Pale of Settlement

Hazor

Avraham couldn’t find it anywhere. He remembered it clearly enough—a small fabric-bound diary, its pages wrinkled from the impression of a ballpoint pen, that he’d found in Leah’s old room, nearly forty years ago, as he was clearing out the Sanhedria flat. But where had it gone? He’d rummaged through the drawers of his desk,takendownpilesofbooksfromthedustyshelves,pokedabout in the boxes he kept in the storage space above the bedroom door. Nowhere. It had been ages, of course—decades, probably—since he’d seen it last. He wasn’t even sure why he would have saved the thing,thisoneoddartifactfromhissister’syouth.Henevershould have mentioned it to the girl. The television was on, turned up loud, and from where he bent beforetheopenwardrobe,Avrahamcouldhearthegravelytonesof the Tel Aviv archeologist’s voice. Over the plaintive melody—reedy flutes in a minor key—he could make out the words memory, narrative ,mistake.Hestraightenedwithagroan,pushedhisglassesuphis I am going to excavate Hazor. I must know about Joshua. I must know if he really conquered it. Yigael Yadin Hazor 117 118 ~ H a z o r nose.Themanwasphotogenic,youhadtogranthimthat,withthat darkgoateeandcurlygray-streakedhair.Thecamerapannedinon the sun rising over the Hebron hills, the rustling olive trees atop the tell, the golden light slanting over the Tomb of the Patriarchs (neatly cropping out the electronic security gate, the phalange of Israeliborderguards).Overtime,wehavefoundthatthestorytheBible tellsdoesn’texactlyfitthefacts. A regular prophet, his distinguished colleague. Knocking down all the golden calves. WhatAvrahamneededwastogetbacktowork.Butthecomputer satidleonhisdeskinEitan’soldroom,itsscreenfilmedwithdust, untouched since Leah’s daughter had come to stay a fortnight ago. Now the girl was gone, though, and he had no excuse. He had to confesshemissedherpresenceintheflat,hercompanyatthedinner table, outside on the terrace in the cooling night. A clever girl. A pity she had not yet found herself a man. He bent with a groan before the wardrobe and pulled out a drawer, inhaling the scent of cedar and mildew, the odor of decay. Here were decks of cards from the days when he and Eva played bridge.Avelveteencasecontainingacommemorativecoin.Aglass ashtray swiped from a French hotel. A jar filled with tinny piastres and telephone tokens no longer in use. A discarded eyeglass case, an unwound watch. No diary. Themusicfromthedocumentaryplayedonasthecreditsrolled, anirritatingdrone.Peoplelikedtoglorifythepastsotheycouldcry that it was gone. He should write an article about that. He shoved the drawer closed with his knee, then picked up the remote and switched the channel to the evening news. Another shooting at a checkpoint in the Gaza strip. The stock market was down. He poured himself a glass of brandy from a bottle on the sideboard, settled into his comfortable chair. He was quite sure he wouldn’t H a z o r ~ 119 have thrown Leah’s diary out. But he supposed he would have to write and tell the girl that he was sorry, it just had not turned up. In the morning, Avraham poured a mug of coffee and forced himself to sit down at his desk. He wiped the dust from the computer’s screen with his sleeve, waited for the machine’s familiar blink and whirr. Eitan’s old bed had been folded back into a couch, the pillowsrearranged ,asifthegirlhadneverbeenthereatall.Helooked out the window onto the flayed trunks of the eucalyptus trees, the kitchen terraces of the neighboring block of flats. The sky had not yet brightened beyond gray. The birds were twittering their waking chorus, hidden in the leaves, their cacophony crowding out Avraham’s half-hearted attempts to regain his scholarly train of thought. He pulled his notepad closer, took a sip of coffee, pushed his glasses up his nose. He missed the university, the fluorescent hum of the institute, his beautiful sweeping view. He couldn’t get used to working here at home—couldn’t shake the feeling that Eitan might walk in on him, even though his son had grown up and moved away years ago. He always felt as if he were sneaking around the way he had during Eitan’sadolescentyears,searchingfor—what?Heneverfoundanything , of course, among the textbooks and swimming medals and oldtoys.Wereallparentssobaffledbytheirprogeny,allchildrenso opaque? Leave the boy alone, Eva had chided, he’s not a puzzle you can solve. Avraham swallowed the last of his coffee, already cold. All people were puzzles. The cursor blinked steadily, expectantly, on the screen. Most of all the people you loved best. Avrahamclickedopenhisfileandskimmedwhathehadwritten weeks before, scratching the stubble on the underside of his chin as the argument for maintaining the...