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Show 215 dressed in the work clothes of a laborer, and when we shook I noticed that his large hands were nicked and scarred. His grip was firm, used to tools, but cool. His eyes did not focus on me, but seemed to be looking for my reflection on the wall. He did not smile, had the appearance of a man who did not smile even when he was happy, and as soon as we had acknowledged each other he turned back to the simmering meal. In the front room Talma and I sat on a sofa and talked quietly, of family and the weather and of work. I told her something of the other digs I had been on, in Greece and Turkey, and even in Egypt. When I coughed I felt like I was contaminating the air in a sanitarium; I was getting sicker and sicker, and when Talma began to tell me about her brother who fell on the Golan Heights I couldn't follow what she was saying. I could understand the individual words but I couldn't put them together: what about him? I wanted to say, what about your dead brother? Even as she spoke of him she was smiling and it made no sense, and her dark eyes made me nervous because they didn't blink, seemed completely at peace. Finally the table was set and a candle brought in. The four of us sat down to eat. Talma's father sang a short prayer and then for the first time he was looking at me directly. But when he spoke it was to Talma, not me, and in Hebrew. I recognized the question. "No," she said in English, "he's not." I looked at her to see how much it meant; her eyes were untroubled. |
