Shalom's bus

 

“There is nothing more incongruous in the world than you and your name,” – Shalom’s ex-wife used to say to him often enough for him to remember those words even three years after she packed up her and their two daughters’ belongings and moved back to live with her parents, leaving him in a skeleton of a home, an empty house without a soul. The furniture remained, of course, nut no smells of food drifted in from the kitchen, and no child giggled behind his back as he shaved in front of the bathroom mirror. Gone were the annoying kindergarten projects made of toilet paper rolls, plastic cups and bottle tops. The plastic potty from the bathroom, over which he used to trip over least once a day, and then yell at his wife if it was full, was gone, too. A thick layer of grease grew on the hob, plastic plates built up in the bin for months, and old beer bottles sat everywhere, including under his bed. Even the pink unicorn in a tutu, which his ex-wife painted over the front door, was peeling off, too. He had left his daughter’s old winter coat hanging on the rack, because it created an impression of the kids still being there. An illusion, nothing more and nothing less. The bean plants his ex-wife had stuck into the mud by the kitchen window first attracted a swarm of flies, then dried out and crumbled to dust, and now the flower pot became a resting place for stray cats. His weekly visits with the kids did nothing to dispel his mood. The girls sat ever so nicely, with their hands in their laps, and looked up at him with meek expressions, speaking little and nodding when he spoke, as the ice cream he bought them melted all over the table and their dresses. He wished he could spend more time with them.

Indeed, Shalom’s life had nothing peaceful in it. After seven years of working as an Egged bus driver, he had very little patience for anyone or anything. His hairline was receding faster than he could keep track of, and the thought of moving his bowels filled him with daily dread of that blinding pain that felt like a dagger was being twisted in his rectum. He couldn’t fall asleep without a few puffs of what Israelis call “grass”, obtained through illegal Telegram groups. He just kept on hoping it doesn’t get worse.

Today was no different.

On the first drive of the day, from Bat Yam to Jerusalem, an older man in Chassidic garb sat right behind him, repeating incessantly into his tiny Nokia phone, “Vus? Vus?”, until Shalom lost his patience and threated him with an accident, if he doesn’t stop disturbing him. After that, the chassid continued in much the same manner, except now he was whispering, “Vus? Vus?”, trying very hard to keep his voice down. Clearly, he did not have good reception from whatever company served the Orthodox and their “kosher” phones. Shalom put on the radio, and blaring Mizrahi music filled the bus. The chassid was forced to put the phone away. The steering wheel danced in Shalom’s hands impatiently, until he drove up the ramp into the dark concrete guts of the Central Bus Station in Jerusalem. On the way back, he was plagued with the smell of shawarma, which some teenagers were gulping down greedily right in the middle of the bus. Of course, once he got back to Bat Yam, he had to clean up after them, wrappers, loose cucumber pieces and stray chips that spread like the plague from where they sat. He swore as he found one of their Coke cans spilled all over the seat.

On his second run, nothing untoward happened, except a giant traffic jam on Road 1, right by Shoresh, where it becomes a steep climb. A lorry smashed into a bus, and it took paramedics hours to evacuate all the wounded. Shalom listened to some rabbi’s sermon on the religious radio, which always tended to calm the people down, answered some impatient passengers, called the office with a report… there was nothing else to do but wait and listen to more music. A pregnant woman begged to be allowed off the bus to find a bathroom, but as they were in the middle lane, he had to refuse, and then she cried and made a scene, and he gave in, then waited for her to come back. It was getting hot, so he applied the brakes and got up to take his sweater off, wishing he could smoke.

A madman in dirty clothes and shoes torn almost to nothing accosted him in Jerusalem, when he parked the bus to go for his well-deserved, but hardly sufficient break. Shaking his copper cup full of coins, he attempted to get into the door just as Shalom was opening it for himself. “Out!” – he shouted, and the man scurried away, muttering Psalms into his greyish-yellow beard.

People, with their loud voices, their smells, their questions, were so annoying, he barely restrained himself from sharp retorts or just yelling at them. Just their presence, buzzing, constant, and oppressive, made him want to pretend the bus broke down, and leave them all on the hard shoulder to wait for his replacement. Like a giant sticky animal, like a swarm of flies, they filled up his space until he could barely breathe. Jerusalem, in particular, he found intolerable, the city of fanatics in their black garbs and the bone-chilling cold, with lunatics everywhere.

Only the sea gave him respite. On Shabbat, he would walk down to the promenade in Bat Yam, ignoring the strolling crowds of Jews, Arabs, Philippinos, Russians, Ethiopians, and God only knows who else, lock his clothes and phone in a locker, and ride the waves until darkness would descend to rest onto the worried city, bringing the long-awaited cool breeze from the depth of the sea. There were no people in the vicinity when he surfed, only the Presence of something huge and aware, powerful and kind. In his mind, he called it the Presence of the Ocean, but would never even dream of sharing this with anyone.

He was really looking forward to the next weekend, especially as his old classmate invited him for birthday drinks Friday night. Dreaming about it, he urged the roaring green monstrosity up the ramp in Jerusalem yet again. The people got off, and he heaved a sigh of relief, for the next run was the last for the day.

He shifted into reverse, and looked into the mirror, getting ready to advance to the boarding terminal. Then there were screams behind him, and someone hammered on the back of the bus with their fists. He pressed the brakes button, swore and got out. First, he checked the luggage compartment – once, a puny soldier ended up travelling in there, underneath the bus, being thrown around with the baby strollers and suitcases, because he failed to notice him. Yet, it was empty. Then he walked to the back of the bus. Behind it, a teenage girl in Bnei Akiva uniform and with a huge backpack on her shoulders was holding a tiny puppy.

“Shalom,” – she said. – “Are you the driver? You almost run him over!”

“Yes,” – he said automatically. It was clumsy, beige-brown, with thick paws and short ears, and a long pink tongue was lolling out of its mouth. Shalom was too shocked to argue. Stray dogs are virtually unknown in Israel, so where did this little ball of fur come from? All his anger and frustration evaporated, leaving behind a sense of wonder and even, he could say, destiny.

Then they called out “Whose is this?” a few times into the crowds, and the girl walked into the shops nearby, sniffling and wiping her tears, but nobody claimed ownership of the puppy. “I cannot take him”, - she said. – “I am allergic to fur…” – and he saw her eyes spilling over yet again. Belatedly, he realized she was not crying, but rather having a reaction. “Can you take him? I will put up signs here…”

“I don’t think anyone lost him, they would have come back already…” – he shrugged with resignation. Then, he picked up the puppy from the girl’s hands, and looked around for a cardboard box, but found none. In the end, he tucked in his sweater, and gently lowered the puppy into the space right by his chest. He gave the girl his phone number, just in case, and returned to his seat.

If the passengers on the way back to Bat Yam were surprised to have a driver with a moving bulge of a belly, they did not show it in any way.

Shalom parked the bus, and slowly walked towards the promenade. The screams of sea gulls filled the air. Runners and bikers flowed past him, without disturbing him, as if he turned into a bank of a river made of people.

He bought a sandwich with pastrami, and shared it with the puppy, letting him run around a bit. Then, making a decision, he turned and walked slowly towards the other part of the city, where gangs of little urchins swarmed in between dilapidated greyish buildings, stealing snacks from the grocery shops and playing outside until the nights grew cold. It was pleasant to walk after eight hours of sitting in the driver’s seat, and his mood lifted. After reaching Katzenelson street, he turned left, and then right, then into a yard strewn with every kind of rubbish, from old toys and plastic cups to used heroin needles. A rusty chain that once supported a swing was creaking in the chilly autumn wind, adding a post-apocalyptic din to an already gloomy place. Avoiding the elevator with its burnt buttons and the stink of urine, he walked up to the second floor, and rang the bell.

“Have you lost your mind? You’ve dumped your kids on your wife, and now you’re dumping this poor creature on me?!” – a man in a wheelchair, bent down by age and illness, was yelling at Shalom, his voice a screech not unlike the sea gulls. The puppy squatted down on his thick, but shaky paws, and made a big puddle. “Take it away!” – the man hollered, turning red, except the bluish shadows in his sunken cheeks, covered in dense stubble.

“It’s a pity you lost your legs from your stroke, and not your screams. I really thought he would be good for you.” – Shalom retorted, but tried to control his anger. “I meant no harm, dad.”

“How could a man in a wheelchair walk a dog? As usual, you do things first, think second, or never at all. Shame of a son that I have! Loser!”

Shaking from rage, Shalom jumped outside the door, slamming it after him. It was only when he got downstairs that he realized that he did not take the puppy. Oh well… maybe it was for the best. On his way home, he called his father’s caretaker, a Moldavian man who called himself George, and explained to him in broken English about buying some dog food urgently, and perhaps a small leash. Geroge agreed to help.  

A few months later, when the first wintery rain washed off most of the trash in the streets, and the sky looked piercing blue again, dotted with gentle wisps of cotton wool clouds, Shalom took his daughters to see the puppy, whom his father named Storm. The old man was waiting for them outside, with a chequered blanket covering his legs, and a strong brown leash wrapped around his right forearm. Storm gave a perfunctory bark, then licked the girls’ palms, making them giggle. Shira gave him a hug, kissing him on his powerful neck, while Tali hung back, unsure of what to do. Shalom picked her up, and put her in her grandfather’s lap. They went for a walk, with Storm leading the way, and Shalom felt as if the Presence of the Ocean came to visit them on dry land, making life feel right for the first time since he remembered himself. A fragile stalk of hope for a change was reaching for sunlight in his heart.

The story must be told

 The old man’s hospital cot was by the window. His hair was a mane of pure white, without a hint of yellow, and his wrinkles betrayed a life of being satisfied with his lot and a razor-sharp wit. The nurses of “Shiba” smiled when he requested a change – “I like to see the sky at all times”, he said, but fulfilled his request. There was a faded blue number tattooed on his wrist, and every time one of them took his blood or measured his vitals, they sighed deeply, or averted their eyes. Fatma, alone out of all nurses, did not seem to notice – perhaps she did not know what it meant, or thought it was some cool token of the man’s wild youth. Sometimes, the man’s daughter, hunched over and with a grimly set mouth, who looked almost as old as him, pushed his wheelchair to the Imaging department through the maze of the corridors with linoleum floors and abstract-looking flowers in white frames on all walls. Even more occasionally, she found the strength to take him down eleven floors in the elevator, and push him out to the yard for some fresh air. There, obscured by the red-headed geraniums, the old man would beg the Arab porters for a cigarette, and then he and his daughter would argue in a hissing language which sounded like Russian to the onlookers, as he shook the ashes absentmindedly onto the baggy hospital gown. The days stretched out, same and meaningless, until he lost count of them, the smell of the disinfectant seemed to be seeping into his very skin, and the hospital food made him feel queasy. The ailments of his body could not be helped, he knew is just as well as his doctors, but at least at home his spirit would have been more settled by his stinky old pipe, his old dog with rheumy eyes and a name unpronounceable to all who did not speak Russian, and his ancient books with fragile yellow pages. It was a pity he could no longer read, for his eyesight was failing rapidly, same as the rest of his body.

But most of all, he missed his grandchildren. Dina, a student at the Betzalel college of art, barely had enough time to grab a sandwich in between her classes, while Ariel, the youngest, was a soldier who served somewhere in the North, and his mission was so secret that he only smiled in response to all queries. He showed his parents a photo published by the army, with him and his friends pictured in camouflage with their backs to the camera on Syrian territory, and they were awed and horrified simultaneously. Yet, when Ariel showed the photo to David Abrámovich (as the old man was called properly, with the patronymic), he wept openly and unashamedly, blowing his nose into a vast chequered handkerchief, blessing the Eibishter (the Almighty) in Yiddish for allowing him to live long enough to see this day.

At last, after some weeks passed without any change, a new doctor shifted something in the cocktail of medications, and David was allowed to go home. The dog had wet herself from utter excitement upon seeing him, and Raisa, his daughter, cleaned up the mess as he shuffled unsteadily to the kitchen, to put the kettle on for some tea. They settled down by a tiny table, covered with an oilcloth splashed all over with obscenely red roses, and she poured the fragrant black tea into two glasses. (“No mugs! It just wouldn’t taste the same!” – he admonished, as usual.) She put some honey into her cup, watching the thin yellow swirls dissolve as they hit the surface, and cringed when her father bit into a lump of sugar with his few remaining teeth. She found some crackers in the cupboard, and smeared one with jam for him, and one with butter for herself. Silence spread its cobweb wings over them, as a sunbeam from his watch danced on the wall and the cabinets above the sink. She opened the window, and a rush of fresh air poured in, together with the usual city cacophony. Kids were playing football outside, and a municipal gardener was trimming the hedge with a whiny old chainsaw. Raisa rose heavily from her plastic chair to inspect the fridge. Her scowl became even deeper when she realized that, as the Russian saying goes, “a mouse has hung itself” in there, and her father had nothing to eat whatsoever, and even worse than that – nothing to cook, and a trip to the supermarket was in order. She felt trapped in an unfair position, as always, because should one be stuck taking care of their elderly parents, the latter should have at least had the dignity to remain together, and not embarrass themselves and the family with a scandalous divorce at the age of seventy plus, forcing her to travel between two neglected apartments, cook two extra dinners instead of one, shop and clean double and triple, and then, worst of all, listen to two old complainers… No, that wasn’t fair, she stopped herself. Her father was far from a complainer, despite being terminally ill, on the contrary – that was the reason he cited for the divorce, her mother’s negativity and constant complaints, which she knew very well to be utterly unbearable. She really couldn’t blame him, if only she saw the situation as an adult, which she had been for a number of decades by now. It’s just that her other obligations left very little time for either her father or for her mother. She got up again, and took her phone and car keys from the table.

“Listen, Dad, before I forget again. Some lawyer contacted me about the restitution of your property in Lodz, you know, from before the War. Are you interested in talking to him? He can’t promise anything, of course, but he says it’s free until you receive a compensation, and then they take five percent.”

David took a few minutes to think. In general, thinking things through was one quality that allowed him to survive, and he became even more thoughtful as he aged.

“Sure,” – he replied at last. – “Have him call me.”

“He says his company offers this service on one condition – that you tell your story in full, to be preserved in Yad Vashem for the future generations. See, they’re philanthropic like that. I know you don’t like talking about it…” – she indicated his forearm with her eyes.  

David lifted his eyes of pale blue, quite the same colour as the number on his arm, nestled under enormous bushy eyebrows, on his daughter, and promised solemnly, “If I find him worthwhile, I will tell everything.”

If Raisa was surprised, she did not let it show. Instead, she rushed out, recording a message to the lawyer as the elevator took her down to the parking lot. David Abrámovich has never shared more than a few words about his experiences and survival during the Holocaust.  

Just two weeks later, Peter Gershovitz, the lawyer, was telling the story of his family to David, of mixing Polish and Jewish genes, of finding out the truth when he was thirteen, and having not a moment of peace since then. Driven by his mixed allegiance and the desire for justice, Peter dedicated his life to restoring Jewish property, which made him a persona non-grata in his old homeland, but a truly appreciated and accomplished lawyer in Israel.  

David struggled with his native Polish, as the last time he spoke it was in his childhood, and Peter did not know Russian. The story took a long time to be told. Often, David just stared into space and did not find the courage to speak. Sometimes, he just looked for a word until he forgot what he wanted to say. Then, Peter would brush his blond fringe off his eyes with the back of his hand, smile shyly, fold up the camera tripod, pack everything away, and re-schedule for the week after. A few more meetings encompassed within them the pre-war situation, the fourth partition of Poland, and the thwarted escape to the Soviet border. It took David three meetings to tell Peter about his life in the ghetto and the death of his little sister from typhoid fever. He told about the morning when he came to, released at last by the clutches of the disease, weighing less than twenty kilograms and with a shaved head, to find her gone, and their mother too sick to care for her children. Grudgingly, he shared the story of the best soup he has ever had, when he and his brother managed to scavenge some meat scraps from the Germans’ food bin. At last, they got to the point where David saw his parents for the last time – at the train platform in Auschwitz, and then he could speak no more. The words were formed in his mind, but would not come out. As usual, Peter put away his equipment without a word, shook David’s hand, and departed, promising to come next Monday, as usual. Raisa saw him out, and apologized for her father’s difficulties. “Not at all, lady” – Peter shrugged his shoulders, as if to apologize for his still very limited Hebrew. - “Not at all, this is amazing, not to worry.”

Coming back into the tiny living room with its Spartan furniture and a small TV in the corner, Raisa patted her father on the shoulder. “I am glad you’re finally opening up about it all.” As usual, he thought for a while before he answered. “It’s only for Dina and Ariel. I want them to know, but I can’t just tell them.” She nodded, and they watched the evening news in silence.

Next Monday, Peter failed to show up. David paced the floor with his walker, shuffling in his slippers from the window to the TV and back, rehearsing the words he prepared to say. Raisa could not reach Peter over the phone, either. David’s blood pressure climbed up steadily, and she forced him to lie down. “What a jerk, to get an old man to open up like this, then disappear without a warning,” – she was furious. At last, she phoned Dina and asked her to pop over to Peter’s office after her classes, as her flat in Jerusalem was not far from where he worked, and remind him about the missed appointment.

Later in the day, Dina called back. Peter seemed to have just disappeared, and his colleagues were considering calling the police. Worried by the lawyer’s disappearance, Dina missed her classes on Tuesday to do a round of the hospitals, and found him at last, comatose after a motorbike accident in Shaarey Tzedeq in Jerusalem. The doctors would not share any information, of course, or let her see him, as she was not a relative, except letting her understand that it was only his helmet that saved him from certain death.

The family got together for Friday night dinner that week, as much to support their father and grandfather as to see each other. Raisa drove around town with her lips pinched in a scowl, picking up delicacies she knew her parents liked from the Russian shops. She even splashed out on a jar of black caviar. Then she drove both of them to her house. Dina arranged the flowers she bought into a beautiful sculpture meant to symbolize the Jewish renewal and hope after the War. Ariel could not contribute much due to utter exhaustion, but he cleaned up the house and set the table before they all came in. Raisa delivered two plates of jiggling kholodetz out of the fridge, then a pot of steaming borsh was ceremoniously carried in from the kitchen, followed by mashed potatoes and the pastrami the kids preferred. Dina lamented the absence of vegetables, which nearly caused an argument. David held a slice of bread in his left hand, admiring the glistening drops of caviar on it; just as many people of his generation, he firmly believed that a meal without bread was not a meal. “You can chew grass, if you like” – he winked at Dina, - “but I am not a rabbit.” The evening ended with three glasses of steaming tea, as usual, and a sad Israeli song from Dina and Ariel, something about a soldier near Rafiach, and some clumsy accords on an old guitar they both tried mastering and both failed at. Raisa felt mellow after the meal, and allowed herself to relax in an armchair with a glass of wine, as the dog quietly mauled her slippers underneath her, watching her children banter in quick Hebrew about their school years. David watched them over his glasses, and even though all he could see were vague outlines, he enjoyed being surrounded by family. Yet, the thoughts of Peter – whom he learned to respect and like a great deal – bothered him a lot. It was not his style to leave things half-done, but what could he do if the man was sick, as the children told him. Nothing to do at all until he recovers.  The wound-up spring of his past refused to shift into the background again. His ex-wife, Nina, was silent for most of the evening, feeling rejected by the family despite much evidence to the contrary. Soon after the meal, she got up, insisting on taking a bus home, and departed in a cloud of injured pride and victimhood. David heaved a sigh of relief loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Listen, what are we going to do about grandpa?” – Dina pulled her brother into the kitchen. – “Peter is out of action for a few months, even if he recovers fully, and grandpa is refusing to talk to anyone else from their office. He says he got used to Peter.”  

“I have no idea, but we must find a way for him to continue sharing his story.” – Ariel insisted. They sat in silence for a while, then Dina said, “It’s a crazy idea, but it might work. I have enough talented friends who can help.” And she started whispering something into his ear. “You are crazy, but it’s worth a try,” – Ariel said after he pondered the idea a bit. Immediately, Ariel started looking up Peter’s Facebook profile, focusing on videos with his voice.

Next Friday, the pair of them presented a most astounding sight to the residents and tourists in downtown Jerusalem. Marching down Ben Yehuda Street, Dina wished she could have covered her face with a mask and a hat, but of course, that would have made her even more suspicious. Her right arm was wrapped around the torso of a female mannequin, and the best way to carry it was by the breasts. “See, we are not offending the public space, because what’s offensive is nipples, and she doesn’t have any,” – she commented, cracking up. Her brother could barely walk from laughter, because the only way her could carry the mannequin’s long legs is by having his fingers in her crotch, her legs sprawled out towards the street. “Please God, don’t let anyone we know see us like this,” – he panted. – “Who cares? It’s all for a noble cause!” – she replied. “And you’re gaining some experience,” – she winked at him as they marched past the people dining at the Bagel shop and the falafel stand, who followed them with puzzled expressions. Dina’s friend, who owned the mannequin for her art practice, walked behind them, trying to look like she had nothing to do with them, but made sure to film the procession for memory’s sake. Another friend, who was studying sculpture, greeted them with all seriousness of a surgeon about to save a life, a tray of artistic clay ready for use, along with a box of theatre quality make-up.

Early Monday morning, someone knocked on the door of David’s apartment. Raisa motioned to him to remain sitting by the TV, and went to open it. Muffled giggles, the shuffling of feet, and the voices of Dina and Ariel made him get up and reach for the walker. “You are crazy!” – Raisa insisted, then added something in a whisper. “Just make sure he doesn’t bring his glasses!” – Ariel whispered, and something heavy was dragged past the door of the living room. Raisa appeared at the door; her usual scowl replaced by a lopsided grin. “Come, come, it’s what you’ve been waiting for! Peter is here, he is feeling better!”

David shuffled into the kitchen, looking down at his feet. His rehearsed speech was less prepared today; He hoped he would be able to deliver it well enough. Peter sat by the window, both of his arms wrapped in heavy bandages and supported by slings. His pose seemed rigid, and David hoped he was not in too much pain to continue with the interview. A gentle breeze from the window was ruffling his blond hair. The light bothered David, as the sun was right in his face, but he decided not to complain, as usual. Dina and Ariel were manning the equipment, a heavy camera on a tripod, a computer, and laying wires all over the floor. They agreed to help, they said, as Peter couldn’t use his arms. David felt too nervous to begin, he hadn’t expected his whole family, almost, to be present at the last interview. Well, he was doing it for them. He took a deep breath.

“How have you been, David? I am so sorry for missing last week, as you see, I had been injured…” – Peter said.  

“I hope you’re feeling better,” – David replied.

Then, as Ariel clicked the camera to begin recording, he found the strength to continue.

“We arrived in Auschwitz in the winter of 1943. First, they loaded up onto trains in Lodz…” – tears ran down his face, but he did not mind them or even notice them. The tension in the tiny little kitchen was so thick that they could’ve cut it with a knife, like a cake. They all forgot to breathe, or so it seemed, and even the noises from the street receded into the dusty July morning, the visions of horror raced before their eyes.

For a long while after the camera clicked off, nobody moved. Peter seemed to be frozen in place throughout the interview. David wasn’t looking at him, or anyone, focusing on his hands and the pipe he was turning over and over, it was easier that way. Dina was wiping her eyes and nose on her sleeve behind him. Ariel was busy with the computer, but the screen was not large enough to obscure his face, which was wet, as well.

At last, Raisa moved, and said to her father in Russian, “Come, I will take you to your armchair, I think you need a rest. Want a glass of tea?”

David did not reply, his voice seemed to have been all spent on sharing his burden.

“Thank you, David. I am very touched by your story, and I hope millions will get to hear it in Yad Vashem.” – Peter said, at last, looking somewhere above David’s head. “Your family is so lucky to have you!”

Later, when everyone left, and Raisa settled her father in the armchair with a cup of tea and some cookies, she texted her children on the family WhatsApp group, “How did you do that?”

“Nothing special” – Ariel replied. – “Dina’s artist friends and a Deepfake voice cover on my laptop. I pre-recorded all the questions, then made it sound like him. Peter will be delighted when he recovers, I think.”

“This could easily be my semester project, let’s see if I get permission to write about it…” – Dina added. “But the mannequin will have to travel back in bags and at night, because I’m never doing that walk of shame again.”