Chapter 14 A Tale of Love and Darkness (14)

When he finally arrived in Jerusalem in 1933 with his afflicted grandmother Shlomit, he stopped writing poetry and devoted himself to business.In a few years, he successfully sold the popular clothes imported from Vienna the year before to Jerusalem women who yearned for European taste.But in the end, another Jew, smarter than Grandpa, came along and started importing last year's fashion from Paris, and Grandpa and his Viennese costumes were defeated.He was forced to leave his business, his love of clothes, and start supplying Jerusalem with knitwear from Hollen Lodzia and towels from a small shop in Ramat Gan.Failure and poverty brought back to him the muse who had deserted him in the prosperity of his business.Once again he locked himself in his "study" in the middle of the night, writing passionate poems in Russian, extolling the splendor of the Hebrew language, and praising the charm of Jerusalem--it's not poverty, smoky, suffocating heat fanatics but a Jerusalem whose streets smell of myrrh and frankincense, and angels of God hover over every square in it.Here I step into a picture as the brave little boy in the story of "The Emperor's New Clothes", attacking the poem written by Grandpa with King Kong's angry realism: "You have lived in Jerusalem for many years now, and you know clearly I know exactly what the streets are paved with, and what floats in Zion Square, so why do you always write about things that don’t exist? Why don’t you write about the real Jerusalem?” Grandpa Alexander exaggerated my reckless words He bangs his fist on the table and roars, "The real Jerusalem? What kind of real Jerusalem does a bed-wetting doll like you know? The real Jerusalem is the one in my poem." As written!" "How long are you going to write in Russian, grandpa?" "What do you mean, you fool, you bedwetting little fellow? I do math in Russian! I scold myself in Russian! I dream in Russian !I even—” (But Grandma Shlomit knew exactly what he was going to say next, and interrupted him: “What’s the matter with you? Are you crazy? Look at the kid standing there!” ) "Do you still want to go back to Russia, Grandpa? To visit?" "It's gone!" "What's gone?" "What's gone, what's gone—Russia is gone! Russia is dead. There's Stalin, there's Dzerzhinsky, there's Yezhov, there's Beria, there's a big prison, there's concentration camps and executioners!" "But surely you still love Odessa a little bit?" "Oh, yes, no Love - what's the difference.

God knows! ’ ‘Don’t you want to see it again? "Cough, shh, little thing that wets the bed, don't talk about it, huh?" "One day, when a scandal of embezzlement and corruption came to light that shocked the whole country, while drinking tea and eating cakes in his study, my grandfather told me that when he was fifteen years old in Odessa, he took the "bicycle Riding fast": I once took a dispatch, a notice, to Lilien Bloom, member of the Love of Zion Committee." (Lilien Bloom is not only a famous Hebrew writer, but also Holds the honorary position of Treasurer in the Odessa Love of Zion organization.) "He, Lilien Bloom, was indeed our first Secretary of the Treasury," Grandpa explained to me.While waiting for Lilienbloom to write back, the fifteen-year-old young man who frequented the amusement park took out his cigarette and reached for the ashtray and matchbox on the living room table.Lilien Bloom quickly grabbed Grandpa's hand, stopped him, and walked out of the room, returning later with a matchbox from the kitchen.He explained that the matches in the living room were bought with funds from the Love of Zion organization, and were only used when the committee members were in meetings, and only for committee members. "So, you see, at that time, what belonged to the public belonged to the public, and not everyone could use it. Unlike our country now, we finally established a country after two thousand years, and people can steal it. At that time, every child knew what could and couldn't be done, what was vacant property and what wasn't, what was mine and what wasn't mine." It wasn't always like that.

At one time, probably in the late fifties, a fine ten-lire banknote was issued with a picture of the poet Bialik.When I was clutching my first Bialik bill, I went straight to my grandpa's house to show him how the country respected someone he had known in his youth.Grandpa was indeed very excited, his cheeks were flushed with joy, he turned the banknotes over and over, held them up under the light bulb, and examined Bialik's photograph carefully. (It seemed to me that he was winking mischievously at Grandpa, as if to say "Huh?") There were small tears in Grandpa's eyes, but when he was intoxicated with spiritual joy, he folded the new bills and stuffed them into the inside pocket of the jacket.Ten lire was a lot of money back then, especially for a kibbutz like me.I was stunned: Grandpa, what are you doing? I just show it to you to make you happy.After a day or two, you will definitely have your own. "Well," shrugged the grandfather, "Bialik owes me twenty-two rupees." Speaking of Odessa, when my grandfather was an eighteen-year-old boy, he fell in love with a respectable girl named Shlomit Levin. Shlomit liked comfortable things and the upper class. She was keen on For entertaining socialites, befriending artists, living a “cultural life.” It was a terrible affair: she was eight or nine years older than her little Casanova, and she happened to be his first cousin.

Initially, the stunned family was reluctant to hear of any marital connection between the mature woman and the young boy.Not only is there a big age gap between the two and they are related by blood, but also, the young man has no education that can win fame, no fixed job, and no fixed income except buying and selling.In addition to these disasters, there is another point that is particularly important. Tsarist Russian law prohibits intermarriage of first cousins.According to the photographs, Shlomit Levine, the daughter of the sister of Lasakayla Klausner (née Blaze), was a strong, broad-shouldered young woman, not particularly beautiful, but refined and haughty, And maintain decent seriousness and restraint.She wore a soft felt hat, finely parted in a line across her forehead, with a right brim hanging over her neat hair and right ear, a left brim turned up like the stern of a ship, and a shiny millinery pin fastening a small bouquet of fruit. In front of the hat, a feather stuck on the left dances proudly over the fruit, the hat, and all of that, like a haughty peacock's tail.The lady wore a fashionable goatskin glove on her left arm, and carried a rectangular leather handbag. Her right arm was tightly intertwined with the arm of young Grandpa Alexander, and her fingers, also gloved, gently Hovering over the sleeve of his black coat, touching him unabashedly.He stood to her right, neatly dressed, immaculate, and well-dressed, though the thick soles added to his height, and despite the Homburg hat on his head he seemed smaller than she.His youthful face was stern, resolute, almost melancholy.His well-groomed beard couldn't take away the childlike innocence on his face.His eyes were narrow and melancholy.He was wearing an elegant overcoat with shoulder pads, a starched white shirt, and a silk tie. He was holding or even swinging a stylish walking stick under his right arm with carved patterns on the handle, and his hair was wrapped in metal. In the light, it shone like a sword's edge in old photographs.

A shocked Odessa takes issue with this pair of Romeo and Juliet.Two mothers, sisters, throw themselves into a world war that begins with accusations of crime and ends with endless silence.So grandpa withdrew his little savings, reselling goods everywhere, saving rupees for rupees, and both families were willing to shed a little blood, just to drive the scandal out of their eyes and hearts.My grandparents, a pair of love-struck cousins, set off for America like hundreds of thousands of Russian and Eastern European Jews.They plan to marry in New York and acquire American citizenship. In that case, I may be born in Brooklyn, Newark, New Jersey, USA, and write eloquent novels in English, reflecting the feelings and repressions of immigrants wearing top black top hats, and their The neurotic ordeal of the suffering offspring.But somewhere between New York and Odessa, on the Black Sea or the Sicilian coastline, or as they sailed steadily in the night to the flickering lights of the Strait of Gibraltar, perhaps their love ship was sailing through the vanished During the Atlantic Continent, another drama happened on the deck of the ship, the plot changed abruptly, and love raised its daunting dragon head again: In the spring day, the heart of a teenager is thinking about love.Long story short.My grandfather, the bridegroom-to-be, who was not yet eighteen years old, fell in love again, intoxicated, thrilling, deadly, in the cabin of the ship, he fell in love with another woman, another passenger, according to us As far as I know, he is also ten years older than him.But Grandma Shlomit, such a tradition in our family, never thought of giving up on him.She immediately grabbed his earlobe, clenched her fist, and did not relax day and night until the rabbi in New York presided over their wedding in accordance with the laws of Moses and Israel. ("Take the ear," we all would chirp cheerfully, "she held him by the ear till the wedding." Sometimes they say, "Till the wedding? She never gave up on him. Until her life The end, even longer than the end, she clutches at his ear, tugging at times.") Then, the great mystery ensues.Within a year or two, the eccentric couple paid for the journey again—perhaps their parents helped them out again—and boarded another steamer and made it back to Odessa without looking back.Simply unheard of.Between 1880 and 1917, two million Jews immigrated from the East to the West, settling in the United States in less than two decades, and all but my grandparents returned made all one-way trips.As you can imagine, they were the only passengers, so my emotional grandpa was unloved, and his ears were safe the entire way back to Odessa.Why go back? I never got a sober answer from them. "Grandma, why is America so bad?" "It's nothing bad. It's just too crowded." "Crowded? America is crowded?" "So many people live in such a small country." "Who decided to go back, Grandpa , is it you or grandma?" "Hey, what's that? What are you asking?" "Why did you decide to leave? What didn't you like?" "What didn't we like? What didn't we like? We didn't like anything. Why, there's horses everywhere, and red Indians." "Red Indians?" "Red Indians." I couldn't get anything out of him except that.

Here is a translation of another poem by Grandpa, also written in Russian, called "Winter": Spring is far away, only winter, the storm is raging, the sky is dark, my gloomy heart has no joy and joy, I want to cry, But the tears are dry.My soul is weary, my spirit is sad, my heart is like the sky above my head, no light can be seen, my youth is gone, and the spring and the joy of love are gone and never return. After my first visit to New York in 1972, I looked for and found a woman who looked like an American Indian.I remember her standing on the corner of Lexington and Fifty-third Street handing out flyers.She was neither young nor old, with broad cheekbones, and she wore an old man's coat and a cloak against the biting wind.She handed over a flyer smiling, and I took it and thanked her. "Love awaits you," it promised, under the singles bar address, "don't delay any longer. Come now."

In a photograph taken in Odessa in 1913 or 1914, my grandfather is wearing a bow tie, a gray hat with glittering ribbons, and a three-piece suit with a sparkle peeking from his open blazer. A bright silver thread passed through the tightly buttoned waistcoat, apparently a pocket watch chain.Black silk knots are pasted on the gorgeous white shirt, and the leather shoes are black and shiny.His snazzy cane was tucked just under his elbow, where it dangled as usual.He is holding a six-year-old boy in his right hand and a beautiful four-year-old girl in his left hand.The boy had a round face, and a lock of carefully combed hair protruded lovingly from under a hat, forming a line along his forehead.He wore a noble double-breasted military-like coat with large white buttons.Shorts were peeking out from under the coat, and a narrow strip of snow-white knees could be seen, before being covered by white stockings that seemed to hang from garters.The little girl smiles at the photographer.That demeanor seemed to be aware of his own charm, deliberately expressing himself to the camera lens.Her long, soft hair fell to her shoulders, comfortably scattered on the coat, and neatly parted to the right.Her round face was full and happy, her eyes were slender and squinted slightly like a Chinese, and her round lips smiled.Over her skirt she wore a small double-breasted coat, which in every respect was like her brother's, only one size smaller.The shoes on the feet are eye-catching with cute bow buckles.The boy in the photo is my uncle David, who was always called Ziuzia or Ziuzzynka.And the girl, that charming and coquettish little woman, little girl, is my father.From infancy to seven or eight—although sometimes he told us until he was nine—Grandma Shlomit would often dress him with collared skirts, either in pleated skirts she made for him herself, or straight Skirts, and often red shoes for girls.His captivating long hair cascaded down to his shoulders and was tied with a red, yellow, light blue or pink bow.His mother washed his hair with a fragrant solution every night, and sometimes in the morning, because nighttime oils were notoriously damaging to hair, stripping it of its vitality, shine, and becoming a hothouse for dandruff.She put little rings on his fingers and bracelets on his fat little arms.When they went swimming, Ziozzynka - Uncle David - and Grandpa Alexander went to the men's locker room to change, while Granny Shlomit and little Leonichka - my dad - went straight Go into the women's bathroom, soap all over there, yes, there, also there, please come there specially, take a shower twice.It was Grandma Schlomid who, after giving birth to Zizzynka, was determined to have a daughter.After she learned that she had not given birth to a girl, she immediately decided that she naturally had the unquestionable right to raise this child, the bone of her bones, the flesh of her flesh, as she wished, according to her own choice and taste, no power in this world Power intervenes and dictates her education, grooming, sex and manners in Lonia or Leoniheka.

Grandpa Alexander apparently found no reason to rebel.Closed in a small room, in his own little world, Grandpa enjoys a kind of relative autonomy, even allowing him to pursue his personal interests.Like the princes of Monaco and Liechtenstein, it never occurred to him to be ridiculed for doing something stupid, or to affect his precarious sovereignty by interfering in the internal affairs of his powerful neighbors around his Lilliputian domain.As for my dad, he never protested.He rarely recalls showering with women, or other female experiences, except when he meant to joke with us.But his jokes will always seem to me like a statement of purpose: look, look, how a serious person like me has messed up for you and offered to make you laugh.My mother and I usually smiled at him, as if thanking him for his efforts.And he, excited, almost moving, interprets our smiles as an invitation to continue to amuse us, and he will offer to tell us two or three jokes that we have heard a thousand times, about Jews and non-Jews on the train , telling the story about the meeting between Stalin and Empress Catherine, we were all laughing to tears, and Papa was smug about having amused us, and talking about Stalin sitting across from Ben Gurion and Churchill on the bus, Tell about Bialik meeting another Hebrew poet, Sronsky, in heaven.When he told about Sronski's tryst with a girl, his mother said to him tenderly: "Aren't you going to do some work tonight?" ’” he once said to his guests: “The heart of a woman! It is in vain that the great poets try to reflect its inner secrets. See, where Schiller wrote that there is nothing stronger in all things than the heart of a woman.” Deep secret, no woman has ever or will reveal to a man the whole secret world of femininity. In fact, he may as well ask me—after all, I was there." Sometimes he jokes in a way that isn't funny: "Of course, I chase skirts sometimes, like most men do, and even more, because I used to have enough skirts of my own, and all of a sudden they all go away from me." He once said, "If I had a daughter, she It must be a beauty." He added: "In the future, in future generations, the sex gap will shrink. The difference is a tragedy in general, but it may evaporate someday, but that is nothing more than a comedy of errors .”