“Saba! I wan’ cubes!” – Noam was pulling his grandfather’s sleeve.
Omer rose heavily from the couch, sliding the TV remote into its special leather pouch. Copper-coloured studs which held it together gleamed once in the rays of the glorious sun, which was about to have its daily dip in the Mediterranean. “I could have made that bigger, to hold the newspapers, too…” – he berated himself habitually, looking at the pouch with a critical eye. Yet, knowing it was over forty years ago, when he was but a freshly-married youth with no facial hair, he just shrugged habitually, patted it, and carried on. Shuffling over to the toy shelf in his slippers, Omer brought down a big heavy box. It was painted white and red, with blue stars all over, almost like the American flag, but not quite. How was he supposed to know what it looked like? This, too, he made before the Internet changed their lives, and even before there was a library anywhere near the moshav, right when their daughter Yael was born.
Truly, there wasn’t an item of daily use that Omer could not have made with his own hands. His wife, Aliza, insisted he left pots and pans alone, though. He preferred the ones made by Tefal, and he decided not to argue. Yet, nearly everything else in this house was once made by his calloused hands with thick stubby fingers. Moreover, most of the kitchens and pergolas in the moshav were also fruit of his labours. Now that his arthritis was bothering him more often than not, he would still go into the shed and polish his tools, oil the machines, and check that everything was in order. Sometimes, he would still work, grunting under his breath when the swollen joints refused to cooperate, mostly when the grandchildren wanted new toys. Just last month, he made a new toy car for Eitan, complete with an electric motor, real pedals and steering wheel to operate it. Eitan knew he was not allowed to drive it out of the moshav, but inside – he could do what he wanted.
Omer carried the heavy box into the garden, and set it down with a thud onto the marble tiles under the mulberry tree. Reaching up to over ten meters, the giant was his pride and joy. Noam ran up and began taking out the colourful wooden cubes, then stacking them up to make a town. “This be school” – he muttered. – “And here road. Wailway?” – “Say please.” – Omer ruffled his grandson’s hair, then brought out the wooden rail pieces in another box. Then Eitan, who had been watching cartoons, asked for sweet potato chips, and Omer had to take him to the local grocery store on his motorbike. The adult-sized helmet made him look like a bit of a mushroom, or maybe a tadpole. Tired of the torrent of the child’s questions, Omer handed the potatoes to Aliza and settled down to watch the news. He rolled up the thick shaggy carpet away from his feet, and rested them on the cool stone floor, abandoning his slippers. His back was sticking to the leather armchair with a thin film of sweat. Soon, the smells of the chips and a beef stew Aliza was making wafted into the living room, and the boys began quarrelling over an action man that belonged to Eitan, but was Noam’s most coveted dream.
Aliza shoved to the back burner the aged and battered pan, which used to belong to her great-grandmother in Iraq and was filled with cubes of bahour – frankincense – and lit it again. Thick smoke filled the kitchen, swirled around Aliza’s head, then flew out of the window in one swift move, towards the distant orchards and the shore. As always, she thought she heard a whisper, “lidar' aleayn alshiriyra”, “against the evil eye”. She always thought of the spirit of the tree from which the cubes of tar came, perhaps this is how it could be set free, at last, freedom born of fire and smoke. “Savta, Noam is eating raw pasta from the cupboard!” – Eitan’s shout interrupted her thoughts. She took it away, scolded the child – just a bit! – and nudged them both towards the big kitchen table. The heat of the day was oppressive, and she saw Omer reaching out for the air-conditioning remote, nestled in a leather pouch adorned with metal wire flowers. He threw a shot of arak in his mouth, tilting his head back in exactly the same move as a rooster does when he is about to crow. Aliza ladled some stew into her husband’s plate, then began mashing potatoes for the boys, while telling them a story about a hero who grew strong by eating meat.
And to think all this could’ve not happened, Omer mused. If they hadn’t changed doctors back then, at the turn of the millennium, when the world was scaring itself with impending computer doom, Yael would not have been born. Their old doctor really did all he could, and after twelve failed attempts and eight miscarriages he finally told them to go to an orphanage and adopt a kid who needed parents as much as they needed a child. Aliza wept that night, the whole night through, and he felt like his own life force was ebbing away, leaking out of his own heart with her every sigh, draining out along the curve of her shaking shoulders, which he didn’t dare touch in the darkness of their bedroom, for fear of making her weep harder. Her body was wrecked by the treatments, destroyed to the core, and she really couldn’t take any more. That night, thunder shook their house, and torrential rain battered the window, and they felt like God himself was crying with them. Then, a few months later, the moshav filled with the spring light, smells of Pesach cooking, and flowers everywhere, and their hope grew against all odds. He remembered that autumn, when the world seemed to be coming to a boiling point, the news filled with the face of a boy cowering in his father’s arms, riots, smoke and blood everywhere. None of this touched them, they seemed impervious to the upheaval like fish in an aquarium, because inside them – he really felt like it was both of them – a new life took hold and refused to let go. It was in that thunderous September that the baby crossed the crucial line of survival – 24 weeks, and then they both wept with joy and renewed hope. Then there was the day when he got drunk like Lot himself, pouring out whiskey to all his friends, walking from house to house, and shouting, ‘A daughter! It’s a girl!’ His parents got to meet Yael and even watched her grow for a few years… He sighed. A human being could not have all his wishes in this world. But never mind, having grandsons is as good – or even better – than having sons. Yet… he was old enough to remember the jubilation of the Six Days War, and he had an even clearer memory of the horror and grief of the Yom Kippur War, with all its aftershocks, then being a soldier himself in Lebanon, being called up again immediately after being discharged, and then the things nobody would ever hear about from him, not even Aliza. The graves of Shuki, Dani and Arik on the highest hill in Jerusalem, surrounded by flowers and quiet, so quiet and still forever. Had he had a son, he would have named him Shuki, he would… But maybe it was better to be the parents of girls in this Land, even if the girls… oh well.
Aliza interrupted his musings by reminding him that Yael was coming to pick up the boys in a couple of hours, and could he please keep the boys busy for a bit more, so she could make them dinner? He grunted in assent, then picked up Noam and took Eitan’s hand.
“Who wants to go to Saba’s tool shed and do some work?”
Excited screams were the answer.
They spent the next two hours learning the names of tools and what they did, and even polishing some planks of wood, until Yael opened the door with her own key, and called out to her parents and sons.
They had dinner in the garden, delicious garlic bread with dips and an omelette with vegetables. Above them, in the pergola Omer carved with leaves and flowers, birds were fluttering from one cluster of grapes to another, pecking and chirping, dropping dry leaves and occasional grapes all around them. Sometimes, a spider would descend on a long string, weaving as it dangled around in the cool evening breeze. Aliza was feeding Noam, without forgetting to help Eitan, too.
Then Yael said, “Mom, Dad, I need to talk to you.”
She proceeded to tell them about her husband, Yosef’s difficulties at work, which stemmed from the fact that his boss was an obnoxious tyrant, unable to recognize true talent. Aliza and Omer exchanged looks, which their daughter did not fail to notice. She carried on, her voice shaking slightly. Yosef thought the best solution would be to open a business, importing cars form Poland to Israel, including some luxury models. But to start, he needed a boost, something substantial, say, two – three million shekels.
Aliza sighed, while continuing to hold up her hand with the next portion of omelette. She seemed to forget it was still up there in the air.
“So, I assume you’ll apply for a loan? Please don’t sign anything. It’s his business, not yours.” – Omer suggested. His face had begun to turn red, a blue vein pulsing noticeably in the middle of his forehead.
“No…” – Yael dragged out her ‘no’ like a chewing gum stuck to a shoe. Silence hung over them, even the birds seemed to quiet down. She avoided their eyes, pinching a cloth napkin embroidered with exquisite violet lilies.
“He wants you to sell the house and lend him the money. He says he can find you a nice apartment in Hadera, his friend is a contractor. A nice two-room thing, less than a million. He says you are…” – Yael swallowed hard, then continued: “getting old. So you don’t need all this space. You’ll have to move anyway…”
She didn’t finish her sentence, because the table jumped with a thundering ‘bang!’ Omer’s fist landed squarely in the middle of his plate, cracking it neatly in two. Blood was dripping off his wrist. Aliza gasped, then started getting up. Noam began wailing loudly, large transparent tears running down his pink cheeks. Eitan just stared, open-mouthed, at his grandfather, who had never exhibited any signs of temper before. Then he did it again, another loud ‘bang!’ By now, Omer’s face was a delicate shade of scarlet, and Aliza was terrified he would end up having a stroke.
Yael picked up the baby, muttering, “There was no need to scare the child. If you don’t want to, then fine, but why make a scene? I just wanted to discuss…”
Aliza just stared hard at her daughter, then said, “It’s probably best if you go home now. I’ll pack the vegetables for you to take”.
“I don’t need your vegetables! I need to be financially secure, for the future of my children, who are your grandchildren, by the way!” – she grabbed her bag, and headed towards the gate, pulling Eitan after her with her free hand.
Then, Omer finally found his voice.
“Tell your… your… husssband!” – he spat out the word, - “that this house will not be his or anyone else’s as long as I live. I will go to the lawyer tomorrow. And you!” – he pointed at Yael. – “You will get nothing! This house will go to them!” – he pointed at the children, who were both crying by now. “A nachash – a snake we have adopted into the family!”
“And don’t argue!” – he threw at his wife, even though she had been silent.
Later, after a cool bath and a backrub, Omer managed to relax in his chair, even though his mind was still racing.
“Is your decision final?” – Aliza ventured.
“Absolutely. Come with me tomorrow, your signature is needed.”
“And what if I don’t want to sign? It’s our daughter!”
“Silly woman, you. It will free her from his clutches, because he will understand that he will get nothing out of us. The house will go to the kids, as I said, sold when the youngest turns eighteen, and divided equally. I am seeking to protect Yael, not dispossess her.”
Aliza did not reply.
Night was spreading its velvety wings over the busy roads, over the grainy coasts, over orchards and cities, over the country that had known nothing but bloodshed for millennia. The Land curved itself like a seashell, protecting those within, hugging them with a sweet lullaby of ticking antiquity.
In a city in central Israel, a young man was tossing on his bed, breaking out in cold sweat, as a dark mist floated up his nostrils, whispering, “lidar' aleayn alshiriyra”.
Two weeks later, when the fever finally broke, and befuddled doctors pronounced Yosef to be out of danger, the first thing he did after recovering consciousness was to phone his father-in-law and apologize. The second was to seek a kabbalist, for his feverish visions were too terrible to be dismissed.
“Don’t worry!” – Omer chucked into the phone. “It’s all good! But the house can only go to your children, whether we die today or in fifty years. I fixed my will. And good luck making your family financially secure!” – He hung up and continued to dip the paintbrush in the canister of lacquer, applying it in thin strips onto the beautiful carved chest he’d made for Aliza, a woman full of mysteries.
