(Author: Shulamit Kagan, Vol. 65, No. 3, Chanukah 2010)
A loud wailing filled the air and after that the loud weeping of his mother and the soft weeping of his sister. The doctor came out to the balcony and laid a hand on Yakov’s shoulder. He stood still as if perplexed and then returned to the room, where his father’s body was being laid out on the floor. Somebody covered the body with a sheet and lit candles around it.
Yakov tried to imagine his father’s voice, serene at last, but in front of his eyes was the image of the living father –the sad eyes, tight mouth, the brow wrinkle as if trying to solve a difficult problem. Yakov felt as if there was a heavy stone in his heart. If he could only weep, he thought, he would feel better. He screwed up his face to force a cry but nothing happened. His lips moved voicelessly, “what will become of me? Father in heaven, what will become of me?”
Rivkah and Sander Chaikin were nearly middle aged when they brought two children into the world. Yakov was two years younger than his sister and completely different. He was small, smaller than the average 16 year-old. He had a chilled face, his skin was clear and soft like the skin of a girl and his brown-black eyes were framed by long black lashes. “How beautiful he is!” people used to say behind his back but often within his ear shot, “what a pity he is not a girl”. This remark used to cause Yakov much sorrow, especially when his manhood started torturing him at night.
Sander loved his children very much, but like many fathers he expressed his love by nagging, criticizing and fault finding. He so wanted his children to have the success that had eluded him; he so wanted them to have what he did not have. However, in doing so he prevented them from enjoying the only thing that life gives to every child –childhood.
Yakov’s sister fitted herself in with her father’s demands. She excelled at school, behaved politely and quietly and generally pleased everyone. Yakov, on the other hand, rebelled. It seemed that all the joie de vivre that was lacking in the family was given to him. He did not listen in the class, did not do his homework and passed from class to class by the skin of his teeth. Worse than that, there was not a prank or a practical joke in the school that he was not in some way involved in. Day in and day out his father would repeat his monotonous reprimand, “Sheigetz, do you want to become a swine herd? When will you become a mentsch? What will become of you?” His mother used to say nothing but just look at her son with sad eyes. This look, more that the father’s rebuke, caused Yakov to regret his behaviour and take a decision to mend his ways. This did not last long. He soon reverted to his old practices. He knew, of course, that his father’s nagging was caused by deep love and worry, but his young and resilient spirit did not facilitate surrender.
Yakov’s zest for life evaporated with his father’s death. His heart was now filled with vague anxiety and fear, the reason for which he did not understand. Overnight, he seemed to have passed from a world populated by children to a world populated by grown, authoritative adults.
Immediately after Shivah, he got a job as a messenger boy in a large outfitting store. It was a strange, unfamiliar world. He felt like an outsider looking in with incompressible curiosity mingled with fear. He often said to himself that perhaps his father was right and that he would amount to nothing. If somebody would have asked him how he spent his time and what his dream for the future was, he would not have known what to answer. His mother bought him, from his first wages, a suit. It was somewhat faded but it fitted him well and lent his an air of some masculinity. Every evening, he would put on the suit and wander the streets of the city. He never ceased to be amazed at metamorphosis in the streets, from the mundane during the day to the air of festivity in the evenings. He felt part of it and walk around in a vague dream.
One evening, Yakov was awakened from his dream by a very tall, wild-haired young man. He later learnt that the name by which the tall young man lived was Haim Arukim (a play on the double meaning: The Long Haim – Long Life). Haim Arukim was a painter who was looking for a model. Yakov’s beauty and the air of suffering about him charmed the artist and he invited Yakov to his basement-studio. All sorts of people used to visit Haim’s basement and lively discussions used to take place there. Yakov used to watch in wonder and envied the ease with which these people expressed themselves. On these occasions, he would resent the heavy burden that his life put on him. Sometimes, a deep hatred used to rise within him – hatred of his late father who left the family helpless, at his sickly mother and his self-righteous sister. Most of all, he hated himself.
Sometimes, though, his old zest for life asserted itself and he used to feel free. This used to happen in the evenings, when he was alone with Haim. Haim would paint and listen to Yakov, responding only with ‘ah’, ‘hum and ‘I understand’. Yakov would open up and talk about the poverty at home and the futility of his life, but also of childhood pranks, laughter and dreams.
One evening, Haim asked him if he could perhaps bring a girl to be his model. “She needn’t be pretty” said Haim, “but she must be unusual, different, not the run of the “mill”.
Yakov thought of Yona immediately. Yona was one of the ‘shponza’ girls in the shop. She was skinny and seemed to be all angles. In contrast to this were her huge dark eyes and her laughter. Her laughter was strangely musical. She laughed as though her heart was bursting with joy. In Yakov, her laughter evoked repressed desires. In his dreams, he would see her rising out of her threadbare cloths and laughing to him – only to him.
That morning, Yakov rushed early to the shop. The door was still closed. He waited, his heart beating wildly with anticipation and also fear of a rebuff. It was to be the first time he spoke to her. What if she laughed at him? Soon the shponzah girls appeared in the end of the street. Yona’s laughter announced that she was among them. One by one, the girls disappeared through the doorway. Soon, Yona would disappear too. Yakov froze but at the last moment gathered his courage and cried –almost shouted: “Yonah, I need to speak to you”. She looked at him, puzzled, and then lowered her eyes shyly. She listened to his explanation about Haim Arukim and the painting, then lifted her eyes, nodded her head, her lips forming the word ‘alright’.
From that day, a new relationship was formed between Yakov and Yona. They walked together to Haim’s studio and spoke about all sorts of unimportant things. Often, he wanted to tell her about his real feelings but was too shy. Often, too, he felt that she too would like a more intimate conversation and was waiting for him to initiate it. At such times, he felt that she saw him as a coward and not worthy of her attention.
Haim Arukim worked steadily on their portraits. He painted the two of them facing each other in a picture he call ‘The Blossoming’. It had two levels; on the surface, they looked as they were at present but above, superimposed on this, they looked as if they were rising out of darkness into light; they looked brave and full of hope. Yakov often looked at the picture. He was astonished at how much Haim understood the depth of his innermost wishes.
Yakov slept very badly at night. One night, he got up, took a sheet of paper and started pouring out his yearnings on it. Perspiration covered his body and ran from his forehead onto the paper, but he paid no attention. He felt as though it was not he that was writing but that the verses had a life of their own, that his fingers wrote automatically. He did not feel the time pass, but when he put his pen down he felt, for the first time since his father’s death, a deep calmness. Smiling, he addressed his dead father: “You’ll see, father, I’ll be fine”.
On the following morning, he put the folded sheet in Yona’s hand. Since he had started writing, his need to unburden himself to Haim had become less and less. Also, his self-abnegation in the company of Haim’s friends decreased. He realized that their seemingly highly held opinion to be a cover up for shallow thought and an attempt to put on airs.
He got used to speaking to Yona freely now. They would go for long walks, telling each other about their families, their problems and their dreams.
One morning, he found Yona waiting for him. “I have a surprise for you” she said. Yakov looked into her eyes. The old sadness was still there, but underneath was a new light –a light of hope. With both her hands, she handed him a thin book. He opened it. On the front page he found, printed in bold letters, “The Blossoming” and under this, in smaller letters: “A selection of Poems, by Yakov Chaikin”.
He was puzzled for a moment, then understood.
“You…?” he asked.
“Yes”, she said “I found a publisher.”
Tears that were dammed in Yakov for so long burst forth. He wept long and hard. Yona put both her hands on the sides of his face and with her fingers wiped his tears. He bent his head and kissed the inside of her hands.
Shulamit Kagan, a clinical psychologist, is an Israeli-born Hebrew scholar with a special interest in Hebrew poetry. She has been a regular contributor to Jewish Affairs over many years.
