A Wall of Light (19 page)

“I’m sure it’s not him.”

“So you grew up with your mother and your married brother?”

“Yes, and his wife, Iris, and their son, Noah. But everyone’s gone. My mother is in a nursing home, Noah’s in Berlin and Iris was murdered. She was a lawyer, she was murdered in her car. My brother knows who was responsible but he won’t tell.”

“Not Iris Nissan?”

“Yes.”

He shook his head in disbelief.
“You are fortunate to have relation to such a person. People here still commemorate her. She gave her life for us.”

“I don’t think she did, Khalid. My brother says she was killed because she was going to expose something inside Israel. Some corruption, I guess. But it’s true she died because she was seeking justice. Listen, Khalid, I should go. I feel bad about keeping you from your mother, you need to look after her. I’ve stayed long enough. I’m glad you’re not angry with me for coming here.” I felt depression slithering toward me—the tips of its tentacles were already touching me, and I wanted to leave before it clutched me in its entirety. I had not experienced depression for a long time and had forgotten how leaden and treacherous it was.

“Okay.”

“You’ll contact your family?”

“Yes. I guess I’m relieved that she died. It’s funny, until she died I was crying. I had pain in my heart for seventeen months. But I think I was doing all my mourning prepaid. Now I’m just happy she isn’t suffering. The end was really hard, she was on morphine, there was no point anymore. But my brothers and sister, they’ll be much more upset, because for them it just happened now.”

Neither of us moved for a few seconds; Khalid was politely waiting for me to take the lead. He had been kind, he had done his best, but he wasn’t attracted to me. There was no point making him feel bad about it; it wasn’t his fault.

Finally I stood up and he immediately got up as well. “Thank you for your kindness,” I said.

We were approximately the same height, and taking inspiration from Raya, I kissed him good-bye on the mouth.

As soon as my lips touched his, he jumped back as if he’d received an electric shock. It was an involuntary reaction, instantaneous, complete.

We were both intensely embarrassed. Khalid began to say something but I didn’t try to understand. All I wanted to do was disappear. Trembling with the effort to remain calm, I walked down the stairs, unlocked the front door, and left the house.

N
OAH’S DIARY
, J
ANUARY
1, 1989.

In the news: only a masochist would follow the news these days.

D
ear Diary, Here I am in the North Pole, otherwise known as the Golan Heights. Wrapped up from top to toe and still freezing my arse off. All that training and where do they send me? To this godforsaken place to sit around all day and drink coffee from a Thermos. Okay. Fine with me. Whatever you want.

Meanwhile Oren’s in Brazil, lying in the sun on some beach, no doubt, with a South American beauty he picked up in a nightclub. I was wrong, he didn’t get a mental health discharge. He suddenly got diabetes, out of the blue. So he got a regular health discharge. I get postcards from him, they make me sick with jealousy. By the way, I started smoking. First it was just a cigarette here and there, now I’m a total addict. It helps pass the time. Dad wouldn’t be too happy, he made Sonya watch a lung being removed when he caught her smoking in high school. Dad’s a little crazy. But then so is Sonya—she said it was “fascinating.” I am truly the only normal person in the family.

I’m writing this because in the last package-from-home Dad sent me some notebooks along with the sketchbooks I asked for, and I’m bored, so what the hell, might as well write something or other. I’m a little out of practice, I may need help from Anne Frank ha ha.

I’m wearing a scarf some kid in Cincinnati knitted. Aaron and I had a fit of hysterics when we got that package of scarves and stuff and read the letters from the kids. It was a class project at some Hebrew school there. The things they teach them … We felt like writing back, and we even composed a letter that was really hysterical, but we’d get court-martialed if we sent it. Imagine if they got that letter.
Dear Sherry, Thank you for the lovely mitts. They will help us protect our tiny, struggling state and keep us warm next time we dance the hora. The photo where you’re holding the flag was very nice, and we’re glad you cried as you watched
Exodus.
But things get a bit slow up here in the Golan—all the action is in Gaza and Ramallah and all those places you’ve never heard of, where our friends are beating people up like it’s going out of style. So if you and your friend Megan …
We got a little carried away.

Anyway, I’m stuck here for another two years. But I’m glad I’m not fighting the intifada—I wouldn’t last one day. I’ve realized that basically I’m a saint ha ha. I’m doing some drawing, trying to get a portfolio ready. My best one is Aaron sitting on the can with that dopey look on his face, his rifle on his lap. That really came out good. Aaron wanted to buy it but I wouldn’t sell. Dad sent me a list of schools in Europe that teach costume design. I think I need to get out of this country for a while.

Sonya’s in university now, in Beersheba, combining her first two degrees. She wrote some important article, solved something, I’m not sure what, but she could have gone to Harvard or anywhere else she wanted. But for her, even Beersheba was a big step, and she comes in every weekend to be with Dad. He tried to encourage her to go to the Sorbonne but she said no. Dad wrote that Gran needs more and more looking after and I think he’s going to put her in a home soon. Sonya’s still mad at me and we’re both too stubborn to make up. I did write her a letter one night when it was incredibly quiet here, but I didn’t send it right away, and in the end Shmulik spilled coffee all over it.

The only break from the monotony is the soldier who drives the supply truck. She’s nice. Her name’s Marion, she’s from Sweden. Cute little freckles on her nose, cute little nose, big gray eyes. I wouldn’t mind getting to know her a bit better. Wonder where she lives. About the gay thing, when I finally told Dad he said I don’t have to make any decision, he said people change all the time, moment to moment and hour to hour. He said I should just do whatever feels right and not care what anyone else thinks or says, but that I have to swear to him if I have sex with a guy again (I told him about that time with Oren) to use a condom.

I have leave in two weeks. It’ll be nice seeing King Kong.

L
ETTER TO
A
NDREI
, J
UNE
15, 1957

I
haven’t told you, dearest, but I’ve been having problems with my feet. I suppose this comes from walking everywhere in my flat sandals, and then remaining on my feet all day at work—and again on stage. I finally couldn’t bear the pain any longer and decided to see a doctor. But the doctor only recommended soaking my feet in water and baking soda, which has not helped at all. Now Carmela has told me of a special doctor, a “magician,” she calls him, who does wonders for people with foot problems. He will give me a special insole, she said, and cushions for my sandals and all sorts of treatments. The only problem is that he lives in Safed, which is in the north, quite far from Tel Aviv. Carmela says it’s an interesting city, one of the most ancient in the country. This expert on feet is a religious man and Carmela told me his family has been in Safed
(Tzfat
, as it is called in Hebrew) since the sixteenth century!

I’ve decided to set out tomorrow, Sunday, to see him—Sunday is Shakespeare’s day off. Orlando, who seems to be quite wealthy, is lending me the money for the trip. It will be my first time traveling alone in this country! I hope it goes well. I will continue this letter when I return.

I am back, dearest, and what an adventure I had! The bus ride to Safed was endless, it took hours. But I sat the entire way. I took the Duke’s cane (one of our few props) with me and this way no one expected me to stand for elderly people or children when the bus was very crowded. In fact, I had to take two buses, but in both cases I had a seat for the whole journey.

I found the house of this doctor quite easily; the bus driver was very helpful and let me off at exactly the right street, even though there wasn’t a stop there. Safed is a lonely, fabulous, haunted city. The houses are made of very old rough stone, and many of the streets are also cobbled with uneven rectangular stones. Instead of inclining, the streets are built in levels, so that you suddenly have to step up a street stair as you walk. Or else you come across an actual set of stairs, which are however so irregular they look as if they’ve been made out of modeling clay rather than stone. Most front doors are set slightly above the ground, and one sees many little children sitting in doorways. They stare at you as you pass, as do the shaded windows.

The doctor’s house was small and dark. His children were all indoors, a whole brood of them. The youngest was sitting on his lap, and I said, “What a sweet girl,” but he corrected me and told me the child was a boy, even though he had long, wavy hair down to his shoulders! The children were very well behaved; I haven’t seen such well-behaved children since arriving in this country. The boys had skullcaps on their heads and the girls wore long dresses. The older girls were also wearing stockings, in this heat! I felt sorry for them, but they didn’t seem to be suffering. I was glad that Carmela had warned me to dress modestly. In any case I always cover my arms with a shawl so I won’t burn, but I also wore my longest dress and cotton socks.

The doctor, who has black hair and a white beard, took me to his office, a small room at the side of the house. I sat facing him and he placed a pillow on his lap and massaged my feet for an hour (with my socks on). He was very stern and I understood that I wasn’t allowed to speak to him or look at him. In any case, his eyes were closed for much of the time. Then he measured my feet and gave me orthopedic sandals. Luckily he had a pair that fit me. They cost a fortune, but I had no choice. He had several amulets in his office, but he didn’t use any hocus-pocus on me! I think they were just there for decoration. He’s a real doctor, and he explained the reason for my shooting pains in technical terms.

I felt so much better after his treatment, and the new sandals make such a difference! He also told me I have to take a week off altogether: no acting, no work, just resting in bed for a week. We do have an understudy, and she will have to replace me this coming week.

However, it was after this visit that the most extraordinary thing happened. I was quite hungry by then, so I asked a passerby where I could eat, and she directed me to a little family restaurant nearby. The restaurant consisted of five tables and they were all full, so I had to share a table with another woman. The woman had a congenital facial disorder that affected her nose and upper lip and made them look a little squashed. She was extremely friendly and, like most people in this country, began at once to tell me all about herself: she was thirty years old, from Haifa, and her mother had been a spy who was caught and executed. She told me this very casually and even a little resentfully, and I had the sense that her feelings about her heroic mother were very complicated.

She had come down to Safed to meet a friend of hers, a nurse who was about to get married. This was their last time together on their own, she said sadly, and she told me she didn’t think she herself would ever find a husband. She knew she wasn’t beautiful, she said, but that didn’t make her any less particular. “People think that my brain is affected by my looks, but my brain is exactly the same as Elizabeth Taylor’s,” she said, laughing at herself. She had a very pleasant personality, and I was thinking that this really was a lucky day for me.

The food was delicious; the owners do all the cooking themselves and there’s no menu; you just eat what they’ve prepared that day as if you were a child at your parents’ home. The meal—bread and margarine, potato soup, fried fish, vegetable couscous, cookies, and weak tea (Israeli tea is not very different from our “white tea” at home)—was on the expensive side but I treated myself, for I still had a little money left over from Orlando’s loan, and the portions were very generous. Toward the end of the meal my table companion and I both needed to go to the washroom. We were given a key and instructed to make our way outside to a narrow lane at the back of the house, where there was a green wooden door marked
sheyrutim
, which means “services,” or washroom.

We found the lane and the sign, and I told my table companion she could go first. She unlocked the green door and gave a cry of surprise. I looked over her shoulder and there on the dusty, tiled floor was a tiny infant sleeping inside a tomato crate lined with blankets! He was unnaturally white, with thin white hair on his little head, and he had nothing on but a diaper fastened with two large safety pins. There were several large red moles or birthmarks on his back.

A handwritten note was tied to the crate. It said,
I can’t look after him. He’s albino, keep him out of the sun or he’ll die. Please.
My table partner picked up the baby and there were tears of joy in her eyes: I could see that this was a case of love at first sight. The baby woke up but he didn’t cry. He only stared at us with curiosity. He had such intelligent eyes! Very light blue, nearly transparent, and he looked as if he were contemplating the theory of relativity or his next sonata.

The woman looked at me with a worried expression on her face. “You don’t want him, do you?” she asked anxiously, as if we’d found a diamond necklace rather than a strange white baby!

“Oh, no,” I said. “I have a son.”

“Thank you,” she replied. What an odd person she was, but everyone in this country is a little odd, including me, I suppose. “You choose a name for him,” she said kindly, as if to compensate me for my loss.

“Alexander,” I said at once. That seemed an appropriate name for such a thoughtful child.

“I may never marry,” the woman said, “but I’ve been given a baby. Hello, my sweet Alexander!” She was glowing with happiness.

I gave her my kerchief so she could cover him as we headed back to the restaurant. I was a little worried that she would not be allowed to keep the baby and that there would be some sort of official adoption process she’d have to go through, with a long waiting list. Babies are very precious in this country and everyone wants them, but she was sure it would work out.

She was right. We called the police and there was such a fuss at the restaurant, with many superstitious people making all sorts of comments about Divine Providence. One horrible man there began to say that the baby was abnormal and no wonder his mother wanted to get rid of him—he said the baby should be put away in an institution. But everyone jumped at him and he left under a cloud of disgrace. A journalist came and took a photograph. And guess what? My table companion was allowed to take the baby home with her. Apparently with babies there is a kind of “finders keepers” clause. I was so relieved for her sake. She will only have to sign a few papers.

That was my day, dearest. I traveled to Safed on my own, bought orthopedic footwear, and named a baby.

I slept all the way home. I can’t tell you what a relief it is to have comfortable sandals. I also look forward to my week in bed, I must say. I have a tall pile of lovely books I can hardly wait to read, which I’ve found in bookstores all over the city: English and French poetry (including the complete works of Baudelaire!), a play I hear is quite wonderful by someone called Samuel Beckett, a book by Gertrude Stein, short stories by James Joyce, a novel by Pearl S. Buck, two by John Steinbeck—as you see, I will only have time for a few of these treasures. How wonderful that there is no censorship, and I can read whatever I want! If only I could mail you these books—or better still, if only you were here to feast on them yourself!