-- A Short Story by David Ehrlich --

Stars

by David Ehrlich
(Translated by Prof. Shalom Goldman)

"So it's that easy in Hebrew too?"

I've just told Steven how to say "No" in Hebrew. "I told you it's easy," he says, "just make this motion with your mouth, put your tongue up and purse your lips. That way... no... that way."

He prefers to make me practice my own language. "Lo, lo, lo, lo... try it, you can do it, believe me you can... there, you see, I told you that you can do it!" I give him a hangdog look as he tries to shape my mouth with his finger -- as if he can instill "No" in me from the outside. But I know why I'm standing there with my mouth open like a cement mixer. It's his kiss I'm waiting for -- and it comes.

He's teaching me to say "No" because he is sick of all the Israelis hanging out in our living room. We haven't yet recovered from the couple that was here last week, and already there's a call from some people that I don't know -- but they know my brother Amir. Well, they don't exactly know him -- and they'd like to come over on Tuesday, "just for a couple of days." Once again, I know that it's a bad idea, but I really don't know how to say No. Steven goes to work and I go for cooking lessons. That's our division of labor: He works and I have a good time. I haven't found work in London, but then perhaps I haven't really looked. The kind of work you can get without a work permit, that's just the kind of work I won't take. So I'm taking cooking classes -- a wonderful way to pass the time. When I get back home I have exactly enough time for my other hobby: an afternoon nap. When I wake up I cook a four-course meal for Steven and myself. But today I am not cooking. I have a meeting.

This is the first time I've been back to Heathrow since I arrived last year. I like the excitement that the airport provides; the lists of exotic destination on the "Departures" board gives me a pleasant buzz. But it also makes me anxious: when I take off from here I'll be leaving Steven behind. But I'm not flying anywhere, though. At least not today. I'm here to meet someone I don't know, someone who has flown here from Israel to talk to me -- and I know exactly what he wants. Amir warned me in a postcard on which he wrote only three lines -- the last of which ended with two words: "You decide."

His name is Kobi Levi. I identify him immediately. His sunglasses, resting at a nonchalant angle on his gelled hair gave him away. He's so Israeli. He doesn't recognize me. With his attache case, his unfashionable tie and sweaty face he looks totally lost. I don't hurry to rescue him. He scans the people at the bistro in the corner of the terminal and sees no one who could be me, his glance passes over me without stopping. I have a very ordinary face. I had told him that I would wear a jeans jacket, but this morning I didn't feel like putting on anything more than a t-shirt. He's wearing a suit and has on sunglasses -- two things you don't need on a day like this in London. When I signal to him he comes over with a duck-like walk. On his face is a mixture of happiness and confusion. In both height and width he's twice my size. But because he seems so out of place here -- it's an aura he radiates -- I feel like I'm the big one and he's small.

"How are things in London," he asks. I was sure that that was what he would say. "Fine," I answer, "how are things back home?" To my question he responds that things are also fine, and with that it seems that we have concluded the social part of out meeting. I know that he has a lot of time set aside for me, but I have no desire to spend more than half an hour with him. I don't like him, but it's not his fault. I don't like him because he's the son of a rich building contractor, and because he and his father want to buy the house in Jerusalem.

Even more than I don't like him, I don't like myself. Deep down I'm afraid that I'll agree to sell the house and that it's just a matter of settling on the price.

When he pulls out the sketch of how the property will look after they destroy the house and put up a high-rise, I get nauseous. With great enthusiasm he enumerates the special features of this thirty-story monstrosity. In bright yellow marker they outlined the two apartments that they've set aside for me and my brother Amir. We would receive free passes to the health club and pool and be exempt from the not inconsiderable fees. He makes this last point with raised eyebrows and a half-smile - - as if we are now sharing a secret.

In addition to all that -- and this he hints to me after my prolonged silence -- they are willing to consider paying us some small monetary compensation, but only a small one of course. "Not large at all," he says, looking at me accusingly. As our looks meet, I notice that he has a beautiful face, and that he's completely worn out after delivering his speech.

I'll never be capable of carrying through this type of negotiation. I ask only one question: "What will happen to the well?" He doesn't know what I'm talking about. "There's a well on the site," I explain. He smiles, a little unsure of himself. "Fine, we'll cover it." I ask if it's not possible to preserve it, and he smiles. No doubt he thinks I'm a little crazy. "We'll have to cover it", he says.
Now I have a week to decide and he has a whole day until his return flight to Israel. For a moment I consider inviting him back to our place. Steven wouldn't forgive me for it. Also, Kobi Levi doesn't seem like the type who would consider landing in the living room of a male couple the highest form of entertainment. I forget the idea, wish him good luck, and ask for the copy of Yediot Aharonot that's sticking out of his bag. He agrees to give it to me, despite that fact that it's clear that reading that newspaper is the only thing on his agenda for the day.

On the Underground I read the whole newspaper. It's like taking a quick trip to Israel -- the first few pages of the paper don't make me want to extend this trip, but the middle pages of the paper do just that. Reading them I get a rush of sudden nostalgia. Feelings of yearning search me out like secret agents; they find me -- and then they attack. I close my eyes and see the house in Jerusalem. I want to convey my feelings to someone -- but there is no one.
*

The Midrash tells a story about King David's plans to build the Temple: In order to prevent the waters of the deep from rising and flooding Jerusalem, he threw a shard into the well. Our family legend has it that that very well was the one in the courtyard of our house in Musrara. And there is more to the story: The stubbornness of my Savta, Grandma Rachel, about hanging on to life, and hanging on to us by keeping us on a short leash, derived from a belief that after her death the waters of the deep would rise from the well in the courtyard. For no one else knew what shards to throw in the well -- and where to get them, and what spells and prayers should accompany that magical act.

The sounds of the courtyard, and of the well in its center, arise from the depths of my childhood: the croaking of the frogs, the riotous noise of the children at play, the sweet sound of my grandmother's singing as she does the laundry -- and the voice of my mother, far less sweet, a voice which blends wondrously with that of the frogs. In that mix of sounds I can also hear the screams from the night that they found the body of my uncle Shmuel, floating in the well. I was three years old and didn't understand what was going on, but then neither did anyone else. For years the argument raged as to the cause of that mysterious drowning. Was it a suicide? Was it an act of revenge by one of the underground militias? But then there wasn't much time to consider the event. Savta Rachel, who seemed immortal, was grief-stricken over the loss of her son and came down with a difficult and demanding illness. Because the family knew that she would never die they prepared themselves to live with her endless dying until their own deaths.

In addition to her unique relationship to the well there were two reasons, no less important, that prevented Savta from leaving this world. One was personal and one was national. The first was that her death would precipitate an ugly fight among her three sons over the inheritance. But there was never such a fight. Uncle Shmuel died in the well. Uncle Yoseph went to America to get rich -- and he did get rich -- and lost all interest in us and our property. And my parents, modest and without ambition, stayed and lived in the simply-furnished house. They had no idea of the house's stupendously increasing worth.

The second reason for Savta's immortality was the fact that our house was the last in the row of houses that faced the border. In the days of the Turks it changed hands often. At times it was in the hands of Arabs and at times in the hands of Jews -- until Savta Rachel's grandfather bought it for a lot of money from a Sheykh who moved to Ramallah. Savta was sure that the struggle over the house wasn't only among its lawful inheritors, but between the inheritors of Isaac and those of Ishmael. She was convinced that her death would bring with it the collapse of our powerful hold in Musrarra.

In any case, she did die -- finally and unambiguously -- and left my parents in a crisis of faith from which they never recovered. Their whole lives were shaped by the fact that the family's great matriarch ruled over theim and guided them. Now they had to learn the very basic act of making decisions. During my grandmother's life my parents got along beautifully; her death forced them to confront both the problems of life, and each other. Dad began to neglect his accounting office; in the end he took early retirement and became depressed. Mom, on the other hand, became even more compulsive about her volunteer work. In the neighborhood they would say about her that if someone was sick anywhere in the city she would go out to take care of them, even at the cost of nelecting her own children.

It was not true. Mom found time for Amir, and even for me. I say "even" because I was such a quiet child that I was more often noticed when I was absent than when I was present. Mom followed our every step. In school, in the scouts, she was up-to-date on every detail. She had a way of being present in her look, her touch, in the way she presented a plate of apple slices. She also had the unique ability to find us clothes that grew with us. Like the miracle of the cruise of oil, somehow there was always a new fold of cloth that would allow her to take out the pants. When its time had come the old article of clothing was tossed up in the attic, "for the grandchildren." For Mom the grandchildren were an already present reality; as if she were only waiting for their reappearance. The attic soon became full of things for them: toys, games, clothes, volumes of old children's newspapers.

The person who suffered most from Mom's philanthropy was Dad, who was totally neglected by her. He worked out his frustrations by frequenting the halls of the neighborhood health clinic, where he waited to see a certain Dr. Ashira. Dad appeared daily at the small clinic up the street and reported on his complaints with his typical precision. I'll never understand how she found the patience for him.

In the end he got disgusted with her, and for two or three weeks he knocked on the door of Dr. Sahar. The elderly doctor told him exactly what he thought of him and his real and imagined diseases. Dad's self respect didn't allow him to return to Dr. Ashira. Because there were only two doctors on staff at the clinic he had no choice but to wander in the city, dressed in an old suit that he always thought of as new, and look for the one doctor in existence who would listen to him, believe him, and cure him. That doctor he never found.

While Dad wandered between clinics and pharmacies, Mom made a parallel circuit to visit the many sick people who made up her kingdom. When their circuits converged on Ben Yehuda Street, she ignored him completely -- her real patient -- and continued on to more distant and more important patients. The sicker they were, the greater her satisfaction.

During the Six-Day war Mom established a front line medical center for the wounded. It was situated next to Mandelbaum Gate. She didn't have the chance to treat even one of the wounded. A Jordanian shell fell on the makeshift tent, killing her and wounding Dr. Sahar, who had volunteered to serve at her side. Thus the joy of victory which accompanied that war eluded us. But for Dad there was one small consolation: the liberation of the Old City enabled us to bury Mom in an excellent spot along the Messiah's future route. Dad devoted the next few years to immortalizing her memory and caring for her grave -- which became his favorite place. He spent his last years there; and there too he died -- broken-hearted, leaning against Mom's grave. What remained was Amir, me, and the house. We spent a lot of time in the courtyard, spinning out old memories and hosting friends. I was discharged from the army and had all the time in the world. I was determined not to make any plans and not to assume and responsibilities. Although Amir had reached thirty, he had a similar philosophy. He could be industrious when necessary, but he found no special reason to work: we had plenty of money. Instead he put all of his energy into travelling, engaging in long conversations into the night, and making coffee. In the evenings we would sit in the courtyard, light candles on the edge of the well, and exchange views with guests or occasional tenants.

We always had a friend or two living with us. Either they were between apartments, or it simply was convenient for them. In addition, there were a few couples with no place of their own. They used one of our five bedrooms for their passionate trysts. Until today our old key is in the pockets of people we hardly knew. In fact, a key wasn't necessary; the door was never locked.
The charmed days of the house and its courtyard ended when Amir met a girl from Tel-Aviv, Liat, when he went snorkeling in the Sinai. He moved in with her in stages -- each time with another plastic bag and clothes, until his room had nothing in it. On his rare visits he told me that Liat didn't want to get married and didn't want children. That didn't bother him. In fact, nothing she did -- or didn't do -- bothered him. He let her organize his life, a life which became more and more distant from mine.

Alone, without Amir, I wasn't worth much. The friends dwindled. The old furniture raised dust and the courtyard shrunk as it was dwarfed by the neighboring houses, which sprouted like shooting plants. In the end I felt that all of this history was too much for me, too heavy, and that I needed something else, something totally different, and distant.
*

That something was Steven, and I found him in London. We met in an Underground station. Today, when I think about it, I realize that it may not have been as random as it seemed then. He simply waited for me there, as if this were the right station. Each of us was the other's train.

I was happy to discover myself anew, and with somebody. Steven was older, more experienced and wiser than me. He grew up in a very Christian family. He had an uninteresting job in the post office, but had easy hours, and we had every evening to ourselves -- and the night. Especially the night. I lived a full life and was happy each and every minute. A person who has never found himself won't understand what I'm saying.

For over a year I spoke only English, I thought only of London, only of Steven. I pushed away anything that wasn't part of my life there. A postcard from Amir, a postcard to Amir, no more. Steven and I were bound together by more and more ties. We spoke a lot about our future together. We had something in common: we were both trying to cut ourselves free from the past.

For Steven, it could work. He had nowhere to go back to. When he was a child he was raped by a family member. When he grew up, he ran away from home. The few pictures that he had -- he had destroyed.

For me, it was more complicated. Steven was the man I wanted, but beneath that desire there were torrents of longing for Israel. In the mornings shards of dreams surfaced in my consciousness -- they were dreams from home. As time passed my resistance weakened. Getting up in the morning became increasingly difficuly. I was a creature from one world who was stuck in another. The charm of British life evaporated slowly. And for all that I was stubbornly determined to hold on to happiness, I knew that I was only grasping its tail.

When Kobi Levi, of Levi and Sons, Limited, called, I had already realized that a signal from home was only a matter of time.

*

I return from the airport, fall into bed, and drop off to sleep immediately. That night Savta returns, not summoned and unexpected. She appears in my dream, insists on putting things in order. She doesn't have to say anything. That she appears, in her bright blue dress, is in itself an explicit announcement. It doesn't matter to her that unlike others in the family I have never believed in dreams. As far as she is concerned we are all her subjects. When she wants something, nothing can stop her; not even death, which has tried. I can't even think of rebelling.

Steven thinks I'm ill. He asks no questions. We are both familiar with sudden reminders of the past: when such wave hits either one of us, we put on a bathrobe and go to bed. His robe is nicer than mine, so I wear his.

I escape into sleep, but it's not much of a consolation, because Savta darts out from the folds of sleep, this time wearing the red dress. She had two dresses, blue and red. She looks impatient. I get out of bed and seek refuge in the leather easy chair near the window. And then one night is over, followed by another, and another. Jerusalem returns -- as does the house, and friends -- and I am overcome with longing and fear.

Savta wants me to return to Israel. I know it. She argues with me without words - with only her facial expressions. Her look is so accusing, and so powerful. I want to tell her no -- but I can't.

All at once I see where all of this is leading -- like the resolution of a mystery story: I'll have to return home. I'll have to leave Steven behind. Savta will never leave me alone. She'll soon become the most solid presence around me. She -- and the house, which I thought I forgot. The house will become both my present and my future, like an additional storey in the story of my life.

*

Kobi Levi is waiting for me at Ben-Gurion airport. I don't know how he knew that I was flying in, but he knew. He is carrying new plans for the high-rise. He has sunglasses perched on his head, even though it is dark outside. In the plans the tower looks quite different now, and we are allotted four apartments -- two for Amir and two for me. As for the monetary compensation, it too has grown -- considerably, in fact. He tells me this with great force, with dedication, looking me straight in the eye. Let's be straight, he says. You have no idea how much this land is now worth; they are building hotels and office towers there. There is no doubt that you are selling an excellent piece of real estate. "Excellent" sounds like something with gravy when he says it -- maybe steak.

And then comes the surprise. He rolls out another blueprint from his bag. On it, in attractive colors, is a sketch of the house's courtyard with the well at its center. They have made it look like an amphitheater, with steps all around, like the compound in front of the Damascus Gate. He understands who he is dealing with and has planned everything around the well, as if the lovely high-rise was erected from it. But Savta, who is seeing him from within me, is smarter, or at least more ancient. She knows that it's either the tower or the well. In truth, they can't exist together.

Don't mess around with Savta -- that's what I'm thinking as Kobi Levi rolls out his plans with a victorious gesture. She can knock down your lovely tower and send it down into the deep.

We get up to shake hands, and I say that it doesn't seem that it will work at present. Maybe a little later. That's as close to "no" that I can get.

He follows me until the exit from the terminal and I tell him that I've got to rest, I can't discuss it now. When he leaves me I sneak back in and check myself out in the bathroom: I'm sweating, out of breath, but alive.

Savta and I get closer to each other. If she is going to stick so close to me I might as well make my peace with her and stop fighting. She is perched at the threshold of my consciousness: watchful, making astute observations but not interfering. We have long conversations. I love her company. Sooner or later we will have to confront each other on the big issue. From where she sits she can't help but see the whole picture of my life, including Steven.

He's there -- and not there. We talk on the phone, write to each other, and mostly, we think about each other. There is no chance that he will live here, I know it. But he's part of my life.

The return to the house is easier than I thought. In the first week I do nothing but clean up. The process slowly uncovers the floors, the furniture, and the memories that are in every room -- and it uncovers me, the person that I was, and now am. At times I stop working and sit near the well and listen, and think. The old rhythm returns; day turns to night. When the church bells ring at midnight I get up and go to sleep in my bed. Just like back then. I stare into the darkness through the arched window in my room. Even this very specific darkness is familiar to me.

Savta thinks it unhealthy that I'm not working. She used to get up early every morning -- I remember it well -- and didn't rest for a moment during the day. She doesn't quite understand this "thinking" of mine. Is there really so much to think about? We cook together. Her old recipes come to life. There's no doubt that her delicate cooking is better than the British food that I learnt to cook in my class. But it's because of that course that I can cook. The aromas of my cooking attracts friends, as in the old days. Amir too visits at times. He says: "It's a pity to see this big old house go to waste like this. If only we could utilize it for something good, so people could enjoy its beauty."

Savta listens and nods her head.

"Thinking of something specific," I ask. Savta, from her place in the window sill, her thumbs and her index finger under her chin, seems pensive. She is faster than both of us. She always had creative ideas.

"A restaurant," she says.

"A restaurant," he says.

We both walk through the rooms and discover that the house and the courtyard were destined for that purpose. The largest room declares its function -- the main dining area of a restaurant. The two small rooms to the side are appropriate for small groups in each; and Dad's old large study for the kitchen. We also have a name -- it's almost self-evident -- "The Well.'"

And now the house is buzzing again. And again we see friends and friends of friends, and again the smells of Savta's cooking waft through the halls. Amir and Liat drive up every evening from Tel-Aviv. For the first week he is the barman, I'm the cook, Liat is the waitress. In the second week we already have three waiters, and another barman, another cook, and a dishwasher. Every night after midnight we sit around the well, like we used to. We are surrounded by the last of the diners, illuminated by the colorful lighting we put up, and talk. Either Amir or I make Savta's special pine nut tea and serve it to everyone.

It takes me awhile to understand that if Amir knows how to prepare Savta's secret tea -- tea that even my mother didn't know how to make --it's a sign that she is somehow with him, too. I confront him with this realization and he confirms it -- with some degree of embarrassment. He says this happens to him only when he comes back to the house in Musrara, and admits that is the reason that he returns.

It's night already. We are both a little drunk, and we speak openly about Savta. We have a complicated relationship with her, of course. Amir contends that I'm crazy. I tell him that I'm fine ---he's the crazy one. We argue for a long time and we both have excellent arguments. In the end we both succeed in convincing the other.

*

Yom Kippur is the first day I have off in almost a year. I visit my parents' graves on the Mount of Olives. The gravestones have aged very quickly. It seems as if Amir has never been here and if he has, he never left a sign of his visit. But Mom and Dad are happy here, I'm sure: They are now closer to each other than they ever were in their lives.

After I weed the grass around the grave I sit down to rest, leaning against Mom's grave and looking out over the Old City. It's not that I'm having a religious experience, but feelings arise -- and I don't know what to call them.

The air here seems fuller, sweeter, richer than anywhere else. I could stay here for a few years and not eat: this air is so nourishing. An old gravedigger is working up the slope. Sounds from the city rise up. Since Dad's funeral I haven't been in a cemetery, and now, for the first time, I discover how pleasant it is here. The best ties are the ones with the dead.

I'm still thinking about that when I hear Savta's voice from deep within me, a voice that is hoarse, rich, and sweet, and she tells me to look at the graves of her grandmother and grandfather, her brothers and her sister and her other sister, her many cousins, their kids, grandchildren and great grandchildren. She also wants great grandchildren -- and great great grandchildren. And of course I'm not going to supply them. This section of earth will be empty of the graves of my descendents. I will be the last grave.

Her need for the line to continue is so powerful and justified that I can feel it burning in me. But her need, as powerful and justified as it is, is not my need. I'm different, completely different. I look deep within myself -- and within her -- and say, soundly, completely and absolutely -- No.

At night, in the pleasant loneliness of the old house's courtyard, I tie a rope to the metal pipe next to the well, take my clothes off, and let myself down into the well.

The water is very very cold. I go down and up, down and up, until it is no longer so cold. It was Savta who once gave me that idea. She had a kind of saying: only one who was very familiar with the depths really knew life. I look up and see the slice of sky defined by the edges of the well -- with its own set of stars. When I was a child I thought that these stars were our own private stars and that some day I would inherit them. And now I think that that someday is right now -- tonight.

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David Ehrlich is the owner of Tmol-Shilshom,
Jerusalem's famous bookstore.