41
I waited for the man to bring me Siddhartha, but for some reason he ignored me. I didn’t ask him about it, and he didn’t apologize. He apparently believed I had spoken from my roaring pain and not from an inner need. I didn’t know how to extricate myself from this entanglement, so I kept silent.
I asked the nurse to look for Siddhartha in the library of her moshav. She promised to do so, and a few days later she told me that the moshav library had no books in foreign languages. On the day the moshav was established, its members swore that they would neither speak nor read in any foreign language.
My friends came to visit me, and I was pleased to see them. With all the ardor of youth, they were doing what I was unable to do. Since I’d last seen them, they’d grown taller and more suntanned. The dangers they were facing didn’t diminish their joy in life. On the contrary, they were merrier.
Benno told me that all his efforts to obtain a violin and music books had so far failed.
“Music stirs strongly within me. There are days when it fills me from head to toe, but because I have no instrument to play, it poisons me instead.” He asked whether I understood him, and I said I did. I tried to console him.
“Soon the war will be over here.”
His answer came immediately. “And I will remain a spiritual cripple.”
Dr. Winter came to examine me.
“Patience, my friend,” he said softly. “Your fractures are knitting.” I noticed that he didn’t say “the fractures” but, rather, “your fractures,” implying there was a reciprocal relationship between me and the fractures, though I couldn’t see what it was. I could only feel the pain they caused me.
The next day, without first asking for Benno’s permission, I spoke about him to the patients around the dining table.
“I have a friend who’s a fine musician,” I said, “a member of my training group and a soldier. He’s looking for a violin to play in his spare time. If you have a violin, perhaps you can lend it to him.”
“We aren’t musicians,” one of the patients said, “and we don’t have violins, but we’ll look around. What’s the fellow’s name?”
I told him.
“I haven’t heard of him.”
I didn’t hold back. “You will,” I replied.
The patient looked at me with a practical expression.
“A few days ago you asked for a book in German,” he said, “and now you’re asking for a violin for your friend. We’re simple people. We never went to concerts. For many years we were pioneers. We worked in the fields and orchards. We’ve gotten old, and now we’re spending our days in hospitals and convalescent homes. We can’t help you with things we don’t have connections to.” His face was open and expressed exactly what he thought. His friends followed his words with intense eyes.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Don’t be angry at us. We love you the way we love our own sons. I myself am a bereaved father, and since my son died in battle, every soldier is dear to me. A wounded soldier ever the more so.”
“Thank you,” I said again.
“This is a hard country that has no mercy on the people who live in it. A person dedicates his soul to the soil, but the soil doesn’t reward him with kindness. All the years we have lived here, we tilled the earth, and at night we stood watch. Our sons, who joined the Palmach, were even more dedicated than we were. But their dedication didn’t save them on the battlefield.”
I went back to my room and thought about the man’s sunken cheeks. I felt sorry for him because all his labor on the land hadn’t brought him a blessing. And now he was battling a harsh illness.
That night I saw Benno in my sleep, holding a violin in his hand. A member of Misgav Yitzhak had given him the instrument. But instead of being happy, Benno said, “Thank you. It’s too late.”
“Why?” the man wondered.
“During all the years of the war, I didn’t practice or play. Music once flowed from my fingers. Now there’s nothing in them, just stiffness. Stiffness at my age can’t be corrected.”
“You’re a young man.”
“The age of seven is the cutoff for a violinist.”
“You can play in an orchestra.”
“I prepared myself to be a soloist from the age of four. I kept to a rigid schedule, and I practiced every day. Mother made certain always to remind me of my duty. What can I do? The war cut my life in two.”
“Too bad,” said the man, taking the violin from Benno’s hands. “If you change your mind, I’ll gladly lend it to you.”
“Thank you, thank you, from the depths of my heart.” Benno spoke in a submissive tone of voice.
“I don’t play it,” the man said. “My late mother used to encourage me. Rather, she forced me. My desire to play, to be honest, was quite small.”
“Thank you,” Benno repeated.
“You’re very welcome,” said the man, and he walked away.
I noticed that in my sleep I saw people with more clarity. They appeared to be carved out of the darkness, and their inner essence lit up their faces. I hadn’t seen Mark in my sleep for some time, so I didn’t know what was stirring in his soul. But since Benno told me that music was imprisoned in him and was poisoning him, I saw him as a person who had given up on the great hopes his parents had pinned on him. He was now only marking time on a gray plain, without climbing or achieving. Benno didn’t speak about it, but it was what his face and his hands told me.
Father asked me again, “What are you doing to prepare yourself to be an author?”
“I’m doing things,” I told him. “But my legs are shattered, and it’s hard to lift myself up. Broken legs block forward motion. I pray that God will bring my legs back to life.”
“From whom did you learn to pray?” Father was surprised.
“From Grandfather.”
“As far as I remember, Grandfather didn’t teach you to pray.”
“I observed him while he was standing in silent prayer.”
“Prayer is speech, not standing in silence.”
“Haven’t I heard people say that it’s possible to be silent and pray?”
“It’s beyond my understanding,” said Father in a voice whose every nuance I recognized.
“When God gives my legs back to me, Father, I’ll set out to find the right way to express everything that happened to us.”
His voice softened. “Where will you go?”
“To all the awful places where we were.”
“Why are you speaking in the plural?”
“Because you, Mother, and I are covered by the same heavenly canopy.”
“I knew you were courageous,” said Father, and his eyes filled with tears.