When Tali was a baby, she used to sleep by her mother’s side. Her voice was too weak, and her parents would not have heard her from another room, if she would wake up and need them. Her twisted, useless arms and legs hurt so much, that the kind Dr Katznelson gave her parents a “very strong medicine”, but they never let her have it. Tali cried, threw things that landed not at all where she wanted them to land, and tried so hard to form words, to explain, to get through to them – but words would not come. She cried when food fell out of her mouth, she wept when the physiotherapist hurt her, trying to get her to stand on matchstick legs that would not support her weight. And so it went, week after week, interrupted only by Shabbat, when nobody tried anything with her, and just let her dream sitting in her wheelchair on the porch, and her parents gave her sweet juice to drink through a straw.
She grew slowly, and Jerusalem grew with her. A stunning bridge that resembled the inner workings of a piano arched now by the entrance to the city; soon, digging began on Jaffa Street for the long-awaited tram. Tali could see both from their tiny porch on Hertzl street, from a building that had turned brown with age and did not resemble the usual golden Jerusalem stone anymore. Buildings grew taller and taller, and if you did not visit a street for a year, you might not recognise it next time you showed up. Her father, a kindly man named Rami, would carry Tali downstairs, place her in the enormous wheelchair with restraints for her hands and feet and a supporting pillow for her perpetually shaking head, and take her for long walks. He would point out cats and dogs, trees and stones, but never waited to hear her opinion on them. He knew he wouldn’t understand her attempts. They just continued as if nothing happened.
Her mother would roll her bed in front of the TV and put on cartoons, but Tali had no voice and no words to explain to her that cartoons were boring, and that she wanted to watch something new. She wanted to sit up, to move… She cried; but her mother was busy in the kitchen, cooking or washing dishes, and ignored her whining. Sometimes, her mother cried, too, using the TV to mask the sound, but Tali knew. Tali just wanted to talk to her, to hear her mother’s words directed to her, and not to someone else about her, but that was not to be.
So it went on, until Dr Katznelson looked into her eyes when she was nine years old, and gave a long whistle. “Pnina, Rami, I believe she understands us!” Things began to change then, mainly in the matter of her schooling. Now, Tali had to wake up at 6 in the morning, and wait downstairs with her father for the special bus that took her to her “school”. It was still stupidly boring, they showed her cards with everyday objects and named them, then put on some more of the same cartoons. Tali hated it, but didn’t cry, because the privilege could have been taken away just as easily as it was given, if she was deemed unworthy – or too stupid. She got to see other kids, but they had saliva dripping down their chins, or vacant eyes, or features that just looked wrong. Some of them had to breathe through an opening in their necks, which made funny whistling sounds. There was no talking to them, either. Now her parents talked to her – later, Tali would refer to it as “talking at her.” They still did not expect – or receive – an answer. They carried on, as if nothing happened.
“You must keep her happy!” – The doctor would emphasise, looking at their dour faces. “Happy, do you understand? No matter what it costs you. She will only develop if you make the effort.”
They tried their best. The stupid cartoons were replaced by adventure films on big video cassettes called VCR, and Tali was happy for a while.
There was one bright light throughout it all, though, and it was her brother Noam. He came home late, when their parents were already sleeping, and left before they woke up. It was always this way, and when you grow up with something, you don’t question it, even inside your own head. He never ate or watched TV with them, and her parents never mentioned him. There were three pictures of him in the living room, one – in a large golden frame. Noam looked so proud of his army uniform in that one. The others were Bar mitzvah photos, one – of him with their parents, and one – of a little boy wrapped in a tallit. But there were no photos of Tali anywhere, with or without anyone else. She knew they were ashamed of her, and maybe even wished she didn’t exist, and the realisation tasted sour in her mouth. She knew she was a burden, that she made their lives miserable, that her mother cried because of her, and it made her rage inside – not at them, and not at herself, just futile rage that comes before giving up, perhaps at life itself.
Noam was the only one who understood her miserable attempts at speaking, and encouraged her. He read her stories from the books they kept in the living room, about Sinbad the Traveller and Aladdin, and even the princess stories, like Cinderella. Then, he began reading her the more advanced books, and asked her questions afterwards. He would explain the unfamiliar words, and wait for her to nod. Noam told her about the neighbouring countries, Egypt, Lebanon, Syria, and Jordan. Yes, they were enemies, but mostly they were just confused and unhappy. “Like me,” – Tali had thought then. Sometimes, he would bring her little snacks, letting her explore tastes that their home did not have, like halva, or smoked fish, or bitter olives, which he fed to her carefully, piece by piece.
“Why don’t you take me with you? I want to see the port of Tel Aviv and the Luna Park. I want to see Eilat.” – Tali had said once, and he understood. His face darkened; he was silent for a while. Then he said very seriously, “I wish I could, little sister. But it’s impossible. You will go when you are grown up, I promise you. You will see all these places.”
That was not good enough, and she cried. He sat there, holding her little pale hand with his big and strong one, and did not explain.
When Tali was twelve, a miracle happened – a company that made communication devices reached out to them, asking if Tali would like to participate in a trial. Her parents started teaching her letters, and she could not tell them that she knew how to read already, that Noam taught her years ago, and she would have loved to read books, if only someone would sit by her and flip the pages. In anticipation of the device bridging the gap between them, her parents tried talking to her more, though, and really started trying harder to understand her.
The night before she was due to receive the device, Noam put away the book he had been reading her, and said very seriously, “I won’t be able to come to you anymore, darling sister.”
At first, Tali did not understand.
“Are you getting married?”
“What? Oh… no, no.”
“Are you flying to another country? America? Will you send me pictures?”
“No… it’s not like that. I just won’t be able to come anymore.”
She did not understand, and began crying. Noam hugged her tight, and whispered in her ear: “Remember me, and you will see me again. The time grows short… Sleep, sister.”
She slept.
Indeed, Noam had stopped coming after that. Her nights were now her own, with no stories or treats. Tali couldn’t wait to communicate with her parents to ask about him. She learned to type individual letters on a screen by operating a small joystick, then pressing the button on top of it when she had the right letter. Then, a mechanical voice would read her question out loud to her parents.
“Where … is… Noam?” – The voice read.
Her parents’ reaction was unexpected. They wept with joy at her first communication, but there was also something wrong, she could tell.
Then, her father blew his nose on a large checkered handkerchief, wiped his eyes, and said, “Oh, baby… We didn’t know you remembered him. Noam was killed in Lebanon when you were two years old.”
“But… I… saw… him!”
Her parents exchanged glances.
“Children will have funny ideas sometimes.” – Her mother said. It was clear that she did not believe her. They looked at his photo in the army uniform, and then at each other. Then, as always, they continued as if nothing happened.
Tali thanked her brother in her college graduation speech, pre-recorded into the newest communication device, and followed by a storm of applause from all the people who tried very hard not to notice her for the last 4 years. Her parents still did not understand. But it no longer mattered. She had a trip to Eilat already planned out on her device.
