The Bus Driver Who Wanted to Be God & Other Stories (4 page)

K
orbi was a punk like all punks. The kind that you don't know whether they're uglier or stupider. And like all punks he had a beautiful girlfriend, who no one could understand what she was doing with him. She was a tall brunette, taller than him, and her name was Marina. And whenever I passed them on the street with my big brother, Myron, I would get a kick out of seeing him move his head from side to side in a kind of slow “no” movement. As if he was saying to himself, “What a waste, what a waste.” Korbi's girlfriend must have gotten a kick out of these head movements too, because whenever we came down the street opposite her and Korbi she would smile at my brother. Until at a certain stage it turned into more than smiling, and she began coming to our house, and my
brother began kicking me out of the room. At first she only came for a little while, in the afternoon. Afterward she would stay for hours, and everyone in the neighborhood began to know about it. Everyone, except for Korbi and his dumb friend Krotochinsky, who spent all day sitting on upturned crates outside the Persian's grocery shop, playing shesh besh and drinking Sprite. As if apart from these two things there was nothing else in life. They could sit opposite the board for hours, and add up thousands of points of wins and losses, which didn't interest anyone but them. When you walked past them you always had the feeling that if the Persian didn't shut the shop in the evening or if Marina didn't show up, they would stay stuck there forever. Because apart from Marina, or the Persian pulling the crate out from under him, nothing would make Korbi get up.

A few months had passed since Korbi's girlfriend began visiting our house. And my brother's kicking me out of the room already seemed so normal to me that I thought it would go on like that forever, or at least until he went to the army. Until one day my brother and I went to Youth City. It was quite far from our house in Ramat-Gan, something like five kilometers. But my brother insisted that we walk instead of taking the bus, because he thought it would be a good warm-up for him for the Youth City ball bouncing championship. It was already evening, and the two of us were wearing tracksuits, and when we passed the Persian's grocery shop we saw him throwing out the dirty floor-washing water next to the tree opposite his shop and
getting ready to lock up. “Have you seen Marina today?” my brother asked him. And the Persian answered him with a half sucking noise, which is the kind of sound that even without knowing Persian you know means “no.” “I didn't see Korbi today either,” said the Persian, “the first time this summer that he didn't show. I dunno why, it's a nice day today.” We went on walking. “I bet him and Krotochinsky have gone to Youth City too,” I said. “What do I care where they went?” my brother snapped. “What does anyone care where they went?”

But Korbi didn't go to Youth City. I know, because we met him on the way, in the Yarkon Park, not far from the artificial lake. He and Krotochinsky came toward us on the path. Korbi was holding a rusty iron bar and Krotochinsky was scratching his head, and they weren't talking, as if they were concentrating on someting important. We didn't greet them, and they didn't greet us. And only when we were right next to them, when we had already almost passed them, Korbi opened his mouth and said, “Sonofabitch.” And before I understood what was happening, he hit Myron in the stomach with the rusty bar, and my brother fell on the asphalt path, writhing in pain. I tried to go up to him, to help him get up, but Krotochinsky grabbed me from behind. “You.” Korbi turned my brother over from his stomach to his back with a few kicks. “You stole my girl when we was going steady,” he yelled, his face was all red, and before my brother could reply Korbi put his shoe on his neck and transferred almost all his weight to it. I tried to free myself, but Krotochinsky's grip was too tight.
“You know, Gold, that there's one of the ten commandments against what you did,” Korbi hissed between his teeth. “‘Thou shalt not steal' is what it's called. ‘Thou shalt not steal,' but you? With you it's like water off a duck's back.” “Thou shalt not commit adultery,” I said, I don't know why, on the ground I saw my brother's eyes roll up. “What did you say?” Korbi stopped. When he turned to me a little weight was lifted from my brother's throat, and he began to cough and retch. “I said that it was ‘Thou shalt not commit adultery,' what you meant,” I mumbled, “that it was another commandment.” I prayed to God that Myron would manage to get up now, and that he would beat the shit out of Korbi. “And if it was another commandment,” said Korbi, “you think that makes any difference? That because of that I'll take my foot off your sex-maniac brother's neck?” He leaned forward again. “No,” I said to Korbi, “not because of that, I mean. But let go of him, Korbi, you're choking him. Can't you see that he's choking?” Korbi took his foot off my brother's neck, and came up to me. “Tell me, Gold, you're a good student, right? You look like a good student to me.” “So-so,” I mumbled. “Don't give me that so-so crap,” said Korbi and touched me on the face with the back of his hand. I moved my head back. “You're a hot-shot student.” Behind him, on the ground, I saw Myron trying to get up. “So you tell me, Gold.” Korbi bent down and picked the iron bar off the sidewalk. “You tell me, what was the punishment written in the Bible for breaking the ten commandments?” I kept quiet. Korbi began bouncing the iron bar
in his hand. “Come on, Gold.” He twisted his mouth. “Tell me, so's I'll know, 'cause I'm thick and not such a hot-shot at school as you are.” “I don't know,” I said, “I swear on my mother. I don't know. They taught us the commandments and that's all. They didn't say anything about punishment.”

Korbi turned round to my brother, who was lying on the asphalt, and gave him a kick in the ribs. Not viciously, calmly, like someone bored kicking a Coca-Cola can. A small noise came out of Myron's mouth, as if he didn't even have the strength to yell. I began to cry. “Do me a favor, Gold, don't cry,” said Korbi, “just answer the question.” “I don't know, motherfucker,” I cried. “I don't know what the punishment is for breaking your fucking commandments. Just leave him alone, you shit, leave him alone.” Krotochinsky twisted my arm behind my back with one hand, and gave me a punch on the head with the other. “That's for what you said about the Bible,” he spat out, “and that”—he punched me again—“is for what you said about Nissan.” “Leave him alone, Kroto, leave him alone,” said Korbi, “he's upset on account of his brother. Please, tell me,” he went on in a hoarse voice while he lifted the iron bar into the air, “tell me or else I'll smash your brother's knee.” “No, Korbi,” I cried, “please don't do it.” “Then tell,” said Korbi, holding the bar in the air, “tell me what God said somebody deserves who steals somebody else's girlfriend.” “To die,” I whispered, “anyone who breaks the commandment deserves to die.” Korbi swung the bar right back and threw it with all his strength. The bar landed in the artificial lake.
“Did you hear him, Kroto?” said Korbi. “Did you hear Gold junior? He deserves to die. And I didn't say it.” He pointed to the sky. “God said it.” There was something in his voice, as if he was going to cry too. “Come on,” he said, “let's go. I just wanted you to hear Gold junior say who's right.” Krotochinsky let go of me and they both walked away. Before he left, Korbi touched my face again with the back of his warm hand. “You're OK, kid,” he said to me, “you're OK.”

In the parking lot next to the park I found someone to take us to the hospital. Compared to what it looked like Myron got off relatively lightly. With an orthopaedic collar for two months and a few bruises on his body. Korbi never came near my brother again, or Marina either. She and my brother went steady for over a year and then split up. Once, when they were still together, the whole family took a trip to the Sea of Galilee. Me and my brother sat on the shore and watched Marina playing in the water with my big sister. We looked at her and the way she splashed the water with her tanned legs, the way her long hair fell forward, almost completely covering her perfect face. While we were looking at her, I suddenly remembered Korbi, how he nearly cried. I asked my brother about that evening when they caught us in the park, I asked him if he still thought about it. And my brother said yes. We kept quiet for a bit and watched Marina in the water. And then he said that he thought about it a lot. “Tell me,” I said, “now that she's already with you, do you think that what happened then in
the park was worth it?” My sister now turned her back and held up her hands to protect her head, but Marina went on splashing her and laughing. “That night,” said my brother, moving his neck slowly from side to side, “nothing in the world is worth that
night.”

O
n Holocaust Memorial Day our teacher Sara took us on bus No. 57 to visit the Museum of Volhynia Jewry, and I felt very important. All the kids in the class except me, my cousin, and another boy, Druckman, were of Iraqi origin. I was the only one with a grandfather who had died in the Holocaust. The Volhynia House was very beautiful and posh, all made of black marble, like millionaire's houses. It was full of sad black-and-white pictures and lists of people and countries and dead folks. We walked past the pictures in pairs and the teacher said, “Don't touch!” But I did touch one picture, made of cardboard, showing a thin pale man who was crying and holding a sandwich in his hand. The tears came streaming down his cheeks like the lines you see on the street, and my partner,
Orit Salem, said she would tell the teacher that I touched it, and I said I didn't care, she could tell whoever she wanted, even the principal, I don't give a damn. It's my grandpa and I'm touching whatever I want.

After the pictures they led us into a big hall and showed us a movie about little children who were shoved into a truck and then suffocated by gas. Then an old skinny man got on the stage and told us what bastards and murderers the Nazis were and how he took revenge on them, and even strangled a soldier with his own hands until he died. Jerby, who was sitting next to me, said the old man was lying; the way he looks, there's no way he can make any soldier bite the dust. But I looked the old man in the eye and believed him. He had so much anger in his eyes, that all the violent rage of iron-pumping hoods I've seen seemed like small change in comparison.

Finally, when he finished telling us what he had done during the Holocaust, the old man said that what we had just heard was relevant not only to the past but also for what goes on now, because the Germans still exist and still have a state. He said he was never going to forgive them, and that he hoped we, too, would never ever go visit their country. Because when he went with his parents to Germany fifty years ago everything looked nice, but it ended in hell. People have short memories, he said, especially when bad things are concerned. People tend to forget, he said, but you won't forget. Every time you see a German, you'll remember what I told you. Every time you see German products, be it television (since most televisions here are
made by German manufacturers) or anything else, you'll always remember that underneath the elegant wrapping are hidden parts and tubes made of bones and skin and flesh of dead Jews.

On the way out Jerby again said that he'd bet anything the old man never strangled anybody in his life, and I thought to myself it was a good job that at home we had an Amcor refrigerator. Who needs trouble?

Two weeks later my parents came back from a trip abroad and brought me sneakers. My older brother had secretly told my Mum that that's what I wanted and she got me the best pair in the world. Mum smiled when she gave me the present. She was sure I had no idea what was inside. But I immediately recognized the Adidas logo on the bag. I took out the shoebox and said thank you. The box was rectangular, like a coffin, and inside lay two white shoes with three blue stripes and the inscription “Adidas” on their side; I didn't have to open the box to know what they looked like. “Let's put them on,” my mother said and took out the wrapping paper, “to make sure they fit.” She was smiling all the time, and had no idea what was going on. “They're from Germany, you know,” I told her, squeezing her hand tightly. “Of course, I know.” Mum smiled. “Adidas is the best brand in the world.” Grandpa was from Germany too. I tried to give her a hint. “Grandpa was from Poland,” Mum corrected me. For a moment she became sad, but soon recovered. She put one shoe on my foot and started to tie the laces. I kept quiet. I realized there was nothing doing. Mum didn't have a clue. She had never been
to Volhynia House. Nobody ever explained it to her. For her shoes were just shoes and Germany was Poland. I let her put the shoes on me and kept silent. There was no point in telling her and making her even sadder.

I thanked her again and kissed her on the cheek and said I was going to play ball. “You will be careful, eh?” my dad called, laughing from his armchair in the front room. “Don't wear out the soles right away.” I looked again at the pale hide covering my feet. I looked at them and remembered everything the old man who had strangled said we should remember. I touched the blue stripes of the Adidas and remembered my cardboard grandfather. “Are the shoes comfortable?” my mother asked. “Sure they're comfortable,” my brother answered for me. “These are not cheap Israeli sneakers. These are the same sneakers that the great Cruiff wears.” I tiptoed slowly toward the door, trying to put as little weight as I could on the shoes. And so I made my way gingerly to the “Monkeys Park.” Outside the kids from Borochov neighborhood had formed three teams: Holland, Argentina, and Brazil. It so happened that Holland needed a player, so they agreed to let me join, although they never accept anyone who's not from Borochov.

At the beginning of the game I still remembered not to kick with the tip of my shoe, so as not to hurt Grandpa, but after a while I forgot, just as the old man at Volhynia House said people tend to do, and I even managed to kick a tie-breaking goal. But when the game was over I remembered and looked at the shoes. All of a sudden they became so
comfortable, much bouncier than when they were in the box. “Some goal, eh?” I reminded Grandpa on the way home. “The goalie didn't know what hit him.” Grandpa said nothing, but judging by the tread I could tell that he, too, was
pleased.