All Backs Were Turned Page 8

  “Yes,” she said. “You guessed by my accent?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I can always tell Germans. I think I would be able to recognize them in the dark and even if they didn’t say a word.”

  “Do you mind that I’m a German?”

  “No,” he said. “Germans never got in the way of Jews. It was always the other way around. Didn’t your husband tell you that?”

  “I want to see this country,” she said stubbornly. “I want to see everything my husband told me about. That’s why I came here.”

  “Okay,” Israel said. He started the jeep and they drove toward the bay. “I don’t know Eilat, so maybe you can show it to me. I guess you could call me a cicerone à re-bours. But I never expected anybody would want to pay me for something like this.”

  “Well, I do,” she said. “You can like Germans or not, but Germans always pay.”

  “There are many people in Israel who have refused all war reparations,” he said. “Nobody in the world knows how much exactly he should get for his mother’s murder. Or for the loss of an eye. Or for spending five years in a concentration camp. Maybe that’s why those people don’t want to accept money that’s rightfully theirs. Or maybe they think the rates will go up with time and they’re afraid of accepting too little.”

  She turned to him.

  “I can’t say anything about that,” she said. “I came here to see the country my husband told me so much about.” She looked ahead at the red, dusty road; a layer of dust had already settled on her slim, weary face. “My husband, whom I loved very dearly,” she added.

  “I’m sorry,” Israel said. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. After all, my mother died here, in a free country. And I’m free too.”

  Suddenly he braked hard; she had to brace herself against the windshield with her hand. The jeep stopped.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer; he was watching a plane coming in for a landing from over the bay, its undercarriage half out.

  “What a fool,” he said loudly.

  “Who?”

  “That goddamn pilot,” he said. “Letting out the undercarriage in the middle of a turn! That’s the quickest way to plummet to the ground. Where the hell did he train to be a pilot, in a coal mine? Only a dead drunk miner could have issued him a pilot’s license. I haven’t seen anything so stupid as long as I live.”

  “Do you like planes?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer; he hadn’t heard her question. He was still watching the plane. She looked at his hands and saw they were executing strange movements, as if they held something that was invisible but gave resistance, that had to do with the control of a machine’s motion; then the plane touched down heavily on the runway, and Israel’s hands came to rest on the jeep’s steering wheel.

  “Were you a pilot?” she asked.

  “No,” he said. “And I never will be.”

  He started the car again. They were driving now along the bay, tranquil and luminous; she turned her gaze toward the sea and the white houses of Aqaba on the other side of the border.

  “What’s over there?” she asked, pointing.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “It looks like an oil-processing plant or something of the sort.”

  “You don’t like this country, do you?” she asked.

  “I dislike Eilat. I never said I disliked Israel. Actually, I’ve never given that question any serious thought.”

  “Why did you come here?”

  “Because I thought I should,” he said. “And it turned out to be an illusion. People should never do things they don’t want to do. But there are always others who can make them do something against their will and even talk them into believing it’s what they want most themselves.”

  Israel stopped the jeep. “Here we are,” he said. “See that boat out in the bay? That’s the one I told you about. They should be back in a few minutes.”

  “Look!” she said. “There’s that old couple you wouldn’t give a ride to.”

  He turned and saw the two people in black garb shuffling slowly along the beach. The woman was still clutching her husband’s arm; from time to time she would yell something to him, bringing her mouth to his ear.

  “They look as if they’re in the wrong movie,” Ursula said. “It happens. You are somewhere, maybe doing your shopping, and suddenly you see someone who looks totally out of place. Just as if the projectionist got his rolls of film mixed up.”

  “Don’t worry about them,” Israel said. “I’m sure they don’t feel the way you do. They are certain their presence is what was lacking here and only now is everything finally in perfect order.”

  As the old couple strolled by, Israel saw that their eyes were red and glazed from the sun; the old man was walking with his mouth wide open like someone who’s breathing his last and will drop dead the next instant.

  “That bitch made him come here,” Israel said. “She convinced him he should see this country before he died, and then dragged him here all the way from New York or California. Now he can go back and die.”

  “You don’t like old people, do you?”

  “No,” he said. “How can anybody like them? They know too much and have too little dignity. That old bitch thinks the world couldn’t go on without her. That’s why she browbeats her travel agent and flies here halfway across the world, spending money that’d be enough to feed five hungry men.”

  “That woman could be your mother,” Ursula said.

  “I’d say the same thing about my mother,” he said. “Fortunately, my mother is no longer here.” For a few moments he watched the old couple trudging slowly and doggedly along, even though each step they took must have required an effort. “Americans never say somebody’s dead; they say he’s gone or departed. But I prefer to think that old people really die and I’ll never see them again. All those old mothers who ruined their children’s lives. They won’t come back.”

  “I don’t understand that,” she said. “My mother died when I was nine. I often wish I could talk to her. Maybe things would have been different if she had lived.”

  “Oh, definitely,” he said. “She would have taken care of that. She would have done everything to ruin your life. But, believe me, none of them ever come back. They don’t return, they disappear, together with their despicable bodies, their wisdom, and bad breath. Have you ever thought of how an old woman really smells? Nobody wants to think about it. No animal smells as bad as an old woman.”

  “Did your mother harm you in some way?”

  “The worst thing is she always did everything with my happiness in mind,” he said. “She wanted me to come here and live like a free man. I had begun to study aircraft construction and was already in my third year when she came to me and said, Israel, they are letting Jews leave. So what? I asked. Things may change, she said. They may stop doing that. Israel, do something for your mother. Let me die in a free country. She was already ill and knew she’d die soon, but she was determined to die in Israel. So we came here, and my mother died. But I couldn’t go on studying aircraft construction. They don’t teach it here. And that’s the end of my story.”

  “Can’t you leave this country?”

  “Where would I go?” he said. “My place is here. I’m a Jew.”

  “Everybody can live wherever he wants,” she said. “You’re wrong thinking the way you do. If everyone thought that way, there’d be no American nation. There’d only be Jews, Germans, Portuguese, and God knows who else living in America.”

  “You’ve put it all very nicely,” he said, “but one needs money to go away and study. Hasn’t your husband ever told you about money? It’s the only bad thing Jews didn’t invent.”

  “You should leave Israel and continue your studies elsewhere,” she said. “You can always come back here later and work in your profession.” She paused. “Maybe I could help. My husband had many friends; I could talk to them. Some of them are rich and maybe they’d be w
illing to do something for you.”

  “Where are they?”

  “In Germany.”

  He smiled. “That means I’d have to study in Germany, wouldn’t I? Germany, of all places! I never thought life could be so amusing. But thanks, anyway.”

  “Do you hate Germans?”

  “No,” he said. “I pity them. But pity is worse than hate. What does one feel for people who murdered children? Hate? I believe God has turned His back on Germans once and for all. And that He’ll never show His face to them again and will never punish them, even if they commit a thousand new crimes in the future. That’s not hate.” He looked at his watch. “Where’s that goddamn boat? It should have come back long ago.”

  Someone touched his arm and he turned his head. Two men were standing by the jeep; he and Ursula hadn’t noticed their approach.

  “You’re Ben Dov’s friend?” one of the men asked.

  “Yes,” Israel said.

  The man reached into his pocket, took out a wad of bills and held it out to Israel. “Give this money to the younger Ben Dov,” he said. “Give it to him and tell him to leave Eilat.”

  “Did he ask you for it?” Israel asked.

  “That’s not important,” the man said. He removed his sunglasses and gingerly touched the Band-Aid under his eye. “The important thing is that you give him the money and that he goes away.”

  “Settle it with him yourself,” Israel said. “I know nothing about this and I have no intention of getting involved.”

  “And you know nothing about him slugging me last night?”

  “No,” Israel said.

  “Well, now you do,” the second man said. “Take the money Yehuda is offering and give it to young Dov.”

  “Give it to him yourself,” Israel said.

  “I don’t want to see that bastard again,” Yehuda said. “I want him to disappear. If he doesn’t, I’ll go to the police.” He caught Israel’s wrist and tried to stick the money in his palm, but Israel pulled his hand away.

  “No, I won’t take it,” he said.

  “I’m asking you one last time: take this money and give it to the younger Dov,” Yehuda said. “Look, I have nothing against you personally; I prefer to make friends than enemies.”

  Israel jumped out of the jeep and turned to the two men.

  “I know what you want,” he said. “But you’re not as clever as you think. You could give him the money yourself, but you prefer to pretend you want me to act as the go-between. Because you know I won’t take your money. You just want to provoke me into a fight. Because you think that Dov Ben Dov will then come after you, and the police will arrest him and send him away, and then you’ll be able to handle his brother without too much trouble. That’s your plan, isn’t it? But nothing doing. I intend to climb back into my jeep and drive off quietly, and nothing’s going to happen.”

  The second man suddenly slugged him in the jaw; Israel staggered and fell. He got up shakily and leaned against the jeep’s hood.

  “Nothing doing,” he said. “Dov won’t go after you. You can hit me again.”

  The man did; then Yehuda began striking Israel with the fist in which he still clutched the money; Israel again fell to the ground.

  “Defend yourself,” Ursula screamed at him. She jumped out of the jeep, ran to him, and helped him get up. “Why aren’t you defending yourself?”

  He pushed her gently aside and wiped his mouth. “Dov won’t get involved,” he said to the men. “Well, go on. What are you waiting for?”

  The second man again slammed him in the mouth, but this time Israel didn’t fall. He held onto the steel grid of the jeep’s radiator and stood there, a smile on his face. The second man hit him once more.

  “Hit him back!” Ursula yelled. “Come on!”

  “It won’t do you any good,” Israel said to the men. “I’ll simply forget this ever happened. That’s all.”

  “Remember, we’ll meet again,” Yehuda said. Then he and the other man walked away.

  Ursula watched Israel in silence as he wiped his bloodied lip with the back of his hand, and then suddenly she slapped him in the face as hard as she could. She looked at him in terror like someone suddenly wakened from sleep.

  “You don’t have to say anything,” Israel said.

  He got into the jeep with difficulty and rested his head on the steering wheel. Then he took Ursula’s bag from the seat and handed it to her. She stood without moving and watched him drive off in a cloud of red dust. He reached the highway and turned right; soon the jeep disappeared from view.

  LITTLE DOV WAS WALKING ALONG THE BEACH, HIS RIGHT arm around Esther. In his left hand he was carrying his shirt and shoes; it was so dark he could barely see the waves lapping at his feet. The sky over the bay was invisible and a distant hum was coming from the water.

  “Hey,” Esther suddenly said, “isn’t that your brother’s jeep?”

  “That’s impossible.” Little Dov said. “Dov’s been looking for Israel all over town. He visited all the bars, asking if anybody’s seen him, and now he’s ringing up all the hotels. Why should Israel be sitting here on the beach when Dov is going out of his mind with worry?”

  They walked up to the jeep; it stood with its lights off at the end of the beach, almost at the Jordanian border. Israel was dozing in the driver’s seat, slumped over the steering wheel.

  “Hey, wake up,” Little Dov said. He had to shake Israel’s arm several times before the sleeping man raised his head. “My brother is going out of his mind with worry. He was sure something had happened to you. Go sleep at home.”

  “Give me a cigarette,” Israel said. “I think I’ve smoked all the ones I had.”

  Little Dov gave him a cigarette and his lighter. When Israel lit it, they saw in its light that his face was swollen and bruised.

  “What happened to your face, Israel?” Little Dov asked. “Did you have an accident?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Did you damage the jeep?” Esther asked. When he didn’t answer, she walked around the jeep, inspecting it carefully. “Everything looks fine,” she said.

  “I was driving too fast when I suddenly saw this child,” Israel said. “I braked hard and hit my head against the— the—” He fell silent.

  “Against what?” Esther asked. She took her husband’s lighter and flicked it on Israel’s face. He lifted his hand against the light. “What did you hit it against?”

  “I hit it, Esther, that’s all,” he said softly. “Take that goddamn light away. My head hurts.”

  Little Dov took the lighter from her hand.

  “I’m thirsty,” Israel said.

  “Buy yourself something to drink,” Little Dov said. “There’s a stand by the hotel where they sell cold beer.”

  “I haven’t got any money,” Israel said.

  “You spent the whole day driving that woman around,” Esther said. “Didn’t she pay you?”

  Israel didn’t reply. They watched the red end of the cigarette glow over his bruised and tired face.

  “Has Dov gone to sleep?” he asked after a pause.

  “No,” Esther said. “He’s been looking for you in every bar in town and he’s really upset. He didn’t even eat his supper. Has that woman paid you?”

  “Of course she has,” Israel said. “Women always pay what they owe.”

  “You said you didn’t have any money.”

  “I don’t have any change,” he said. “You misunderstood me. I haven’t learned Hebrew all that well yet, and I don’t know if I ever will. I wasn’t born here like you two. I can’t fight or sing. So I have to settle for what they pay me.” He removed Esther’s hand gently from the steering wheel. “I have to go now. I guess Dov won’t go to sleep until I return. He got used to my company during the year we’ve been together. Though I myself don’t know why he likes me.”

  He started the jeep and made a U-turn on the wet sand; as he drove slowly past them, they once again saw his battered face.
r />   “Did we offend him, Esther?” Little Dov asked.

  “Don’t you have other worries?”

  “I don’t like to hurt people’s feelings, that’s all,” he said. “Didn’t he seem offended to you?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Good.”

  “It’s not like you think. I don’t believe it would be possible to offend him even if we wanted to.”

  “There’s no reason to despise him.”

  “There’s also no reason to like him,” she said. “Better don’t talk to me about him. He’s your brother’s friend. You heard what he said. Dov can’t fall asleep unless he’s there.”

  “Dov was a broken man after his wife left him. I was afraid he would do something to himself. I’m glad Israel was with him. Let’s go, Esther.”

  “Where do you want to go?” she asked. “If you want to go swimming, we can swim right here.”

  “And if I don’t want to go swimming?”

  “Then throw them out of the house,” she said. “So that we can sleep in our bed. I’m embarrassed doing it here, Dov. What if somebody sees us?”

  “He’ll go on his way. A man can make love to his wife anywhere he likes.”

  Esther sat down on the sand, bringing her long legs up and resting her chin on her knees.

  “You don’t like Dov, do you?” her husband asked.

  “No,” she said. “Neither him nor his friend. I don’t know why they came here, and I don’t believe they’ll ever go away.”

  “Dov is my brother. I can’t kick him out into the street.”

  “No,” she said. “You can’t do that. So maybe we should order a bed big enough for four people and sleep in it together. Or maybe big enough for five, so that when that woman comes over to see Dov, she’ll fit in comfortably, too.”

  “What woman, Esther?”

  “Just a woman,” she said. “What’s so strange in that? If your brother is anything like you, there’s gonna be plenty of women coming to the house.”