the nights are full of stars and images. My eyes are wide open in the darkness. Winter fell upon us without warning and I am still not ready. The window in my room is full of gray light. Absorbed into my eyes, it is stealthily paralyzing my fingertips, and the Muse has also turned her back on me. I am waiting, waiting for her to return to wrap me in her smile, but she tarries, taking her time. There is no urging or cajoling her, neither kindly nor unkindly. You could not win her over with a wink, for she is much like a byzantine woman: Please help me, Muse!

  Day after day I fear it’s the last poem, but I will not wither and dry up even if that is the outrageous truth. Every morning I will sit down to the naked page and the turmoil of my thoughts.

  Who are you, Muse, if not a friend to the flight of imagination?

  Do what you do so well, be a friend! Don’t despair or fix your stern eyes upon me.

  Remember, I’m yours by virtue of love. Don’t mock me or turn your crooked back on me. Soften your fickle heart; be generous. I’ll sing my best poems to you; I’ll write poems of peace and you will bless me with dreams, rhymes and fruitfulness.

  Even Charlie my wonderful computer stands here in plastic dreaminess, ashamed. I covered him so he wouldn’t look at me with pleading accusation in his eyes – paralyzed and mortified. All my heroes, creations, and inner voices completely disappear, while my stories and letters collect dust in a drawer; I look through inverted binoculars and you are far away, Ora. But at times I see you with amazing clarity, painting up there on the roof of your home in Tel-Aviv, while I embroider and chatter away; harmony reigns between us. It is a more important harmony than the dubious love between a man and a woman, as everything becomes black and white again. I even criticize myself: You fool, that’s life; nothing exists forever. A very poor comfort, for things overturn and change; everything becomes confused inside; I so want to believe, but don’t. I know that to believe is actually not to know, and within our inner self (soul?) there is a part that is threatened, nauseated. Contradiction is what you’d call it and there is silence. The silence of the Lamb - the Jewish people who came from Europe after the second war and never mentioned the Holocaust. I used to wonder if they are ashamed they didn’t fight, or is it too horrible for them to talk about it? We called them the silent people. Expectation turns to disappointment, love is an illusion reflected in a mirror and every genuine smile is an unexpected gift that falls randomly from the wings of angels who dwell in a farthermost galaxy. Maybe you and I shall be together again, I hope in Tel-Aviv...for our memories are transparent, distinct, and pure, filled with joy and light. Perhaps your mother and my father, (both departed) meet among the flowers and the doves in heaven and play at exchanging worms. Oh, why do I let life mess with my soul? Do tell me, my dear, after all you know me so well, or so you say.

  Yesterday, I said to Teddy: Say something funny. I like holding your foot, he answered, as he laughed like a lunatic, and I echoed him like a barrel full of monkeys. My poor Teddy, he hovers around so helplessly, with his eyes sadder than usual. In his heart of hearts he probably wishes me dead so he can live in peace and quiet. Poor, Teddy… (What if he really does?)

  Chapter 10

  Piter’s Restaurant

  This morning I invited myself to breakfast at a local café. Do you remember that scruffy restaurant? Piters. We had a little fight there that almost finished off our love. It was terrible, but we made it... Let’s get back to the restaurant; The food was terrible, but I blended in well with the human landscape of the wretched, the oppressed and those who sleep in barrels (like in Beckett’s play), the horny, the stunned, the old, those with empty eyes who have nothing to live for and don’t know if they are alive or dead. I felt completely at home; (Kafka’s home.).

  It is a lovely day outside. There is even a sun that tricks the city with its hazardous beauty. I went back home and cried a little. I’m full of self-pity today for some reason. After all, I do have an unhappy husband, as well as suitors (girl-friends – not so much) , but things aren’t too bad – I even have books and someone who loves me enormously. So, as you say, what else does a person need? Now I’m going to stand on my head, it always restores my sanity. Write me a nice letter from our country.

  Again I look like a scarecrow, frightening the birds. I just can’t continue anymore, so badly wanting to be an orphan. Oh, the guilt, the guilt! Now, I look out of my window at the sky, clear as white wine, as if there were no rape, murder, or bloody wars beneath it. But why is the sky to blame? Something has to be blamed, right? Do you remember the man in the wall... you can always blame the man in the wall. Oops! I almost started to write again about the train I missed; but no, I’m not going to torture you again with my silly whims because I do love you, Ora, and that is the truth. What truth? Is there such a thing?

  Chapter 11

  Letters

  Let me tell you something that happened to me with a glamorous woman who knows everything, unquestionably. We were talking about a very dangerous subject, the meaning of truth. Maggie announced that there is good and bad in the world, but nothing in between. I thought to myself – know-it-all. I didn’t argue with her, just swallowed and sniffed, as she glared at me and asked: Don’t you agree? I answered, Who me?

  I have no opinion about such complexities, but then she insisted, Don’t bullshit me, okay? And I just told her; so don’t talk nonsense… Finally, we dropped the dangerous subject and stayed friends for the time being, despite our disagreement. That’s a serious achievement, especially for me. The next day I received the jewel of a letter from her. Here is the letter as I received it:

  A letter from Maggie.

  …All night I thought (w
rites Maggie): my poor Lani, it’s hopeless, you will never understand that your mouth is just a muscle! Involuntary! Nothing can control it; not confidence in yourself, or certain values that dictate what to say, when! Your mouth issues words, appropriate or not, out of place, or not. Tell the truth; tell a secret, a lie, randomly, without any control! And I ask myself why you react so strongly to this terrible fault in your friend. For forty years now you have quietly, smilingly, put up with her. When I asked you not to tell anyone in Israel that I was separating from my husband because it was a secret, because I wanted to protect my family in Israel, you blurted it out the minute you got there, and then wallowed in tiny vulgar lies – we let go of it because little

  Lani was turning 40. For a year I forgave insults, inattention, complaints and anger; Maggie and Lani always knew how to take care of little Lani, because somehow Lani didn’t have a clue, always lacked control. Lack! Lack! Lack! Now what’s happened to Maggie? She can’t stand up to one big flaw of a friend! This is the reason why I’m so mad again! Your lack of control over your mouth, your lack of sense is incredible to me. I’m sick and tired of it! No, don’t answer please. Any words you might have, for better or for worse, poison me! How much time have you willingly spent on huge quantities of good and bad bullshit. Whatever! You open and close those beautiful lips of yours, let out air, and you haven’t the faintest idea of what exactly you’re saying! How many times have you heard me say we shouldn’t talk to friends’ kids about their parents! And you heard, but you never listened, because your greatest fault is this inability to really listen. You know the words but you haven’t the slightest idea of what attention means. It’s appalling. A disability! So this lack, lack, and lack I am only now digesting. This lack cuts into my heart like a knife because I’m actually very slow. I knew but didn’t want to know how much you’ve worn me out, and alarmed, hurt and angered me as well, which only goes to show how important you were to me, and how much you took me for granted, how much I’ve put up with all these years, the terrible things you’ve said and done, or haven’t done. You’ve always talked so much about your love for me! You loved me because I made you feel good, and let you verbally abuse me. And now the machine has broken down and I don’t have the strength to give you what I always used to give you: attention, a one-sided dialog.