A Slight Delay

A wicker fence. A wicker fence. Nettles from the first autumn rains. Then, two abandoned stalls of cold water showers. A row of books in a wooden case. A Japanese picture and a shadeless lamp. This was my room, and from here I was supposed to move into the office.

"Have you moved the bed into the office yet?"

"Did you take the blankets?"

"Did you bring the cakes from the kitchen?"

"You must be crazy walking around the camp in a housecoat like this!"

Dahlia Ravikovitch was born in 1936 in Ramat Gan, a suburb of Tel Aviv, and spent her earliest years on a kibbutz. She attended high school in Haifa and later studied at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. She has worked as a journalist and teacher, and writes television reviews for the newspaper Ma'ariv. Her first poems were published when she was still in the army, and with her first collection, The Love of an Orange, in 1959 she was securely established as one of Israel's leading poets. In addition to six volumes of poetry, she has written a book of short stories, and two children's books. Dahlia Ravikovitch is the recipient of many of Israel's literary awards, including the Shlonsky, Brenner, Ussishkin, and Bialik Prizes. She currently lives in Tel Aviv; she has one son.

"I'll be back in half an hour. If there's a phone call for me ...." Rachel, the Bombshell, threw the towel on her arm and left. She had a soft voluptuous body and fair hair, and she had the right attitude toward life. There was always someone whispering with her at night.

They said that there was a radio in the commanding officer's room. But it was forbidden to enter the commander's room and, in any event, any girl who entered there would have to dust the place. It was best not to go in. One of the officers lingered in the adjacent room; it was four or five in the afternoon on Friday. He had come from home on a bike. He was not planning to do any work.

"Why did you enter the commander's room, and how did you get the key?" Rachel asked resentfully, and her suitor chimed in, "Who gave you permission to turn on the radio?"

I examined the detailed map of Israel, the archeological shards, the carpet, and the enormous desk. This room retained the sunlight long after the sun had set. The commander had left his office long ago. A cascade of sunlight mixed with dust flooded the broad brown desk. It was five o'clock, and two Brandenburg concertos were playing on the radio. For a while I could not find a place for myself; then I settled in the deep chair and sat immobile across from the desk. It was as if I were asleep. I did not want to move a limb. I was thinking about the matriculation exams I had taken a few months earlier, and about the impatience and anxiety I had experienced before taking them. I remembered the first exam, and how I enjoyed myself once I realized what it was like. How powerful I became in my own eyes. A few days later, we went on a trip around the country, I and my boyfriend: we whistled in movie theaters and were uncharacteristically insolent. When all that was over, we were drafted into the army, and I despised myself because I felt so useless. The days and weeks passed, and most things fell into place. When the first concerto was over, my cheek was sticking to the desk. I shuddered when I realized how quickly the time had passed. The light in the room became brighter and whiter. The room looked hoary and no longer different from the other rooms. The concerto was over and I hastened to leave the room.

The sun had set, and I began to sing loudly. My own voice grated on my ears, but I continued to sing with gusto; all the while hoping for a change to take place in me so that my voice would sound different. After a while I distracted myself from thinking about my voice. While I was making my camp-bed, I accidentally knocked down a pile of Lost Equipment forms. Rachel peered at me. When I bent down to pick up the scattered forms, I was beset by mosquitoes. As I straightened up, I watched the receding paleness in the west. I started to plot and scheme how to use the phone despite the prohibition. The windows turned ink-blue a moment before darkness. I trusted I could find a way to use the phone without being punished.

When I came out of the room, Rachel, the Bombshell, said to me, "If you don't bring me food, I am leaving the office."

"She's screwed up," said Rachel, the Bombshell, to the man waiting for her outside. "You can't rely on her."

At eight, I went to the Recreation Room. In the big dilapidated armchair sat Barukh Shoshani. Although he was a refugee from the Second World War and never had a proper education, he managed to rise to the rank of sergeant, and even prepared himself for the equivalency matriculation exams. I was surprised to see him seated in that armchair, with its broken springs and gray oily edges visible from behind. This armchair may have been just as filthy on the day it was brought in with the rest of the spoils from Ramla. At any rate, the springs could certainly have been repaired, but we were not deemed worthy of the effort, being an indolent and low‑class service unit.

As I was leafing through the weekend papers, I noticed the spider web between the legs of the chair underneath the radio. Only then did I realize that I had missed the PX yet again. I had a great craving for candy, particularly for those triangular chocolate-covered wafers. The Sabbath stretched before me so lean and emaciated, as if my very roster duty had caused it to be thus reduced. At least I'll be able to sleep late, and there won't be any parade. Saturday duties were rare; they were also meaningless and wasteful. I knew what I wanted. I wanted to be somewhere else altogether. A hefty mosquito circled near my arm, buzzing vociferously. I shuddered.

Rachel, the Bombshell, returned to the office, her hair wet from the shower. It looked thick even when wet. I offered her some of the raisins my family had sent me, because I was afraid of her. I had just started reading a serial when I heard a train. It was a late freight train

that had been delayed until after Sabbath had started, and it now rumbled by stealthily and unlit. I thought to myself: Where is it going? How far is it going? I listened to it fade out of earshot.

Suddenly a round, ruddy head adorned with a faded gray mustache appeared in the door.

"Are you minding the phone?" Major Rosenblum asked. I waited for Rachel to answer.

"Yes, yes, I am here all the time," Rachel said.

"So am I"

"I'm expecting a call," Rosenblum said. "If they call, tell them I'll be back in half an hour."

"Major Rosenblum," I pleaded.

"What is it?"

"Can I call home? ... Long distance," I hastened to add. I was not sure he had heard me.

"Where to?" he asked.

"To the Galilee." I sounded ridiculous to myself.

"We shall see," said the major. "I'll be back in half an hour. Maybe you'll be able to call from my office."

"Thanks," I called after him, but he had already left. A sense of joyous adventure filled me. I was going to call home against standard orders. The officer on duty had agreed immediately, I was lucky.

His room was brightly lit. There were three lamps: one hanging from the ceiling with a shade resembling an enamel plate, another perched on a spiral metal stem, and a third hung from a nail by a made up camp-bed. On the table were yeast-cakes streaked with threads of jam and a pot of coffee.

"I'll dial for you," Rosenblum said.

I sat, somewhat confused, on a footstool by the table. I was wearing a grayish-pink housecoat which I realized was not appropriate. I had no idea how to start a conversation. And anyway, conversation was superfluous. The major was a complete stranger to me. But he had done me a favor, and I was beholden to him. I hoped he would understand that I was still immature and lacking in social skills, and it was up to him to decide whether or not to strike up a conversation with me.

"The operator says it will take about twenty minutes," Rosenblum said, his cheeks puffed and rubicund.

"I can go back to the office," I said, but I was sleepy and slow to get up.

"What's the hurry?

I kept silent and hunched.

"Have some coffee."

"I don't drink coffee at night."

"Then take a piece of cake."

"No, really," I said affectedly. "It's not out of politeness. I am full of cake already." I wanted to smoke but I had left my cigarettes at the office.

"How old are you?"

"Eighteen."

"I thought you were older."

"Everybody thinks so," I laughed. "But I had my birthday last Sunday." I was very proud to be so young. I felt an advantage over those older than me. Some, burdened with wife and children, had problems supporting their families, and were humiliated by their superiors. I thought to myself: What have they done with their lives? How have they wasted the years? From time to time, I was seized by fear that my youth would be frittered away. But in the meantime, I still had my youth and I was very careful with it. Every day I watched it and gave it serious consideration.

"Did you graduate from high school?"

"Three months ago," I said and thought: What an advantage!

"Do you have siblings? Older or younger?"

"I have a younger brother. He's smart as a whip, and handsome, too."

"No wonder, with such a sister."

I knew he was flattering me, but the frost around me was thawing.

"He writes me such funny letters that I roll on the floor with laughter." I decided to go and fetch my cigarettes after all.

"What's the rush? Have some coffee."

"No thanks." I felt resentment. Why does he keep harping on coffee when I have already told him?

His desk was close to the door. He got up. He was taller than me, and I felt him look down on me. He leaned against the threshold, and

his hand touched my back, as if by accident. I recoiled a little. I was not quite sure he really meant it. The pinkish‑gray housecoat was so obviously inappropriate. I felt as if I was wearing rags.

"Wait," he said, "why are you running?"

I stood a little shaken. "What are you afraid of?" He smiled. Suddenly the phone rang. His wedding ring was thick and crude. Everybody knew he had a seven-month-old baby.

"Mom," I cried into the phone. "How was your week? Can you imagine, I managed to call you tonight without any problems. Is Micah with you?"

My mother wanted to know if her package had arrived. I told her everything was all right with me. A complaint was lodged against me for disorderly appearance, but it was later dropped. I am beginning to get the hang of the work. Mother was very pleased.

"Have a nice Sabbath, and all the best," Mother said, and before hanging up she added, "Who stayed with you this weekend? Do you have a nice roommate?"

"What does it matter?" I answered. "I have a book to read, and I am still translating those poems. I feel great here in the office. It beats the four-hour guard shift everyone else has to do."

"Why didn't you add regards from me?" Rosenblum said in a rasping voice. "After all, I let you make the phone call."

"It's really wonderful of you."

He grabbed my arm near the shoulder. There was neither grace nor affection in his movement. I was startled and pulled my arm back forcefully.

"Stupid girl. Are you afraid?" No.

"What then?" He was still holding my arm.

"I am not afraid." All the pleasantries were now drained out of me. "I am not afraid at all. I simply don't want to."

He let go of me and looked at me coldly. I remained standing there.

"Okay, leave."

When I entered the room, Rachel was still standing in the window, talking to her suitor, and the room was swarming with mosquitoes. Rachel had smeared herself with mosquito repellent and was unaffected by them. The light was too poor for reading and my sadness was too overwhelming. I still had not fully grasped what had happened to me. That's why I found it hard to concentrate. There were numerous preparations before sleep, and they took forever. I filled out the duty roster and hung it on a hook. Later, I lay down on the camp-bed and rifled through old letters. Tranquillity descended on me, and it seemed as if it all had happened many months before and was already forgotten. My old thoughts surfaced and clustered together. I thought to myself that I was, indeed, eighteen, and it was an age to be proud of. I will be careful and not let this age slip away from me. Soon enough I will inherit the best life has to offer. Soon I will fall asleep and enjoy the bliss of dreaming. Thus I am preparing myself for life, and life will follow. Perhaps the coming year will be the best ever. Winter will be here soon, and the mosquitoes will disappear. Whatever I am looking for will be given to me in spades. Maybe it won't happen exactly as I plan it, maybe not even in the manner I envisage it, but I am sure I will lack for nothing. The heat started mounting from my feet up. I filled up the entire bed. It's just a slight delay, I laughed. Even my brother used to mock me in his letters. But my brother will soon change his attitude. No doubt he, too, will love me when my wishes come true. I rubbed against the sheets. I stroked my shoulder with my hand. I will get my heart's desire in spades, I thought. And then some. It's just that everything will be slightly delayed.

Dahlia Ravikovitch, 1965

Translated by Marganit Weinberger-Rotman

Israeli Women's Fiction, A Hadassah Anthology, edited by Carol Diament and Lily Rattok