Authors: Avner Mandelman
Only later, on the plane, did I find in my pocket my father's letter, which he had slipped in when I wasn't looking.
Jenny was sitting where I had left her, at the coffee counter, among the throng of crew and actors and the few high school students who had come to see me go, yet apart from them, reading the Polish magazine
Mirror
, her fair hair (grown longer) reflecting the light. There was a picture of Gershonovitz on the front page, and some fat headlines.
The departure lounge around us was full. There was a large crowd of religious Jews, men in black, and women in brown and gray, shepherding dozens of twittering offspring; young ex-soldiers sitting on backpacks; and a large family of Arabs in colorful village clothes with half a dozen silent children. Arab and Jewish children eyed one another curiously while their parents pulled them back.
To the side stood Fauzi, his eyes hooded. On his arm was tied a black
sharit alhidad
. I got up and stood beside him, and for a while neither of us spoke.
"Goddammit," I said at last. "Was a good man, the Seddiqi--"
Fauzi said, "Another message arrived, just now,
ya Sa'eedi."
He did not say who had delivered it, and I did not ask.
"They want you to take it to them,
ya Sa'eed,"
he said in a voice like sandpaper.
I felt no surprise. Somehow it seemed logical. The only surprise was how fast the message had come.
"I'll be back in three weeks," I said.
Behind, the actors whooped it up, reading the latest reviews of the show.
I stared at the small group at the coffee counter, and the crowds behind. Neither Ehud nor Ruthy had arrived to see me off.
Fauzi said, "You think this
'ibn sharmuta
Begin will listen?"
He had said
'ibn sharmuta
, son of a whore, the way Leibele spoke about my mother; or Amzaleg about my father, calling him a bastard; a sign of grudging respect.
"He'd better," I said. "Or--" I stopped. Or what? Or I would come out? As what?
There was one last pause.
"Salaam,"
Fauzi said; then, his face flaming, he repeated the word in Hebrew. Then he bent and kissed my shoulder, quickly, turned on his heels, and ran off.
I took one last look at the actors and crew, the faded corridor littered with old election posters, the children tentatively and shyly making faces at one another as the parents hissed at them to stop; then I went to join Jenny.
Her eyes were red and her face pinched, after all the crying she had done last night, following our talk. That is, she talked and I listened. I still could not see how she could possibly forgive me. How much forgiveness can one person have? How much?
But she seemed better now; I, too.
"They have magazines in Polish," she said to me in a low voice when I picked up her small bag, to carry alongside mine. "Look."
I tried to turn my face away--I knew there would be a picture of all the show's actors inside; Ruthy's, too--but Jenny would not let me. She grabbed my chin and turned my face gently to hers, looked into my eyes, then kissed me hard on the mouth and didn't let go until Ben-Shoshan gave a long wolf whistle.
Jenny smiled amiably at him and stuck her finger up in the Arab gesture she must have picked up from Amzaleg. Then she locked her fingers tightly into mine and together, hand in hand, we went out through the lighted gate.
Epilogue
I
N
1980,
A YEAR
after the peace agreement with Egypt was signed in Camp David by Begin and Sadat, I came back for the Negev Theater's performance of
The Debba
, in Be'er Sheva. It was the fourth production of the play, not taking into account a number of high school stagings. A local actress played Sarah, and Moshe Geffen, the biggest Israeli rock star, played Yissachar. The Debba was played by Fauzi Seddiqi--he was the one who had written to me to Canada, to invite me to the performance. And although he is rather small, only one meter seventy, not at all what the role demands, he did rather well, I thought. In fact, he made the role his own. (The audience, which at first booed him, turned progressively quiet, until at the end he even got fairly loud applause, which I thought surprising. This, after all, was Be'er Sheva, where most residents are Eastern Jews who vote for Begin's right-wing Likkud and hate Arabs.) Yochanan and 'Ittay were played by two local boys. They got the biggest applause, winking and smiling at the public shamelessly. Ehud Reznik (who last year, following the bankruptcy of the chocolate factory, turned to directing and theater production full time), later told me he'd had the play translated into Arabic, and it had a very long run in refugee camps, touring several. (I had assigned to Ehud a half interest in the play, and full decision rights in all matters of production.) The Arab director asked for permission to change the ending, a request that Ehud refused. But the director by-passed the refusal and had the Debba, his
abbaya
flapping, rise silently from behind his rock as Yissachar sings his final aria. He was within his directorial prerogative, Ehud said, so there was nothing he could do.
An English translation has just been finished (I myself had helped Professor Gershon Tzifroni of Tel Aviv University do it), and one into French is in the offing. Half the revenues from all foreign productions are to go to the Re'uven Kagan Memorial Fund, which helps young actors with occasional loans and study stipends.
Kagan, who died last year of throat cancer, just like Uncle Mordechai, had been buried in the old Trumpeldor cemetery, just behind Paltiel Rubin's grave. It came out that Kagan had bought the plot years before. He would of course not have been able to afford it today. Not only apartments have gone up in price, following the peace agreement with Egypt; graveyard plots did, too.
Abdallah Seddiqi had been buried near the village of Tibrin, on the shoulder of a narrow hill overlooking Lake Kinneret. Uncle Mordechai was buried in the Jewish cemetery on the other side of the hill, near his son Arnon. It is convenient for me, I suppose, to be able to visit all the graves at the same time, when I come to visit.
Ruthy tried being a housewife for a while, raising her daughter (now almost three), but eventually returned to acting, in the Cameri Theater. She had not come to the performance in Be'er Sheva, and Jenny was disappointed. Lately they had begun to correspond. I have no idea what they say to each other.
Not long ago Jenny said she would not mind coming to live with me in Jerusalem for a time, while my own play,
The Moloch
, is being produced there by Lo Harbeh theater.
I said I would think about it.
a cognizant original v5 release october 01 2010
Acknowledgments
Many helped me get this book published, either by teaching me how to write; by providing succor over the twice-chai years it has taken me to write this book; by helping me edit it--or by helping me edit me. The following are just a few:
Victoria Gould Pryor, Alice Rosengard, Sheryl Jaffe, Josephine Carson, Howard Junker, Jim N. Frey, Molly Giles, Ephraim Mandelman, Ayala Mandelman, Alona Pickovsky, Judah Rosenwald, members of my platoon in the Sinai, Chris Pryor, Ronnee Fried, Kathleen Schneider, Greg Michalson, Anna Lui, Judith Gurewich, Lorna Owen, Katie Henderson, my parents, Joe Garber, Marjorie Farkas, those whom I've omitted by necessity (you know who you are), and all others who have read the manuscript over the years and made useful comments. I could not have done it without you. My heartfelt thanks to you all: on my behalf, and (dare I hope?) on behalf of the readers.
AM
Vancouver--Toronto--Los Altos Hills--Toronto
1973-2009
Copyright (c) 2010 Avner Mandelman
Production Editor: Yvonne E. Cardenas
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from Other Press LLC, except in the case of brief quotations in reviews for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast. For information write to Other Press LLC, 2 Park Avenue, 24th Floor, New York, NY 10016. Or visit our Web site:
www.otherpress.com
The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:
Mandelman, Avner.
The Debba / by Avner Mandelman.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-1-59051-375-0
1. Israel--Fiction.
2. Dramatists--Fiction. 3. Theater--Israel--Fiction.
4. Fathers and sons--Fiction. 5. Jews--Israel--Fiction.
I. Title.
PR9199.3.M34814D33 2010
813'.54--dc22 2009041120
P
UBLISHER'S
N
OTE
:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
v3.0