Bridal Veil

Kahana-Carmon was born in 1926 on kibbutz Ein Harod and grew up in Tel Aviv. Her first collection of stories, Under One Roof, appeared in 1966 to great critical acclaim. She has subsequently published three novels, novellas, and short stories, and she has lectured widely. She was writer-in-residence at Tel Aviv University and at the Oxford Centre for Hebrew and Jewish Studies in the United Kingdom. She has avoided political themes, as well as any narrative expansion that assists the reader's orientation. Her stories plunge the reader directly into an unmediated world of subjective feeling. Usually the subjects of her novels and stories are young women facing the problems of growing up and contending with romantic attachments. In a later novel, With Her on Her Way Home (1991) she deals with the problems of growing old. Kahana-Carmon's language is carefully shaped and unadorned, but possessing an idiosyncratic subtlety that makes translation difficult.

Father accompanied her and sat with her on the Egged inter-city bus. Until the journey began. It was the bus before last. Because Father had taken her to the pictures. Now he was impatient. Irritable for some reason.

A group of UN soldiers were getting on the bus. One got on and Father said: 'Looks like Anthony Perkins, that one.' Another one got on. Looks even more like Anthony Perkins, reflected Shoshana but did not say

For many hours she had waited for Father. An evening in another town. The park. Empty playground. Through branches and leaves, lights: dwellings. Residences, windows. Strangers' homes.

Since the early afternoon she had waited there. The gardeners were still having a rest in the shrubs' shade. Two long-haired vagabond tourists, one with hair like the sun in a poster, equal and matching tongues of flame in a blazing circle, with intense concentration measured and cut in two a single cigarette with a razor blade. Little boys and girls began arriving. Some of the little boys had their hair held to one side by a hair-clip. Some of the girls had tiny toy handbags. Some little white woollies folded over the arm. Chilly in the evening in the mountain town.

Later on, deaf-mute children were brought to the park. With them two teachers. Or minders. Very young, dressed like sluts.

The minders went and sat on a bench. The mute children invaded the playground, swarming over every seat. Or, blank-eyed, violently spinning roundabouts, making swings and their sitters fly The nice children scattered, scurried for mothers' or child-minders' laps. The mute children, like pirates, snatched at the vacated seats. Signalling to each other pleasure and delight; voicelessly, with gestures and grotesque faces only. Among them fully grown girls riding the infants' seats of the seesaws, on their faces the expression of mental retardation. One lanky boy, sombre, most obstinate, his shirt torn at the shoulder, kept on disturbing them. Trying to grab their rubber flipflops, rising and falling, while they draw back their feet and kick out at him lazily. Under his chin, in his stomach, his ribs, wherever the seesaw takes them. And whenever he, with his eyes shut, gapes in soundless pain, one can see, his teeth are false.

The park emptied. Soon it will be completely dark. And now it is. The recorded voice of a woman trails past. Clear and vivid as though a singing siren were sitting on the bonnet of the passing car. Silence again. Then the trail of the familiar voice of an announcer, reading the evening news. From a first floor balcony, across the trunks of the pine trees, once or twice, questions are asked aloud. Of members of a family, settling for the night. Then the vertical slats of the blinds were turned slightly, their backs inwards, their insides outwards, just enough to seal off.

Shoshana took out and started eating the food her mother had given her for the journey. Brown bread. A little smoked mackerel. One or two apricots. A little halva.

A man--an Ashkenazi, bald and pot-bellied in too, wide khaki shorts, once everyone sported clothes like that, with a shabby briefcase, like a middle-aged clerk--went in and out, in and out of the park. Earlier, when he had passed by her, she could still make out the grooved buckle, held in the last hole of his belt. Beads of sweat on his forehead and the front of his bald head. Also his eye, fixed on her sideways, like a rooster's. Fixed on her all the time. Later on, one could hardly make out the features of his haggard face. The darkness deepened more and more. Shoshana made up her mind and went to wait on the pavement, under the street lamp. She was worrying that Father might not find her, as he had told her to wait in the park, in the playground, like all the children. And what if Father should come in through the other gate? What if he went away. But that's how it is. In another town. A strange town.

She stood on the street corner, peering furtively at the section of the main street, there beyond the alley. People were passing there. True, fewer people. But people were passing there. And cars. All along there had been some mistake, it was revealed to her now. She hadn't thought about it, but must have assumed that life outside came to an end when one went to bed, after supper. Except on special occasions. And here's something new, secret: there's the ordinary life of day. And there's the ordinary life of night. Life carries on at night. Differently though. At night everything is different. Houses, people, thoughts.

The bus lingered. Father started to grumble.

Since when do UN soldiers travel by bus, Shoshana reflected. Two were sitting in front. A third one stood over them, chatting.

Ice-blue eyes they had. And though they certainly had broad shoulders, something about them was seemingly narrow. They were as though made of drier stuff: As though we ourselves, our end is to shrink, leaking a spreading puddle. And later on, when all but shrunk to thin skin, to get all wrinkled, to evaporate and be no more. But they, their end is to crumble, turn into dust, and be no more. They were all similar, but each in his own way. Like guavas. They all taste good, but each tastes also slightly different, giving its own interpretation of the taste of the guava.

A man carrying a high cardboard box entered. On it, in big red scrawl, like a finger smear, it read: Parts-Incubators. He blocked the exit with it.

Again Shoshana was reminded of the story called 'Excerpt' in the 'Paths Reader Part Four'. A chick hatches out of its egg in the incubator. To whom will the chick turn its inborn human need for attachment? Will it turn to the electric incubator, it was written there, will it turn to the poulterer who breeds it in order to have it transferred to the electric poultry abattoir, to whom? The inborn human need, it was written. The human need of he who is not human.

From one of the seats could be heard the voice of a young man, of Oriental Sephardi stock, excited, even though whispering. 'Give it to me, let me be the secretary of the committee. No, not because you like me. Because I've got the hang of it. And you'll see if, within four years, I don't turn this place into a political springboard. First rate. If each one of them wouldn't need me, look for me, come to me for favours. Here's Ben-Dov Who's Ben-Dov. Alright, he's head and shoulders above. Today. Fifteen, twenty years ago, what was he. A seaman. And today, you can see for yourself. And I, I'll get you the whole of the construction lot going. Think of it: power. True, true. But Anaby got demolished politically because he doesn't have the makings of a public figure. Just not a strong man. True, he was seen all over the place. Ran around. But he doesn't have the makings. It's a question of having an influence over people. You have to know how to get them going. How? Work at the source. Besides, you know that with me you'll get the works. Balance sheets, reports, deals, the lot.'

The bus lingered on. Father got up, parted abruptly, and left.

As soon as Father got off the bus, the UN soldier who had been standing up came over and sat down beside her. Perched on his seat, craning his neck forward, he picked up his chatting with his fiends.

Freckled, young, good-looking. But the light went out and he stopped talking. Shoshana wondered about his sitting next to her. Moreover, she had noticed that before he sat down he had considered her, then the empty seat across the aisle, and making a quick decision chose to sit by her. As soon as he sat down, it was as if a prize had fallen her way.

Even in the dark it was possible to see, his lips were finely drawn. The fleshy hand, grasping the rail of the seat before them, firm. And he's one of the boys. Very much one of the boys.

The bus started moving off. Outside, a tall woman passed, crossed its path walking very upright, and the driver cried out furiously: 'Greta Garbo.' Shoshana peeped at the UN soldier, saw him smiling in surprise. Unaware, she too smiled inwardly But now the strap of the flight bag-the blue El Al bag, with Father's laundry, that Father had placed on the shelf above--slipped down, swung about and almost touched the beret of the soldier sitting in front of her. Meaning to put it back, Shoshana struggled to get up, tried to stand on the curve of the wheel at her feet. Trouble: the UN soldier was sitting on the edge of her skirt, Mother's wide skirt given for the trip. As the bus swerved to leave its bay by the platform side, Shoshana slipped, found herself in the dark waist up across a hard and alien knee.

'Sorry,' she cried out in Hebrew, reaching out with both hands, as if for a raft, to the rail of the seat in front, whilst the embarrassed UN soldier was saying in English: 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry. It's alright.'

Trying to stand up again, the UN soldier still sitting on the edge of her skirt, the bus swerving the other way, she flew to his knees once more. This time he hastened to help, to raise her like a package in order to put her back in her place. But with the bus jolting and straightening itself, he put his hand in the wrong place. 'Sorry' he let go at once, alarmed. Straining to rise, Shoshana said: 'It's alright,' echoing his English, 'sorry' And she tried a word from her schooldays: 'Dress.' 'Dress? Oh, dress. I'm sorry,' his alarm increased and he rose. 'It's alright,' she mouthed in shame. The shadow of a smile was wiped off her face now. With it, her self-assurance.

Once, when Father still worked in Tiberias. A waitress, with a wink to her friend, volunteered to display her skills in making small talk. She announced, she'd ask a soldier if he was married. She couldn't find the word. Then she did: 'You, papa?' 'Perhaps I am and I don't know it,' the soldier laughed, very much taken by surprise. All the waitresses shrieked. What did he mean? Married or single. He invited the waitress to go out with him. 'Where to?' she asked. 'Dancing cheekto-cheek,' translated Father, for all to hear the soldier's reply. What did the soldier mean. 'UN soldiers, they are like sailors of a ship,' Father had explained to her at the time. Father had a song in French, and once on a weekend, he translated it for us like this, with feeling: 'I see the harbour lights / Only they told me we were parting / The same old harbour lights / That once brought you to me / I watch the harbour lights / How could I help if tears were starting / Goodbye to tender nights / Beside the silvery sea.' And throatily: 'I long to hold you near / And kiss you just once more / But you are on that ship / And I am on the shore.' And again, as before: 'Now I know lonely nights / For all the while my heart is whispering / Some other harbour lights / Will steal your love from me.'

Along the nocturnal road were trees, nodding heads like people. The light of the speeding bus falls on them, withdraws from them. And the vapour-veiled moon crescent is getting blurred. But why is her throat so dry? Shoshana gazed through the window for a long time.

Once, while she was travelling home with Father's laundry, a nice

young man, maybe a student at the Polytechnic, sat next to her reading a paperback. Entitled It Was Murder By Moonlight. When it got dark, the young man put the book in his pocket and turned to touch her nape so artfully that until they reached the junction she couldn't make out whether he had, or she had imagined it. Then as now, at the first moment, the same panic. A blind panic. Like a wild animal's. Only this time there was no room for error. The UN soldier beside her is, he is, pressing his elbow on to her arm. This time she did not rise to leave her place and did not move to another seat. She sat on like a statue. Doing nothing. Gazing through the window.

Now, with his other hand he is seeking hers. And just as it's not for exercising their throat-muscles that people utter sounds. But for saying things with words, the things the matter. So it is here. He is seeking to say something, only in another way. What is he asking. Yes, I know. But it's not clear what he is asking right now about it. And what does he expect from her. Hard to know, let alone when one is confused.

She stole a look at him. And learned that he was already sitting very close, much closer than she had realized. Deadpan faced, as though he had nothing to do with her. Passing his arm behind to surround her. UN soldiers in front of us, UN soldiers behind us. How does he have the nerve?

At the junction the lights came on. The UN soldier hurried, moved away abruptly.

Cheerful girl-soldiers boarded the bus. 'Smadar, Smadar,' they cried out to another who was still outside, buying something from a young vendor. Good-looking, grown-up, laughing. Here goes, reflected Shoshana, this will put an end to me. Besides, there's no escape: I know what he must think of me now--she didn't dare look his way. As he sat staring straight ahead, so did she. As he folds his arms, so she folds hers.

The girl-soldiers spread out boisterously over the vacant seats. The ticket inspector got on. And the UN soldier beside her smiled to himself, privately, tilting his chin a little, as a UN soldier seated distantly threw a side-comment in a loud voice, probably a joke. Shoshana took out the two tickets from the pocket of her plaid blouse. The return ticket and the late-night surcharge one, holding them both in her hand.

And she saw: the UN soldier who was sitting still grinned at her. As if asking permission. Before she could know what he wanted, he took her tickets from her hand. Holding them with his ticket, entirely together, he handed them to the inspector.

As ever and always she, the eldest daughter, has had to manage on her own--what is it that passed through her now, piercing through the bark, penetrating the sapwood, making it ooze. She felt herself shattered, knowing nothing.

Returning her tickets, he attempted to strike up a conversation with her:

'Israel?' he pointed at her.

Shoshana nodded.

He pointed at himself

'Riff-raff.'

Where is Riffraffia? she tried to remember.

'Canada,' he smiled as if in confirmation, raising a shoulder to push his ticket into his pocket.

All she knew about Canada, she reflected, was what Father had once told them. A Canadian walked into the hotel kitchen. He sat down and said, to Father and the rest of the assistant chefs, that where he came from, normally, they entertained in the parlour. But a specially welcome guest was always received in the kitchen. This was what the man had said, and dropped off. Totally drunk. _ Only later they found out he'd fallen asleep on the spice mill, which they had been looking for all that time.

The UN soldier pointed backwards with his thumb. To know whether she is a resident of the city they had left. Shoshana pointed ahead. The city they were heading for. He got it and laughed, as if by this she had proved herself sharp-wilted. He pointed back again, shaking his other hand, as if enquiring. Shoshana pointed at Father's bag. 'Papa,' she said. The UN soldier's face became respectful, and Shoshana felt pleased. Very.

Then she remembered. Tried her hand at making small talk:

'You. Papa?'

He didn't understand. But pointed at himself, and smiled: 'No papa. No mama. No brother. No sister. No wife. No children. Nobody' he said. And he took off his beret. Put it on her bag. On her bag he put it. Now, with his red hair, he was better looking sevenfold. And as soon as the light went out he returned to her. Once the bus danced. And he, using the inside of his arm which was on her back, pressed it on her hard then, deliberately. As if to protect her, to spare her the bumps.

In the vicinity of the city boundaries, but a good way from the station yet, the road was blocked with buses and cars. A traffic jam?' people said, 'an accident?'

For a long time they waited there. More cars drove up, stopped. People began to get off the bus. Got tired and boarded it again. A man wearing the bus company hat appeared. A real veteran. There had been a road accident, he explained. They would have to proceed on foot. Passengers going further would be provided with transport. Saying this, he left. The driver translated it into English, and picking up his satchel indifferently, left too.

The UN soldier got Shoshana's bag down from the shelf, but people were shoving between them. Especially one woman, her fleshy bulk quivering, who continued her conversation whilst alighting, as if incapable of stopping: 'Twenty years later I saw her, the one he left me for,' it was unbelievable that she was saying. 'Quite my lookalike. And he did the same thing to her too. The bastard, the worthless bastard,' she said. 'How do I know? He did it with me,' she spoke ordinarily. The ordinary life of night.

Almost the last one to get off, down there waiting for her was the UN soldier.

'Goodbye,' Shoshana was glad to have found the word. She took her bag from him, whilst here too was a novelty: the language not her own language in her mouth. A man-made, contrived automaton. Look, as if at the press of a button it suddenly works, alive, performing: another secret new thing is revealed. Suddenly the world is full of questions and surprises. Meanwhile, she was overhearing a passing Israeli youth, who, casting a glance at the UN soldier, was saying about him in Hebrew: 'Some body.' And it was as if it were she who had been paid a compliment.

The UN soldier did not go. He was standing, hands in the belt of his narrow trousers, and waiting. Shoshana pointed at his friends, the UN soldiers who were walking away, after they had set themselves apart and crossed to the other side of the road. He shook his head signalling no, and took her bag from her. Smiling and saying, 'Little girl', he pointed at his watch. Meaning, it's late and it won't do for little girls to be on their own.

They were the last ones there now. And as she turned to follow the crowd, which was making its way along the stalled vehicles, he stopped her. Catching her lightly by the edge of her sleeve. Tacitly, as if conspiring. Now that she had stopped with him, Shoshana felt that he had her consigned to his charge entirely. Under his patronage. Now she was his. All she had to do was to rely on him. For his part, his contribution or guarantees, were in evidence by the quality of the skin of his arms, for instance. Fine, sand-coloured, strewn with freckles and as if brave, very appropriate. Or his watch, his square wrist-watch, this too was sort of appropriate, and by that an attested proof. Also his vest, like a white gym shirt, peeping out of his open collar. And so forth.

When there were no more passengers, the UN soldier pulled her to him, moved her to his other side, and led her with him down a path--many paths were here--leading toward the city. All went over there, whereas they go on a way that is theirs only. That too was right. She joined him unquestioningly.

From time to time he stopped her, hugged and fondled her. Once, kneading and kneading her, he said into her hair, slowly, so she would understand, 'You'll see. I'll be good,' and kissed her on her hair.

The words astounded her. Another secret new thing is revealed: this is what the grown-up girls are privileged to. Canadian girls. Blissful girls. Mysterious, haughty, and deserving. Is it they who got them instructed, trained them. On evenings of paths through boughs in leaf, and lanterns hanging from branches amid twigs, foliage and tendrils. His chest in uniform, to which he held her when he spoke, belonged there too. His surprising chest, close, straight, all vacant and free; and how is this, a safe haven. But what had he said. As though she had been asked, in astonishment: All these years, and you didn't know? Did you really not know that there is, there is a Mediterranean Sea in the east as well?' Of course. A sea, and a beach. And why the scary relief. 'I didn't know,' I answer, and already am not sure: did or didn't I. But what did he say? Did he propose to her? A little girl. Does it mean he intends to wait until she grows up? To take her with him, in the fullness of time, to Riffraffia? Run along, days, run. The only thing unclear yet is how, without ever knowing me, he recognized immediately that I am Shoshana more than any Shoshana, and that is why I should be singled out.

In the floral skirt too large for her, made to fit her waist with a safety pin. In the plaid blouse too short for her, the sleeve not quite hiding the slipping bra strap. The same Shoshana. And another Shoshana. Mysterious, deserving. Beautiful girls, beautiful women, like beautiful fans. Always, whenever she perceives the beautiful, it's a pleasure. As if she partakes of their beauty, from a distance. And now, there she is, a proper partner herself, deserving. And at a threshold.

Like then, in the dream? I stand in a large public square. Daylight

fades. A very beautiful African lady, an ambassador's wife, stands spellbound before one of the flower beds in the square. A corner of tall, giant funnel-like arum lilies. Gaudy. Striped, streaked and spotted, in supernatural hues. 'Harare-Horse,' she says in a low voice, 'HarareHorse.' I too fall under the spell. 'Harare-Horse?' I ask 'Harare-Horse: the piles of sweets in our marketplaces.' And someone comes to call her. To the airliner. To the night sky. Already studded with stars like jasmine flowers. Run along, days, run.

Holding her hand in his all the time, at the end of the path they came to a very tall wire-mesh fence. Looking new. They turned back. Over and over, at the end of every path, was the same fence. Impossible to walk along it. Tall thorns, impassably tangled. No choice, the fence has to be climbed.

He threw her bundle over to the other side. Helped her climb the fence. Then joined her. He swung his legs over to the other side and jumped down. But she, she couldn't get down! Putting up his arms to catch her, she let herself go, fell into his arms.

Having received her, why didn't he allow her to go, steadily enfolding all of her, tightly against him? And why has he changed so? Why don't they keep on walking? And why is she suddenly again in the panic of a wild animal--she tried to free herself. But how very strong men are, it dawned on her. And he breathes as if he has a fit of shivers. Why did he abruptly fling her to the ground. And isn't it wrong to force down a person's head backward into the dust. Wriggling to set herself free, half of her trapped between his legs, and he keeps her legs clasped together, her top half locked in one of his arms, he only sprawled on her, hard, in his clothes and shoes, that's all, with his other hand, forcing her face towards his, seeking her mouth, as if looking for closeness and consent. Himself, giving, offering, donating his only pair of lips, the ones that matter to him, it must be, of lips that seem so well cared for. Yet, at the same time, he cruelly prevents her from freeing herself, as if forbidding her to make a move, what sort of a plan is all this, and he is sighing and is so worked up. Suddenly he lets go. Everything isn't dear, isn't good. Haven't we been friends? And 1, for his sake, I am no longer of Israel. I am of the UN.

Sitting beside her he asked, slowly, so she could make it out:

'How old are you?'

Shoshana showed with her fingers: thirteen.

He laughed. Buried his face in her shoulder.

'God,' he said, laughing, 'forgive me.' Now he tapped the top of his head, meaning: he had thought. To explain, he stuck out his fist three times, opening and closing it, and added fingers, meaning: eighteen. He twisted his left hand, meaning: maybe. He stuck out his fist again and added with his right hand fingers, meaning: seventeen. Stuck out again and with one finger: sixteen. Thought it over, and only stuck out: fifteen. Shoshana was watching it all earnestly, patiently, trying to comprehend the sign language. But now he laughed, tapped her nose with his finger. Shoshana raised her head towards him, and he hugged her with one arm, drawing her to him. The private fair skin of his arms is nevertheless very appropriate. His chest in uniform, a safe haven.

'Mosquitoes,' he said. Of course, mosquitoes. He patted his back pocket, as if to check, brought out a crushed packet of foreign cigarettes. And matches, their heads a lighter colour than their bodies, attached in rows to a small book. He lit a cigarette. He pointed to the cigarette smoke and clarified: 'The mosquitoes,' making with his palm as if he is dispersing them. Smoke drives mosquitoes away, she learnt. He's a learned man.

He kept on smoking. Looking ahead. Turned and offered her the cigarette. Shoshana took the cigarette. He laughed and corrected her hold of the cigarette, encouraging her to smoke. But Shoshana gave him the cigarette back. And so, making a move to lean on her forearm, she gave out a small cry: she had laid the inside of her wrist on a piece of glass, and cut herself. She searched, picked up the piece of glass, dear glass of a bottle neck. He took it from her hand, hurled it away. 'Let me,' he asked to see the cut.

Shoshana hesitated. Put her hand behind her back, smiling at him shamefully. He resumed smoking, looking ahead. Shoshana brought out her hurt hand gingerly, sucked it covertly. He saw, laughed. Turning to her, he took the whole arm in his free hand. Could see nothing in the dark. Pressed her arm as if promising, and returned it to her. Having finished his cigarette, he stuck the butt in the ground. Rose up, almost without using his hands, she noticed. Went to fetch her bag, slinging it effortlessly over his shoulder.

He came over and pulled her up. 'Little girl,' he said tapping his watch smiling.

Shoshana rose up, yielding. He said something, speaking slowly, so she could make it out. And she couldn't. He repeated it, again and again, and she couldn't make it out. 'Never mind,' he laughed lightly.

Now houses could be picked out clearly. Everything seemingly colourless. And the street lamps' lights over there going out all by themselves. Is it so that, in an ordered way, day after day, the sky is rinsed white by the steadily increasing pure light, without hindrance, simply and in silence day slips out of night? A neat, uncomplicated solution. So very right. All the earth is full of heaven's glory. No need for witnesses. But the eyes see. Raising his hand, the UN soldier wiped off dust from each of her eyebrows with his thumb. In her heart it was

as if he had sworn her in.

They were walking between the road and the line of trees along it. To the north‑east, among the trees and across the flat roofs of the houses, she saw a reddening mark overlaying a suggestion of blue. And the clouds of reverence. The dwarfed cylinders of the solar tanks and their sloping panels, the ladders and spindly matchsticks of the television aerials, all blacker than black, against the background of incandescent sea, gradually igniting. It is of the revelations made visible, an inheritance in the possession of the sworn in, the initiated ones, to whom the mysteries of the world are everyday affairs.

Earlier, when they were looking for the way, they heard a gang of boys passing far away Probably trainees at the vocational school. One was strumming the guitar, others singing indistinctly. She remembered that it had been the last day of school. The UN soldier even did a 'Bang-bang' in the direction of the sounds, as if holding a rifle in his hands. Now, in the light of daybreak, the boys were seen coming back. A reminiscence of colours: tight trousers, reminiscent of light blue; a belt, reminiscent of stripes of black and red; a shirt, reminiscent of yellow. Still singing, stopping to sniff each other's mouths, they were crossing the road, marching down towards the houses: the time is four o'clock in the morning, they'll wake up the whole street. 'I have no idea what I wrote in the exam. But what I wrote was the right thing.'

The UN soldier turned quickly, fixed her nimbly to one of the eucalyptus trees. Leaning against the tree with his arms held above her, he stood hiding her. She was astonished. By herself, it would never have occurred to her. She attempted to say something, but he put his hand promptly over her mouth, and she was breathing the fresh pungent tobacco smell on his fingers. Then he lowered his gaze to her, smiling amiably. UN-Soldier!--her heart clung to him. UN-Soldier! thus she stood watching him all the time, her head tilted up to him, her eyes staring wide-open at him, his hand on her mouth. Until, when the boys were not there anymore, and bending his knees, he held her by the shoulders, jokingly attached his cheek to hers. Remembering, he rubbed his hand against his cheek to show the reddish stubble which had started growing, grimaced to make her laugh, and released her. 'Little girl, good girl,' he said.

UN-Soldier!--Shoshana plucked up courage, put out her hands, took hold of his waist, did not wish to walk on. Then joined him, continuing to walk.

Free of any dependence known to me. Unknown dependences have lent here character and grit, without which you are not a person he strides as though without moving his head. Regards everything before him as though all, and this means all, is equal and the same. And speech is not a must for him, with or without it will do. This, you can tell, is his natural state. There's a kind of admirable quality here, like a sort of luxury. Serenity arising from a reservoir of strength Shoshana tried to match her footsteps to his. And all the while his face, arms, uniform--all of his familiar self, is both old and new in the new light.

A lorry, still nocturnal, its lights still on, passed them with a great clatter. Full of Arab labourers, stooping. On the other side of the road, the football pitch. The two goals, and the hard ground cleared of scrub, surrounded by a stand consisting of two rows of stadium benches, one above the other, like scaffolding. And a bus stop. The billboard. From here, whoever is not in the know couldn't have guessed that the dark rectangle on the billboard is the big illustrated poster of the Indian film. The girl has a red pea in her forehead, above her nose, and an amber necklace; the beads thick and squarish. While the man has an inclination towards a double chin.

The UN soldier scanned the highway, looking lost, passing his palm over his ruddy neck. Inspecting her as if he's uncertain of her ability to lead the way. Perhaps he thought she kept looking at him all the time with great interest, waiting for his resourcefulness. But she keeps looking on at him as she walks only because she cannot take her eyes off him: I could not imagine him with a moustache, for instance, or with sideburns, or a beard. Now, that he is need of a shave, I can. Or, here. Despite the peeling nose owing to this country's sun, here are the azure shards of ice-mountains. Shards from the faraway country where his home is, the keepsake embedded in his face instead of eyes. His face, permanently wearing the sudden foreignness that a woman of ours has on her face, for a fleeting moment, when she first puts on her earrings. Like a foreign perfume. A foreignness that has a touch of class. Like fastidious sinisterness. Sinisterness that is the product of your own imagination, the product of your own effacement. Or his colours; for example. The colours of another earth, different--as far as the eye can see, other fields, different. With different electricity pylons, vanishing into them. With different tractors and combine harvesters, looking minute when they pass through them. The men who drive them wear different overalls. Perhaps dungarees? Are their hats straw hats frayed at the edges? In the heat of the day in the field they all drink whisky out of jerry-cans.

Shoshana stopped. To shake a bit of gravel out of her shoe. She tried to indicate that she was stopping.

He halted, smiled comprehension.

Shoshana resumed walking. The shards of faraway, they come com­plete with an arrangement of golden lashes. The colours, all the col­ours of a different, freckled earth, in the land across the ice-mountains: if you break with your axe a little ice in the valley, you'd be able to draw out with a hook a fish that is about man-size. And look, to and behold, they have arrived, fallen right here. Striding right here. With our very own football pitch behind us, and in front, our neighbour­hood. All the birds in the boughs of the eucalyptus trees welcome the future sunrise in concert, but I know: it is also in our honour, also in our honour. Is there anyone like you in the world, that like you is just right?

And here's the neighbourhood.

A cat could be seen passing from a house roof to a shed roof. All the houses are deep in slumber. The end of the wooden cart is showing, laden high with watermelons. Of the first ones this season. But it seems, none of the Ezra brothers is asleep on the mattress over there. Even the hanging hurricane lamp is out of sight. In a slow death, devoid of any noble fortitude, the two abandoned houses crumble away Cracks on the wall, the yards are thorn bushes. They say, among their foundations' low cement stilts there are snakes.

At the back fence of the house she stopped. Pointed at the house. But the UN soldier bent back his thumb and stucked it pointedly between his teeth, as he tilted his head backward, demonstrating to Shoshana, with eyes surveying around, that he wished to drink. She understood. Pointed at the tap beside the dustbin.

He rode the fence, then was over. The shoulder-line straight as a coat-hanger, the big shirt hanging down his back like a scarecrow's, he turned on the tap. Leaned forward above it, legs apart, and drank. A cat, probably lurking there the whole time, suddenly made up its mind, leapt out of the dustbin and fled to the neighbours' yard, hid behind the old icebox that lies there, its side on the ground. The UN soldier wiped his mouth with his wrist.

He came. Stood before her. Lifted the bag, hung it over her shoul­der laughing, saying something in his language. Shoshana did not leave. He looked at her. Shoshana did not leave. With his finger he moved his beret from the back of his head too far forward. From his forehead too far back. As if mimicking someone, good-naturedly. Shoshana did not leave.

He started rummaging in his pockets. Took out the Egged bus ticket. Examined the Egged bus ticket. Folded it correctly, and folded it up again. Put the ticket in her palm and closed her fingers over it, grouping them together into a brown fist enclosing the ticket. 'Souvenir,' he smiled. Shoshana did not leave. He stroked her cheek lightly, and left. Turned once, waved to her with his hand, and left.

When he could no longer be seen, Shoshana looked at the ticket. I don't know his name, it occurred to her now. He doesn't know mine, she looked at the ticket. Buried her face in the ticket. Then steadied the burden on her shoulder.

She entered home on tiptoe. Skirting the baby pram at the inside of the front door, she passed her sleeping brothers. Solemn, to the point of fear-inspiring, as if they are crucified. She changed in silence. And cautiously got into bed, together with her little sister, who was snuggled all curled up, and with her arms as if sheltering her head and face.

Her mother, her hair dishevelled, the eternal red dressing-gown now thrown hastily over her nightgown, came in from the other room. Pushing aside the yellow striped curtain, she stood in the entrance: Shoshana looked her mother in the eye. Her mother looked Shoshana in the eye. Didn't say anything. Left. And Shoshana could hear how her mother was suppressing her sobs, over there, in her creaking bed in the other room. Then how the baby woke up. And fell asleep again.

She wiped one last dust-grain, or two, off her thin eyebrows, off the base of her neck. From behind her earlobe. Rosita is my name, I would have told him. A name to conjure with in the world. My birthright name, until it was changed into a Hebrew one by Teacher Hephzibah's decree. Little-Girl my name will now remain. I've indeed shrunk to a small-finger size, yet have grown simultaneously by an arm's length: surrounded by the familiar, that at the same time is dif­ferent. As with the girl Alice, in the show they sent us. For the adop­tion ceremony, when they adopted us on 'Love Thy Brother as Thyself Day'. There were all those misfortunes. The loudspeakers went dead on us. Then the lorry broke down. And the guests fated to wait were irate: they were given tea, said thank you, but hardly touched it. Teacher Hephzibah even organized us, the 'Clowns' choir, to start a sing-song, for them to join in. None of them did. Zvi performed for them his 'Dancing with The Lady Zvia' dance. In a lady's hat, a bor­rowed dress, a handbag and unshaven cheeks, he danced in ballroom style, embracing and stroking his imaginary partner. But some nerv­ous ones whispered amongst themselves all the time: lorry-tow vehicle--a disgrace. Who's interested in these ones? Go on Mama, go on washing the laundry. Maybe in two weeks time, maybe in three: over there, where all of them are good-looking, all are kind-hearted, all loving, in their dashing greenish fatigues, in the barracks yard, in front of the grey pillared arches, taking pleasure and in no hurry, all of them will be watering with buckets, scrubbing or combing, each his own pet horse. One by one they'll stand still, their work at a halt. They'll be restored into motion again as I'll go on, passing along the fence, set on searching. 'Hail to my cousin / All ruddy and fair / Is he doing well / Our King David?': the last in the row he'll be. Doing his work. Lovingly Unaware. There I shall stand. Shall wait. Until he sees me. Recognized me. He will put down his brush. Will come out to me. Bring me in. And everyone will laugh, but be glad, the Regiment's Sweetheart. In two weeks time perhaps, perhaps in three, on an Egged inter-city bus. With a blue El Al bag. To my destiny

'But my name is Little-Girl / The Regiment's Sweetheart / And UN Soldier is thy name / I see the harbour lights... ' And maybe, even in another twenty years. And even if I see those for whom they'd give me up. Those will be quite my look‑alike. And they will be cheated on too. How will I know? for they will cheat on them with me!--she buried her face in the bus ticket. With a sinking heart. Sensing herself as one who is brought to court, and at the end the clerks hand him a formidable paper to sign. And he signs. Among other things, also with a touch of satisfaction. A satisfaction which is not unlike a destruction wish, at once alluring and frightening. But the chick hatching out of its egg in the incubator, the one with problems, what about the chick--she was beginning to doze off: Prevented herself from falling asleep: as if without any restraints, how is it, suddenly a person is compelled to draw close. Extends attention, tokens of goodwill, of affection, pampers without reservations. Unafraid. Giving, getting exposed in front of a stranger. He ought to be fond of that stranger. Must be. Surely he needn't have anything to do with all this otherwise. Moreover, to do it willingly. Out of himself. He's fond, yes, fond. And sinking into sleep, like one striving labouriously who towards the end of his journey is shedding any superfluous load, this is what she was left with: a person wants. Wants to receive, to give. A person extends, attention, care, is fond, makes one take part, as if they are not strangers. And then he leaves. Does not come back. She fell asleep.

She heard her mother getting up, passing into the kitchen. Mixing the feed for the chickens. In the heat that already filled the world, like laundry air, was all the humdrum of the drudgery of the newborn day. Born without a mask: no blessing, no chance, no reconciliation, no change, no novelty. No stir in the leaves of the creeper; this calabash-like, gourd-like plant, it decks out only the yards of the poor, as she had observed long ago. Twining over there, raising its yellow flowers, clinging to the posts of the pergola in the yard, its end can be seen from her corner in the bed. She heard her mother attaching the hose to the kitchen tap, to fill the two large galvanized laundry tubs and the pail for the baby nappies outside, under the kitchen window. The way she had told us once. Told us of a story that had taken place in their homeland. A story about a brother who strangled his adulterous sister and threw her body into a well. 'Blessed are the hands,' his mother had blessed him--she told us full of sacred awe.

But me, I am never more of this place. Ever more of the UN.

And the backlash swept her over. Like a forgotten melody. The burst of freshness of a power that draws one back, and anguish, akin to regrets, over that which is massacred here at your feet each time anew and gets trampled, you know not what it is. They recapture that which is extinct and by now is nothing but tenderness, all the tenderness. Yet in it are preserved all its lost flavour, fully retained, and its true colours--with a punch that is like a fist-blow to the jaw. In the great wide world only this time, only for me, only in my case won't, please, some day find you again?

Amalia Kahana-Carmon

Translated by Raya and Nimrod Jones.

The Oxford Book of HEBREW SHORT STORIES, Edited by Glenda Abramson

Oxford New York, OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS 1996