In the Envelope of Memory Read online

  Iris would sit there in silence, her eyes fastened on Marta’s lips, an unexpected serenity softened her face. From time to time, the corners of her lips would quiver, and Marta recalled her daughter’s face that time in the hospital, that one time when she had called her mother. Was this a smile or a grimace of pain? She still didn’t know. And yet Iris’s silent presence gave Marta a sense of comfort until one day she forgot herself, and the question erupted from her mouth. Iris, my child, who is Nati’s father?

  Iris glared at her, her eyes wild and panic-stricken. Extreme effort was etched on her face, and Marta saw the conflict that erupted in her daughter’s mind. Iris’s mouth opened and closed, but not a sound came out. Marta waited, her eyes fixed on her daughter’s wild eyes. Iris, she whispered. Iris stood up. For a long moment, she dug deep into the green eyes fixed upon her; and Marta saw how her daughter’s face shut, her body froze, and she was standing there lost—her eyes dark glass. Her heart sinking, Marta saw her daughter vanishing, dissolving in front of her eyes.

  For a long time, she lay there looking at the empty chair. For four days now, Iris hadn’t come to visit her. For four days, the chair remained empty. Marta! Marta! She heard suddenly a voice calling her name, forcing her to surface, not to give up. She opened her eyes. Anna, her friend, was placing a food tray on a small table beside her bed. How do you feel, Marta? asked Anna, placing a cool hand on the hot, sweat- drenched forehead. Have you seen Nati? Marta asked. Yes, she and Little Micha are collecting snails and rain worms by the dining hall. Anna’s eyes were fixed on the red spot on Marta’s sheet. She stuffed her hands quickly into her apron pockets and tried not to stare at the bloodstains.

  What’s to eat? Marta tried to say with a light voice. Anna’s face lit up. With a trembling hand, she pushed away a strand of gray hair from her forehead. As usual, she said, chicken soup, chicken, and potatoes. What else is new? smiled Marta. But after two spoons of soup, she sighed, fatigued. As much as she wished to please Anna, she couldn’t eat. She looked at Anna apologetically. Anna took the food away. Never mind, she said. Don’t force yourself. After a moment, she asked, Is Ezra home? Baaaa, bleated Marta weakly. At that moment, the door burst open. Nati came running in, her face smeared with mud, her eyes excited, full of light. In her hand was an assortment of wildflowers from the field. For you, Grandma, she laughed and scattered the flowers on Marta’s bed, then immediately flung open the shutters. Grandma, she chirped, I saw three rainbows today, three rainbows, Grandma! And I collected so many rain worms and snails. Dahlia was really mad because we got muddy, and Daphna crushed the worms in her hand, and then she wanted to catch a rainbow and cried when she couldn’t. Silly girl! Doesn’t she know that you can’t catch a rainbow? Nati gulped a mouthful of air. Do you know the story of Noah and the ark, Grandma? She hiccupped. Mother once told it to me. Oh, Grandma, it was such a wonderful story. All those big animals, lions and elephants and giraffes. But Mother said that Noah took mosquitoes and ants too. I wish she would tell me more stories. Well—she gulped another breath— I can ask Grandpa. He knows everything. He told me so. He said he was a teacher, like Dahlia, when he lived in Poland. Grandma, where’s Poland? A long way away, said Marta. Very far? Yes, Nati, very, very far. Oh. Nati lifted her eyebrows and crinkled her nose. Are rainbows because God promised Noah in the Bible never to make a flood anymore? Mother said so. Yes, Nati. Marta found a voice inside herself that was free of illness, a confident voice for her granddaughter only. Well, said Nati, if God promised not to make floods anymore, how come Rita’s house was flooded yesterday? How come, Grandma? God should keep his promises, shouldn’t he, Grandma? She puckered her lips and waited. But Marta couldn’t answer. She felt her lungs and heart being crushed.

  Grandma! Nati tugged at her hand. Why didn’t God keep his promise? Why did Rita’s house flood? The child picked a flower from the blanket and put it next to Marta’s cheek. She placed a marigold in Marta’s hand, and Marta inhaled the fragrance of open fields and wet earth. Her fingers fondled the delicate petals of the marigold. Her breathing eased.

  Little Micha said it was a lot of fun to have the house flooded, said Nati. He bragged that he could swim in the living room. I know he wanted me to admire him; it must have been fun. Do you think God might flood our house too? She shrugged her tiny shoulders. I hope he does. I hope he doesn’t keep his promise. People don’t. And anyway, maybe God is sick. She thought for a moment. God is sick, she declared, otherwise, he’d make you well. Mother says God can do everything.

  Maybe he forgot, Marta said. A pout puckered Nati’s face. She said, Grandpa promised to take me to the fields today, but he forgot—just like God. No, Nati. He didn’t forget, said Anna. He didn’t want you to get wet and catch a cold. Grandpa loves you very much. Nati frowned. She looked at Anna, then again at Marta. After a moment, she asked Marta, Didn’t you tell Anna that on Saturday you got up from bed and we stood in the rain and I held you by myself and we got wet? No, it’s our secret, smiled Marta. Oh! Nati’s eyes opened wide. Our own secret, she said in a conspiratorial voice. But I thought it’s only a secret from Mother. Don’t worry, Nati, said Marta. Anna will keep our secret. Marta closed her eyes. The light in the room was white and harsh, and hurt her eyelids like thousands of multi-colored needles. Nati, she said, please close the door and the shutters.

  It isn’t good for you to be in the dark all day Nati declared suddenly. She climbed on the narrow bed, cuddled close to Marta, and stuck her thumb in her mouth. Her shiny brown curls mingled on the pillow with Marta’s gray hair. Marta turned on her side, and, for a moment, held the little body to her chest. A sudden, mysterious warmth flooded her cold body. She closed her eyes and, for a moment, smiled deliciously.

  Grandma. Yes, my child? Make me an omelet. Nati didn’t remove the thumb from her mouth. Anna stood up as though in obedience to a command. Are you hungry, Nati? Marta asked. Yes, Nati said, and you make the best omelet in the world. You know, the one with the jam. Today, Anna will make your omelet. Marta’s voice was soft and calm, but Anna saw the defeat in her green eyes. Marta’s body under the bed cover was hardly visible: a suggestion of a person. Her face was white, but her cheeks glowed red with fever. From time to time, a cough wracked her body. There were several spots of blood on the sheet now. No, no, Grandma, Nati insisted. You can make it. I know you can. Get up, Grandma. Grandma, get up already. Please!

  Anna, Marta called. Anna was at her side instantly. Help me up, Marta said. Without a word, Anna helped her out of bed. As she supported her friend, Anna suddenly thought of the clay vase she had inherited from her own mother. The other day, she took it off the shelf intending to dust it, and it crumbled between her fingers. Now, with great care, Anna held Marta. Nati hovered around them like a bright butterfly anxiously giving orders. No, no, Grandma, not that one. The one that Little Micha’s mother made, that one over there, the red one. Anna reached for the strawberry jam; she placed it on the counter in front of Marta. She broke the eggs with one hand while supporting her almost-lifeless friend with the other.

  No, Nati said. Grandma has to make the omelet. Do it, Grandma! Her voice was angry, but Marta heard the terror inside the child’s body. And the love. Her fingers felt clumsy and stiff, as slowly, silently, she beat the eggs. A heavy fatigue spread through her blood, paralyzing her limbs. For a moment, all her wishes died; and she longed to be in bed, to sleep for a long time inside the silence, to be one with the void—since, behind it, there is no guilt, there is no pain. Her eyelids dropped; her head sank onto her chest. She made a tremendous effort to clear the fog that settled in her brain and accept what was happening to her. She lifted up her head and forced her eyes open, and as she poured the yellow mixture into the pan, she became acutely aware of daffodil and narcissus fragrance drifting in the air. Ezra, she called silently, I want Ezra. Then her legs began to shake, and she felt Anna’s arms holding her up, almost lifting her off the floor.

  Grandma. Nati pulled a
t her arm. You’re burning the omelet. When she turned the omelet with a spatula, she gazed out of the open kitchen window, her eyes filled with wintry brilliance. Odd, she thought, the light seemed less vivid than she knew it to be after rain, as though a fog had moved in. The colors of the trees faded, as well as the mountain hues, as though a mist had moved in and subdued the light. I know the light is bright and blue, she was thinking, forcing herself to see again the radiance. In vain. The light remained muted.

  Almost done. Now the jam. She heard Anna’s voice as an echo in her ear. Slowly, silently, Marta spread the jam, while her mind was fastened on the time when she worked in the Children’s House, rubbing baby oil on pure limbs. Nati squeezed her body between the two women, clasping Marta’s waist with her arms and pressing her cheek into her grandmother’s back as if she wished to inhabit her grandma and give her warmth and life from her own young body.

  I’ll hold Grandma, she said, her little arms tightening around Marta. Suddenly, as though a mysterious hand was at work, the mist lifted, the window brimmed with brilliant light. A sensation of lightness, as if she were nothing but air, came upon her. A scent of fields was thick in her nostrils. She looked at the distant mountains—standing, as though hanging between earth and sky, silent and pure, almost white, glimmering in the white light. In her mind’s eye, she saw the silvery glint of the leaves on the olive trees in summer. Somewhere a dog barked.

  More jam, said Nati. The child’s voice entered Marta’s body and stayed there. More, more, said Nati. It’ll burst, Marta said, her eyes wide-open, taking leave of the clouds and the trees and the birds and the mountains. She heard Nati’s voice saying into her back, Let it burst. Okay. Marta coughed then whispered, Nati, you’re holding me too tight. Reluctantly, Nati let go of Marta’s waist; and slowly, so slowly, Marta turned around. Here, my child, she said, her voice lifting with pride, is the king of an omelet. And as she handed Nati the plate with the fat yellow omelet oozing red jam, her hands were as steady as the mountains.

  I knew you could make it, Grandma, Nati said. Who said I couldn’t? said Marta. The room whirled around her. She was falling. Anna caught her, and cradling her like a baby in her strong arms, she carried her back to bed. From her bed, Marta watched as Nati ate the omelet slowly, licking the last bit of strawberry jam off her fingers without once taking her eyes from Marta’s face. Those big almond-shaped brown eyes: Iris’s eyes. When she finished eating, she climbed onto Marta’s bed, kissed Marta’s cracked lips, jumped off, called good-bye to Anna, and ran to the opened door. She halted at the door, turned back to the room, and announced, I am going to Little Micha’s house now. Rita is baking cookies, and she said I can help her. She turned her attention outside. Oh, look, Grandma, it’s raining again. Marta’s lips moved to reply, but Nati was already outside, running toward Little Micha’s house.

  Anna went to shut the door. Leave it open, Marta said. Anna remained standing at the foot of the bed for a long while. Marta tried to smile. She spoke no more. Suddenly she felt a familiar presence, two hands holding hers with strange softness that seeped into her body, enfolding her in a dreamy quiet. Ezra? But it was not Ezra. Her eyelids lifted, and her eyes sunk into two huge almond-shaped brown eyes. She saw a wet face, a mouth trembling. Was it a grimace or a smile? She still couldn’t tell. Iris, my child. Her lips moved, but not a word came out. Her eyelids dropped. Mother. She hesitated. Then as if through a mist, her hand lifted, and she caressed her daughter’s face.

  Her hand fell. She floated. The sun’s rays shone through the open door and made Marta’s pain turn vague, almost friendly, the room very bright. She saw her mother standing just outside the door in the rain, a smile on her face, her arms outstretched. Someone was playing the harmonica, and the bittersweet music of her youth filled the room. Someone is waiting for me, Marta thought. Where is Ezra? But she knew. Ezra was where he belonged, in the green pastures tending the sheep, dreaming of plump women with ripe breasts. Martha smiled, her eyes open. Outside the rain grew louder.

  It is hard to write. Sometimes you completely disappear and it confuses me. The past becomes distant and alien. The longing has become a dull, non-existent echo –a hollow, just there in the belly. Not an oppressive or screaming hollow, sometimes it only whistles a distant, barely recognizable tune. Am I exaggerating? Maybe. So where are you, and where am I? That too will eventually become clear. But perhaps not, and perhaps it is just a dream: and when I wake I will see all my friends again, we will join hands, all ten of us, dance and sing our old songs. Perhaps we will be lying on the lawn and stare at the huge familiar stars and wonder; what it is all about, this world we live in?

  Chapter 16

  Micha

  But here I should leave myself for a moment and get into something else. I would like to tell you about a little boy (I knew his parents well. Especially his mother, Rita.) and how he tells the story of his childhood to his Mother.

  Micha woke up, his heart booming, his body covered by sticky sweat, tears in his eyes. The nightmare had visited him again and again. He felt like couldn’t go on like this, or he would be finished. He must go there, to the ‘Rocky Hill,’ and tell her the entire story of that time during the war, when it all happened. In the dark of the army hut he dressed hurriedly, and in few minutes he was out and running through the starlit night. The army camp was not far from the kibbutz. On the way he stopped to gather wild flower that grew in abandon beside the empty road. When he finally arrived at the ‘Rocky Hill,’ he flopped exhausted on her stone side. He waited few minutes in order to regain his breath, then began to talk:

  I brought you the flowers you loved so much, and I can hear you saying, flowers should stay where they belong, in the ground. And you have filled every empty spot in the house with potted plants and growing flowers, and said; if I truly, truly wanted to, I could speak to the roots and watch the flowers grow. And when Father said; don’t put crazy ideas into the child’s head, you ignored him. But you see, I remembered about the flowers, and I dug them out with the roots -so I can plant them here where the ground is fresh and damp, like after the rain, which you loved so much.

  Remember when life seemed forever like a dream? And it was all right to leave the children at home alone, and people didn’t lock the doors because the kibbutz was a safe place, or so everyone thought, and every day we played in the fields, and the mornings were always blue and the birds screamed in the branches of the trees, and fragrance of wildflowers wafted in the air, and millions of snails and earthworms appeared after the rain, and a honey sun smiled at us, painting our hair with gold, and eyes and face, sprinkling our noses with big brown spots.

  And then the wars started, and the boys wanted to be paratroopers, and in class we read the Bible every day because we were told it was our heritage and history. And Old Gera was still alive, and Sam the Cat was slinking around, and Father’s hair was still brown and his tanned face taut. And Nati was a mischievous tiny girl, whom, at age seven, I was crazy about.

  But it was not in order to tell you this, I have run away from the army camp and came here all messed up and sweating and without breath. I came to tell you finally about that night when a storm rampaged outside, and I was so scared, and you weren’t there. I still have nightmares about that night, and that crazy memorial day keeps haunting me like a demon from Dante’s Inferno, and I want to tell you how it was then when I was only a little boy. Maybe, only maybe, it will ease the pain. Wherever you are, Mother, listen well. This time listen really well.

  Once when I was about seven, I was lying on my stomach on the floor of my room, trying to concentrate on a jigsaw puzzle, waiting for Nati to come and play with me; but outside the wind roared like a beast, and the windows shook, and I heard sounds like moans around the house, and I knew that Nati would never make it in that storm. But in spite of my anxiety, I smiled because one never knew what Nati was up to; she was mischievous and daring and loved adventures—never afraid of an
ything. Maybe she contained a little of her mother, because sometimes, in the midst of a game, she would suddenly say, I have to go now, my mother is waiting, and I would notice how her face became suddenly white and tense, and sometimes her lips trembled. You adored Nati; you would hug her and kiss her and say, Natushka, you are so pretty. And then you would sigh and say; I always wanted a girl, and I was a little jealous.

  But you never loved anyone like you love Big Micha, even after he left you and joined the dead. I could never understand why you wasted so much love on a dead man. And after you weren’t with us anymore, father hardly ever spoke, and his hair turned white, and his face cracked, and his eyes—it’s difficult for me to describe his eyes because suddenly there was nothing in his eyes. So if eyes can be empty, Father’s eyes were empty after what you have done. Most of the time, he wandered like a spirit in the olive grove, or sat near the window with the view of the lawn, the acacia tree, the daisies, and the daffodils; and when I spoke to him, he would look at me and say, confused, What, what did you say, child? At such moments, I could have killed you myself.

  Sometimes Nati would come and, for a few moments, relieve father from the depression that set upon him like a beast. She told stories about the fields, the sheep, and the jokes of her grandfather, Ezra, whom she loved even more than she had loved her grandmother, Marta, who died of cancer. After her grandmother died, Nati said that it is all right because her grandmother is now in a place full of light, and rain falls there all the time. Her grandmother was crazy about rain; she said the rain is the essence of life.

  The thought that Nati wouldn’t come because of the storm made me stand up abruptly and upset the puzzle, and I looked at the mess of little cardboard pieces and snorted in disgust and screwed up my eyes and bared my teeth and screamed, I’m a tiger! I’m a man-eating beast! I roared, running around the room with claws ready to gouge out the enemy’s eyes. Then I was Sam the Cat, and I crouched on the floor and arched my back, feeling the hair bristle on my neck, and didn’t make a sound. My whole body tensed, ready for war. But the moment I sprang into the air, ready to catch my prey, I began to wheeze and choke and collapsed on the floor. Again I was only a little boy with asthma—a questionable amusement, especially when you are all alone in a house you suddenly distrust.