Hold on to the Sun (20 page)

‘When we set out, she was more excited than I’d ever seen her, with the flush on her cheeks conspicuous against the pallor of her face.We stood on the hills and watched the great ball of light sinking slowly toward the horizon. I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary which might distinguish this sunset from the sunset on any other evening, although, as always, I marveled at the shades of purple, red, and yellow which suffused the sea and the sky. But A. was beside herself, and didn’t take her eyes off the sun suspended in the sky. So frail was she after her prolonged illness, that the early summer wind pierced her like a freezing gale, and her whole body trembled. She held my hand with all her might. I can still feel the terrible force with which her slender fingers gripped me!

‘At first she was ecstatic, but from the moment the sun touched the water line, her face fell. And with the same speed of the sun disappearing behind the horizon, A. darkened right before my eyes, and her fingers weakened their grip on my hand.

‘I got her home as quickly as I could, and when I put
her to bed she kept repeating, “We came too late.” Once she even mentioned your name, angrily, and said that you’d understand. I called the doctors as soon as we got home, but by the time they arrived it was already over.

‘Ever since A.’s death, I’ve gone back to that hill on the longest day of every year, and I always stand there in the same confusion. I also went back to the old quarter, but I couldn’t find your photographs, and to tell the truth, I was no longer able to locate the shop where we first saw them. From the few people who were able to tell me something about you, I learnt that you’d gone to South Asia on a photography expedition, and hadn’t been back to our part of the world for several years. Nevertheless, my pain at the death of A. had always been connected with a sense of obligation to tell you about the circumstances of her dying. I felt that until I did so I would not have fulfilled her wish, even though she never expressed it explicitly.’

 

“The young man was so moved by his tale that he didn’t notice what I was going through, and by the time he looked at me, I’d already succeeded in controlling my emotions and in concealing them from him. I contended that I didn’t understand what he was talking about, and said I was sorry with all my heart (which was quite true) for the death of A., his wife, although I hadn’t had the honor of making her acquaintance. A silence fell, and both of us looked at the lake, where the sun was then sinking behind the ribbon of
mist encircling the horizon and the spots of light on the boats’ sails were suddenly blotted out. After a prolonged moment of oppressive silence, the young man stood up and was swallowed up among the guests.

“I suffered pangs of conscience for the way I’d treated the young man, but I had had no choice. Even now, who knows what dire consequences might yet ensue from the old, newly awakened fears; who knows if it will still be possible to amend what his story has wrought.

“As I write these lines, our ship has already sailed past the coasts of Ceylon and Java, and in three days time it will let me off at the only port on the island of G ... The album is already at the printers, all that is missing is the last photograph, in order . . . (and perhaps I’d better not write anything explicit down yet). On my previous six trips I’ve succeeded in establishing close ties with the people of the K. tribe, and this time I—the first foreigner—will take part in their endeavor.Yes, ever since I discovered their project on my first trip, a change has taken place in my whole attitude toward what I had up to then been doing unconsciously—thinking that it was only the beauty of the scenery which compelled me to photograph the sunset. Ever since then, I’ve been waiting with them, and preparing myself with the means at my disposal for the appointed day.

“Time and time again I’ve conjured up the ceremony from the stories I’ve heard, and each time I’m filled with new admiration for the people of the tribe of K. and their
ancient belief. How they learned to determine with their miraculous methods of measuring the longest day of the year, despite the minimal time changes in their region. How once in a generation—only thus could they persist in their efforts without being utterly annihilated—all the members of the tribe, from the age of puberty on, go up to the mountain before dawn. Oh, how well I know that ascending path, the view it affords of the South Sea, the wind which blows on its peak. How well I know the jealousy with which the tribe has guarded those slopes all these years, lest any alien stalk take root upon them and prevent the sun from holding on to the mountain.

“They say the excitement of the members of the tribe on that day is so great that the drumming and singing continue without a break from dawn. And my own humble experience can testify that the very thought of the light not stopping, the spark of a belief in the sun not setting, is enough for boundless joy to explode. All morning long the tribesmen devote themselves to impregnating the women with the souls of light, and at noon the women walk about in the warm breeze with bodies satiated as suns, while the men follow them drunk with hope, as if this longest day were already the beginning of an endless dawn.

“When the afternoon arrives, the people of the tribe stand on the top of the mountain, which shines like a round belly, and follow the movement of the sun as it begins to go down to the sea. When the sun stands still, not far from
the horizon at the edge of the ocean, they lift up their arms toward it and hold it with all their might. They pull it like a lever toward its reflection on the mountain, and add all their power to its own efforts to rise, full and strong, to the zenith of the sky, from where it will never move again.

“Their efforts then are so awesome, that when the sun slips from their grasp and sinks beneath the sea, they collapse like flies, too weak to hang onto the slippery slopes in order to break their downward slide. And thus, immediately after sunset on the longest day of the year, once in every generation, the people of the tribe are dashed to pieces against the dense vegetation at the bottom of the mountain.

“There is no need to dwell here on the way in which I’ve been waiting with them, for the past seven years, for the month of June in the year 192 ... Six times I’ve returned to the mountain on that particular day. I’ve checked whatever lies within my power to check. And all, I may say, is now ready.

“There are two days to go before we anchor at the island of G., and another five before the next effort. In the meantime I spend my days on the deck, watching the Asian sailors who speak in their own tongues and leave me alone with my thoughts. And in the evening I wage lengthy campaigns of card games against the Dutch captain. Yet I cannot silence the old fears. What the young man told me about the death of his wife, A., in the city on the coast, confirmed in a most terrible way my apprehensions about the premature exhibition
of my photographs. Who knows if A. was the only one affected. And who can tell what threat now hangs over the K. tribe, once their endeavors were made public. Ah, my photographer’s hubris, my insolent insistence on fixing with an iron eye that which seeks to sink in secrecy . . .

“Two days are left in which to live in hope, two more days until I share the prayers of the admired people of the K. tribe . . . ”

 

 

I returned the interrupted text to its place between the pages of the index, and began leafing once more in great agitation through the photographs, in all of which the disk of the setting sun shone through the dimness of age. I began, my heart pounding, turning the pages rapidly in order to get another look at that mountain rising in its fullness to face the sea, when I thought I heard the sound of footsteps in the inner room. Only then did I become conscious of the darkening shop, which I had completely forgotten as I heatedly devoured the photographer’s words. And I quickly put the album down on the wooden stand. Its cover glowed in the sparse light and was reflected like a dull shadow of rubies on the wooden boxes containing the engraved postcards. Once more I was drawn to its radiance and I was just about to stretch out my hand to pick it up again, when the book seller appeared in the dark doorway, thin and bearded, with his black hat almost covering his face. Hardly aware of
what I was doing, I tried to hide the album but the man stopped me with a gesture of his hand, and asked me what I wanted.

I almost replied—to hold on to the sun, but controlled myself immediately and asked for the old Prayer Book.

“What do you need that book for?” the bookseller asked angrily.

I mumbled something about the research I had been conducting for years, but he cut me short and announced firmly, “You have no need of that book!”

“You’re right, sir,” I agreed in order to appease him, and with my heart beating, I inquired, “Is the gentleman himself familiar with the Prayer Book in question?”

Never before had I yearned so hungrily to read that marvelous interpretation of the evening prayer, never before had I believed so fervently in the possibility of penetrating its secret intentions, of grasping the meaning of the Everlasting Light. And from a vast distance, from beneath layers which seemed to me to have been deadened a long time ago, at that moment I felt a fierce excitement, perhaps hope awakening in me and piercing me like a burning ember. Me, the scholar of liturgical sources, who knew nothing all these years but notes and old manuscripts.

Making no attempt to conceal his hostility, the bookseller repeated, “You have no need of that book!”

“But are you familiar with it, sir, do you have it in your shop?”

“You have nothing to look for here!” he almost shouted. “We’ve been closed for hours.”

With one step he crossed the dark, paper-filled room and slammed the iron grill down over the door through which I’d entered. Then he returned, removed the album from the wooden stand, pushed it back hastily onto its place on the shelf, and pointed to the door to the inner room, “Through here, through here,” he said, hitting me roughly on the back to hurry me up, and disappearing through the dark doorway.

In the inner room, too, the stacks of books reached to the ceiling, and here, too, old brochures were scattered over high wooden stands.

“Through here, through here,” the bookseller scoldingly indicated the back door, and this time, too, he hurried through it before me.

In this way we passed through a number of inner rooms without stopping in any of them, all of whose walls were covered with rows and rows of black books, tightly crammed together. Finally we crossed a little paved courtyard at the far end of which the bookseller impatiently opened an iron gate.

Before I had time to ask the bookseller where we were and how to find my way out of the neighborhood, I heard the gate barred behind me. The long square on whose edge I was standing was already almost completely dark, and the full moon commanded it like a petrified monarch. In the
middle of the square a lamp suspended from a high wooden post cast a small circle of light around it. As I stood there wondering which direction to take, a few children in black caftans ran past me tugging a black cloth canopy, which flapped in heavy folds behind their heads. They rushed toward the lamp without noticing me as they ran.

I began walking, without turning my head to look back at the gate from which I had emerged. A man in a broad-brimmed hat passed me, his head bowed. I hurried after him to the far end of the square, where he disappeared into the depths of a dark alley. For some time I strayed through unfamiliar passageways and empty courtyards, until suddenly, without any change in the silence shrouding the houses, I found myself outside the neighborhood. A bus standing in the road started its engine. I hurried to climb on before it moved off, and was carried away by its swaying motion.

 

Once, and only once, I returned to that old neighborhood and tried to retrace the steps which had led me to the shop selling old books and engraved postcards. Despite all my efforts, I could not find the narrow, paved passage leading to the marketstalls, nor the stairs of the alley which led to the quadrangle. For hours I wandered through the alleys, but all in vain. A number of times I imagined that I was nearing my destination, only to realize my mistake. But at the bottom of my heart I was not in the least surprised at my failure to find what I was looking for. For I had always
been prone to the peculiar sensation that these old neighborhoods were nothing but figments of my imagination, memories which materialized only when I passed through them and then vanished behind my back.

In the deep night, darkness descended fully. And when I stood outside the neighborhood, I groped my way past the black hills of a region where I had never been before. I did not even know the number of the bus that took me through the labyrinth of crooked roads back to the street where I live.

In the days that followed, days which I spent at the printers correcting and recorrecting the proofs of my study, I felt like a guilty man whose days were numbered. I concluded the final preparations for the publication of my book with a heavy heart, and without saying a word to anyone about what was distressing my soul. Even in the book’s preface, I did not mention the name of the old Prayer Book, nor the existence of another, different interpretation of the meaning of the evening prayer.

 

Many years have passed since then. My book came out long ago and its pages are bound and gray. The living memory has grown increasingly dimmer, and with it that unexpected hope, like a passionate dream, which I have never dared to call by its name. Only this tale is left to me. Buried among my notes.

FACING EVIL: THOUGHTS ON A VISIT TO AUSCHWITZ

(ESSAY, 2006)

Discussions are currently underway about restoring the Auschwitz Museum, which was established on the grounds of the concentration camp two years after World War II. I visited the museum last summer as part of a writing journey in which I followed in the footsteps of my mother. When I returned to Israel after the visit, bewildered by what I had seen, I was asked to share my thoughts with the Auchwitz museum’s advisory committee.