B002FB6BZK EBOK (60 page)

When his bags came from the port, Ebenezer went to Tel Aviv and
bought the Giladi house. When Boaz came to see him, Ebenezer said:
Samuel, and fainted. For three days Ebenezer wept in a closed room and
thought. After he came out of the room he almost knew things he hadn't
known before that he knew. Boaz, who was disappointed, didn't show his
emotions. He was scared as never before in his life. Fanya R. told him about her daughters. Their skin, she said, was grafted onto the body of a German
who was burned in a tank. But when Ebenezer tried to understand who
Boaz was and how he wasn't Samuel, Boaz said: Never mind, it's not so
important, he left the house, and when he got to the corner of Hayarkon
Street, he entered a yard and banged his head against a wall for a long time.

Mr. Klomin, who envisioned the meeting between Boaz and his father,
began to feel a certain closeness to his grandson, maybe because time wasn't
working to his advantage now, as he put it, or because Dana became concrete before his eyes the moment Ebenezer called his son Samuel.

Once every two weeks, for years, Mr. Klomin and Captain Jose Menkin
A. Goldenberg would meet in Tel Aviv to discuss their party affairs. Most
of the people who had joined them over the years had died or were in old
people's homes or in hospitals and had stopped being interested in the
renewed Kingdom of Israel. A gigantic yoke of keeping the flame, as he
defined it, fell on Klomin, and became heavier from year to year. The return of the last son gave him certain hopes that inconceivable things were
happening. If Ebenezer came back, he said to the Captain as they walked
in the street to their regular meeting place, all kinds of things can happen,
he said and didn't elaborate. The two of them were up in years now.
Whenever they'd walk in the street they'd discover a new city they hadn't
known before, partly because they forgot. Suspicious-looking cars passed
by and stopped at traffic signals that had just been planted on street corners. Mr. Klomin meditated aloud about the connection between the
words grief and brief, dissect and connect, brave and wave, and then they
went into the small old-fashioned cafe where they had once prepared the
great revolt against the British Empire. They sat down in their regular
places at the back window behind a gigantic bush that had turned gray over
the years. Hidden from the eyes of passersby, they sat and whispered to
one another. The Captain's uniform had faded long ago, a new replacement
hadn't come. His once elegant hat looked shabby, even though he took
such devoted care of it. He was already starting to forget for rather long
periods why he ever had to go back to Egypt. As a sign of the passing
years, he said to Mr. Klomin: I don't edit a French newspaper anymore,
and Mr. Klomin, who had never believed the Captain had ever edited a
newspaper in Cairo, thought to himself a bit, looked at the damp walls, the
red plastic chairs, and said: Maybe you really didn't edit a newspaper for many years. The Captain's praise-wreathed past had faded with the years,
bereft of that importance that had once been ascribed to it. And one of the
two said, they didn't remember anymore which of them said it: Maybe we
have to turn over a new leaf? And the Captain adjusted his folds that had
grown flaccid, drank the thin coffee, and a shriveled old waitress, who
remembered her youthful grace through them, said to her replacement waitress: Those were giant years, you felt electricity in the air, and what secrets
they whispered there, and the new waitress came to them, bored, asked if
they wanted anything, offered them the famous cheesecake and they
laughed, in unison they laughed, and said: Us, cheesecake? Sometimes toast,
not today, and then they gave in and ordered nut cake and said it was good,
even though it had stood four days on the counter waiting for a defeated and
hungry army, she pulled her apron, wiped a table that was already clean,
looked bored toward another table covered with crumbs, and sat down to
look at the street.

When the Captain, drinking coffee and chewing the hard nut cake,
thought of what he had left of the past he had almost managed to live, he
sank into depression, he thought of Rebecca, he thought of dark schemes
he could no longer invent, and then a tear pearled in his left eye and he
said to Mr. Klomin: But the memorial to Dante Alighieri I do have to erect.

It was because of the memorial, he said a few minutes later, that I came
here fifty years ago, wasn't it. Mr. Klomin, who looked like a routed war
hero who couldn't have been invented by the Captain even in his good
days, pondered to himself: Boaz builds memorials, and here respected and
unhesitating stands an ancient and firm fifty-year-old expectation. Not fair,
he said sadly, really not fair ...

Around them, people are selling and buying diamonds, exchanging earrings for foreign currency, and Menkin Jose Captain says: I've got a dim
sense we won't succeed in establishing your kingdom, Klomin. And Klomin
drinks the coffee, chews the unchewed cake, and says: The Prophets win
again, Captain. He said that so sadly that tears filled the Captain's eyes. To
the three hundred sixty letters he wrote to British commissioners, leaders of
Israel, its ministers, noble American, French, and British leaders, chief rabbis, the Pope, the Dalai Lama, King Saud, the Prime Minister of Nigeria, the
International Ladies' Garment Workers Union in New York and Left Poalei
Zion in Brooklyn, no answer had come, except one, short and laconic, from Ben-Gurion. Ben-Gurion wrote: I read your letter carefully, if we build our
state with innocence, boldness, faith and wisdom, we shall be redeemed.
Until we do we will not be redeemed. Respectfully, David Ben-Gurion.

Mediocrities are always celebrated here, said Klomin, great minds are
stoned to death. The gigantic figure of the kings is corrupted by frustrated
poets, the Bible is written testimony to the greatness of great dreamers
despite its tendentious values ... Everything's a lie, Jeroboam the Second
was a great king whose figure was reduced by poets, and Jeremiah who
called for betrayal and throwing up your hands gets a whole book. The
Russian Revolution of nineteen five failed in Russia and succeeded here.
Secular Hasids devoid of real greatness believe in the miracle drug of
hackneyed rhymes. They started with a demonstration against Nehemiah
Schneerson and now they're building a state of shopkeepers and an oppressed kingdom. We, Captain, we're the last ones who see what could
have been. A great historical moment was missed, now maybe it's too late.
I intend to write one last letter, Captain, added Mr. Klomin in a loud voice
and the old waitress, who hadn't yet taken off her apron, recalled the
stormy days of the great revolutions and wonderful arguments, I'll write a
six-hundred-page letter: The last will and testament of one who thought
up the state. I'll write what reptiles they are! How they turned possible
redemption into a new ghetto, or in the words of the poet Tshernikhovsky,
"The Lord God conquered Canaan in a tempest-and He will be imprisoned in straps of tefillin!" My letter will be testimony of memory and a
memorial to Dana my daughter, guilt of Samaria against love of Zion!

But he'll erect my memorial, said the Captain, who had stopped listening to his friend's speech some time ago. I'll call the last letter the will and
testament of the last Jews, said Klomin, my grandchildren will read the
letter as we read Herzl's prophetic writings today. After they parted, the
Captain stood with a South American firmness and the old waitress came
to him, held out her hand, and said, I've served you for thirty years now and
today I'm retiring, I just wanted to say what an honor it has been for me to
serve you, she burst into tears and ran away. The Captain, who tried to
wipe a tear from his eye, discovered to his surprise that his eye was dry. He
walked along the street slowly, turned right, and ran right into a tree. His
sight was failing now, but his honor didn't allow him to wear eyeglasses,
and he walked to Boaz's house.

Climbing to the roof was hard for him, but he rested on every floor,
wiped his sweat and the pathetic image of the waitress was still stuck to
his eyelids. For thirty years she had served him and he hadn't noticed her.
When Boaz opened the door, the Captain walked in and was caught in the
last light fluttering on the roof and touching the leaves of the trees and
plants and herbs that Noga planted in flowerpots and barrels. A few chairs
and an old easy chair stood there. The Captain sat down in the easy chair,
and said: You could have been my grandson but in the end I did succeed
in being your godfather.

Godfatherhood is also an obligation on the part of the godson, said Boaz
and smiled. Boaz surveyed the Captain with a certain affection, maybe a lot
more than he allowed himself. There was some imagination in the Captain,
even fictional, even not clear, that, instead of winning a position, honor in
the big government of the world, he agreed to live with us here in this
forsaken place. The splendid figure of the Captain now stood in the twilight and looked to him like the abandoned god of a treacherous kingdom.

After they spoke, Boaz said: But why the memorial, why now all of a
sudden? Because I'm waning, Boaz, said the Captain in a gloomy despair
and a betrayed sadness, Dante wrote the world and then tried to build
another world, he's my bereaved son! I've got the money. You've got the
knowledge. You build memorials for everybody. Build one for me.

Maybe, said Boaz.

No maybe, said the Captain. You owe me and you'll build. I'll pay.

Boaz asked: Is there a specific place that will suit the memorial?

The Kastel, said the Captain. From there Jerusalem was seen in ruins by
Gottfried of Bouillon. There the poor Crusaders ripped their clothes in ten
ninety-nine before they went up to conquer Jerusalem. From the Kastel,
the city is seen in its wretchedness by pilgrims in all generations. From
there Dante could have seen it if he had gone up to it. Do you know the
mountain? he asked.

Once, said Boaz, I conquered it for you inadvertently.

There we'll erect the memorial, said the Captain, whose faith in it was
only strengthened by the authority of the words.

Noga refused to come along. She told Hasha Masha: Henkin wants to go
with Boaz and the Captain, they're going to find a place for the memorial
to Dante. Hasha Masha said: They'll put that Italian on their committee, what do you have to do with Boaz Schneerson! But Henkin put on his hat
and kissed Noga on the cheek, hugged Hasha and left the house. Boaz and
Noga's roof was new to him. Walls enclosed the little grove Noga planted.
A plane circled in the sky on its way to Lod Airport. Henkin stood in the
center of the roof, looked at the rusting houses of old Tel Aviv, and said: I'm
torturing myself, what do I have to do with this mountain? And Boaz looked
at Henkin with the same ancient and piercing affection he saw in the eyes
of Ebenezer when he thought he was Samuel, and said: That mountain was
the most important place in Menahem's life, but I confused everything and
you won't believe anymore, so what's the point of talking-

Boaz drove the car and Henkin and the Captain in his uniform observed
the very familiar landscape. Not far from the place where Menahem is
buried, Boaz turned right and climbed up the mountain. The air was fragrant and pure. A wind whistled in the treetops, the mountains at that
hour were clear and free of mist and came close together.

On top of the mountain stood a ruined structure. Below new structures
were seen and Jews from Iran, Bukhara, and Afghanistan dressed in colorful
clothing were walking around among the structures. A woman in a purple
yashmak called out: The mother of the sons calls the Lord! A gray-haired
mustached man appeared, and said: The wicked of the wicked is before
you my lady, and she said strangers came up above and he turned his eyes
aside and saw a car and three people, one of them a general, he picked up
the old rifle and the cartridge of bullets, shot one bullet into the air, and
the colorful people stopped what they were doing and looked up, and the
woman yelled: Kill, kill, but the man approached Boaz, Henkin, and the
Captain aiming the rifle at them, and Boaz said: We're from the Prime
Minister's office, searching for a suitable place for a tombstone for an
outstanding Jewish commander named Dante Alighieri who overcame the
wicked Romans. The man, whose rifle slipped down, recalled his distant
youth in misty mountains in a distant land, and the other people approached and stood around him. One man said: Commander? We had a
dervish who was the son of Queen Esther, and lived in the mountains. He
was a great Jewish hero and the king of all the Persians. Did you hear of
Ahasuerus? Esther was his wife. Then we came to the river. Remember
what river would come to the Land of Israel? It was forty days across, forty
days we rode in a truck just to get across to the other side. And then, the little girl born after the big rain died, and from there in airplanes, and
you're a commander, you want a tombstone? Why not? Jews or non-Jews?
And everybody laughed and startled the pure air with mouths full of white,
crooked, and black teeth. As a sign of friendship, the man put the rifle
down on the ground and started singing, and everybody hummed along
with him. The singer reminded the Captain of the ancient melodies they'd
sing in the Temple, which was taken to Babylon and from there came to
Spain and was preserved in monasteries by conversos, who were then
exiled to the east and came to Persia and India and Kurdistan and Afghanistan, and from those chants Dante Alighieri wove the Divine Comedy,
whose melody was heard by Emanuel the Roman who knew the melodies
he took in with his mother's milk and the hidden and mysterious notes
were latent in him ...

Then they stood above, and the people, except for that silver-haired
mustached man, went to their houses and Boaz told about the decisive
battle on the Kastel. Henkin stopped his ears. He didn't want to hear. And
so Teacher Henkin, stubbornly but courageously, missed the only chance
he was given in his life to hear about one battle in which his son fought
wisely and heroically.