Leah Aini - Nasser’s Waiting For Rabin

Leah Aini

The morning of the day Nasser was to be burned, Madame Rashelle rose an hour earlier than usual, drew out the small knife she had placed under her pillow the night before, and hurried off barefoot to check if someone had stolen the dirty laundry and rags she kept in two tubs in the courtyard.

The wooden tubs, actually old ships casks, were fastened, unusually for them, with a pair of bicycle padlocks she had borrowed in good time from the postman who lived a street away and who had agreed only for the night before Lag BaOmer** to take his bicycle into his house, so that the children would not steal the clothes from Madame Rashelle. But no, Madame Rashelle tapped on the grooved lid in relief, nothing had been broken open. Lucky. She tugged at the openings of her buttonless nightdress in a vain attempt to overcome the chill and began to shake off the cypress needles which had stuck to her soles. As she was doing so the knife suddenly fell out, the curved knife she used to unpick the seams of the eiderdowns brought to her to clean, which she had tucked into her sleeve immediately on waking. Madame Rashelle had only a brief qualm at the sight of the knife; she picked it up and began to scrape off the prickly needles that clung to her heel, but every time she got rid of them the needles stuck to her other heel. Madame Rashelle smiled sardonically. All at once, as if the full import had dawned on her of that vacant moment in the day that was planned to last longer than usual, she turned round again to face the courtyard and leaned, overly wakeful, against the door post.

It was early, and even from the neighbours houses around her the yard was as square and dark as a slab of chocolate, lined by shacks that looked small, although each housed seven or eight souls not a rustle was to be heard. In the area between the two huts on the left and the fence which bordered on Beit HaAm, actually the local library, stood the shared washhouse, stone-walled, still dark and shuttered. She really had woken up early, Madame Rashelle boasted to herself, feeling that she was the only living soul there... It filled her with pride. The day was charged with changes which Madame Rashelle had dreamed of for a long time, only waiting for the right moment. She shifted from one prickly heel, grubby with dust and twigs, to the other, and flexed her arms in a loose link that swung gently against her groin. Oh yes, she felt very brave for standing there at daybreak, for taking surreptitious pleasure in the place where she lived, found at long last after she fled her husband, and sensing that she was close to holding something in hands which for too long had let things slip. And so, with a pleasure which merely to sense made her feel self-indulgent, Madame Rashelle breathed in the laundered air, lifted her closed eyes and rapidly opened them the sky was white.

Madame Inez the seamstress, from the twin courtyard across the road, whom Madame Rashelle sometimes visited at days end to talk and to drink coffee, believed in the sky. The elderly seamstress said that the sky was the best crystal ball that ever was, and that he who went to the Bukharan fortune-teller to purchase tomorrow was a fool. What for? It was enough to raise ones head to the eye of God, cackled Madame Inez shrewdly, for wasnt it all clear, wasnt it all inscribed, one only needed the courage to look... Madame Inez was a widow, so she had plenty of time on her hands to stare out of the window; only for that Madame Rashelle envied her. She herself, although some five years had passed, still feared that one day her husband would appear amid the clouds of steam from her pair of huge coppers hot water cold water that stood on two improvised wooden stands she had made herself from planks and rusty nails, not the same height, on which she set the coppers to wash the clothes or the wool and greasy feather pieces that she spread to dry on a pallet of sacks in the courtyard.

She had a good reputation and she worked hard, and because of that she was proud, all in all, that she had no time to look at the sky. The days vanished like soap bubbles from under her nose, and her husband did not come. Madame Rashelle prayed every evening, before she indulged in her dreams of change, that perhaps he was already dead, the man who loathed himself more than he loved the hard stuff, and so she didnt mind that she would never know. On the contrary, she laughed harshly to Madame Inez, she had no intention of marrying again. God forbid... In any case, she was ordained to look after the daughter given her by the drunkard, who was the way she was perhaps because of him, and who would be a halter round her neck all her life, to the very end. Madame Rashelle gave a smothered sigh, and scoured the sky again with burning eyes. What did Inez say about a white sky? She didnt remember a thing, except for the tiny bubble that burst in her head, that the omen was bad. If everything was wiped away, anything could happen, danger too...

Madame Rashelle lost her laugh within a yawn that suddenly attacked her, but still took pleasure in the dawn chill that stippled her flesh with bluish dots, and in the knife that seared her forearm. But this was good, this was courage. Like putting your hands in winter into the tub of freezing water to rinse off the soap, or, in a heatwave, dipping your arms up to the elbow in boiling water, to scrub, in the heat-vapour that stifled her, steamed up her eyes, and raised bleached blisters on her half-festering fingers, but still to scrub, harder and harder, the sweaty collars, the yellowed armpits, the grubby hems, for how else would the dirt come out? How would everything become clean? Would the sky, the rain, do it by themselves? She snorted... But that was courage: to go against the current, the seasons, the festivals, the talkers, the way things had gone against her all her life. So why should she fall prey to silly fears today of all days Madame Rashelle tightened her nightdress sleeve round the curved blade this day too, was fated to dissolve under her nose, as different as she desired it to be; the vapour was condemned to drift slowly away over her unkempt head, and beneath it sheets of ivory and azure would mingle, lukewarm and aromatic, and she breathed deeply again. It was only when a strong apricot light suddenly went on in the shack opposite, to reveal a rigid back, that Madame Rashelle hurried indoors.

Avram the Patron, as he was called, was always the first comer to the dark courtyards shared washhouse. He had two reasons: one, that he was the only man in the courtyard, and the other, that he had to catch the 5.45 bus to Jaffa, where he worked in the metal shop at Dejani Hospital, repairing hospital beds, stretchers, wheelchairs, infusion stands and other metal equipment. It was a good steady job arranged for him by the Mapai Party, for he had acquired a reputation as one who delivered many local votes, even though no one knew that he himself loyally voted Mahal. Actually, there was no way they could know. Avram was mightily proud of his broad poker-face, which spread fear throughout the quarter, and of the powerful muscles taut in his tanned arms, at the sight of which no one said a word, certainly not the spinster librarian, who suffered from a stutter, when he turned the local library into a temporary public meeting place; an arena for gatherings of this or that party, which often ended in fist fights and overturned benches and books tossed around, which the librarian, in return for a small sum, tidied up again next day, slowly, for in any case during the recent period of unbearable tension there were fewer readers. But often, if the gathering was too political and heated and the damage was great, Avram left the hospital early and presented himself, khaki shorts and singlet, in the library, to repair the benches and fix the overturned shelves, using those strong arms of his with which on election day he hauled every old person or cripple in the quarter to vote Mapai; on that day he swiped a wheelchair or a stretcher from the hospital, and before that, at the old age home (he took care of several) Avram put a lira or two into a withered hand or pyjama pocket in addition to the right voting slip.

For this reason there was no one sorrier than Avram the Patron when one morning, no one having turned off the flame under the kettle for the paralyzed old woman she who lived in the zebra-striped shack, now charred, which he passed on the way to the washhouse, carrying his shaving equipment and a towel marked with the hospitals name over his singlet a fire, the fire whose passion for freedom knows no like, promptly burst out and burned the hut, devouring and chewing plank after plank, and the women in the courtyard worked like maniacs until nightfall, when he came back, to douse the fire and pacify Avram the Patron...

But Avram refused to be consoled. The paralyzed old woman was a sure vote, and for each such he not only received fifteen lira from the Party, but also various permits and forms for things he needed. Avram the Patron groaned for the thousandth time; he took a bunch of keys out of the pocket of his khaki shorts, threw it up in the air and caught it by the smallest, to open the door of the shared washhouse. Except that even before he went in, because he hated the dark and anything new or mysterious, he first switched on the light that, flybitten and weak, dribbled from the bulb over the damp-eaten mirror. Yet he was not in the least surprised when he saw Madame Rashelles crooked stands inside, one atop the other, not yet tilted over on the concrete floor misshapen by the moisture in the room, which he fixed up every year for the benefit of the neighbours, but they were still a nuisance...

And yes, he did not recall that the laundress had his permission to put them in there that night the stands usually stayed outside next to the coppers but he decided to overlook it. That evening they were going to burn Nasser, and every scrap of wood was treasure, sniggered Avram the Patron while he turned on the tap and began to mix the thick shaving soap in the cup. On his red chins, which slumped like steps to his chest, he made a swift calculation that he could get about two or three lira for those stands from the children who had been going round for a week like drunks in the streets, dying to trap any scrap of wood, easily evading the dark-uniformed civil guard who patrolled the quarter and demanded that lights be extinguished and was severe with every primus wick or candle flame, in accordance with the blackout regulations which the authorities had now put into force. Avram the Patron grinned stingily, not to disrupt the lathering in spite of which the children dodged the guard as if he were a glorious flaming torch, aided by his weakly-moving flashlight, fumbling in that courtyard and searching those corners, and for each plank that they were not given or did not manage to steal, they sold their souls...

What souls? He smirked; even his own sons, twins stocky and sturdy like him, soon to be called up he hoped that the anticipated war, which would surely flare up tomorrow or the next day because of the festival bonfires that no member of the government could stop even if he wanted to, but battle might still be avoided, and if it did break out only let it end before his sons were called up, to which end hed had a word with someone in the army so hed conveniently forget about the pairs first draft order and the second even those two donkeys, already mature and bearded, came home every night with torn pants and sawdust-pitted arms, making his wife explode though they had plenty of iodine and antiseptics from the hospital at home; but even so they didnt dare touch Rashelles washing stands, or they would have caught it on the spot from him...

The war, Avram the Patron puffed out his jowls so the blade would slide over them like butter, with every day that passed the war crouched at the threshold, like a dog with rabies, lay and scratched, just a matter of time until it attacked... In a way, Avram the Patron was pleased about the bonfire and what was planned for Nasser, for he greedily anticipated the wars bite: during rationing, hadnt he done good business on the black market with goods hed filched from the old age homes, or expensive items hed lifted from the hospital stores. And now, because of the recession, he could expect to do even better Avram passed the razor over the stubble, careful, his eyes fixed on the mirror so as not to veer off and see what Madame Rashelles daughter had scrawled with a chicken leg dipped in mud on the washhouses cracked walls.

Avram the Patron could neither read nor write, and he definitely would not have permitted the washhouse to be defaced like that, had it been up to him, if the courtyard idiot hadnt been Madame Rashelles daughter, whom he certainly would have allowed much more leeway, though apart from that the girl had done nothing. Anyway, the crazy graffitti were routed by the steam from the shower, a trail of tears that degenerated into stains, which in any case, he thought, washed off... Thats that, Avram the Patron promised himself rinsing the stropped razor in the meagre stream this year, if only the war came early, apart from covering the concrete he would also paint the washhouse a fresh blue, to get rid of the dirt so everything would be clean. The Patron decided, and began to soap his neck and armpits, while his wife switched on the radio in the shack to waken his daughters, for whom he had also fixed up jobs as nursing aides at Dejani.

Had war broken out? Avram the Patron yearned to hear the wailing of his wife, whose nerves got shakier by the year and worse during emergencies. He hurriedly rinsed off, and when he came out of the shower, massaging his damp chest, he noticed an Egyptian plane vibrating above him in the shabby sky of blue and puffing out a fat black tail. Avram the Patron guessed that the plane must be on an observation mission, even though in the past bombs had dropped on the quarter on the shack of the deaf leather-worker, for example, who insisted on voting Mahal firmly spurning all bribes, until there was nothing Avram could do but slap him playfully on the shoulder, for cripples had only to oppose him for him to leave them in peace the deaf mans shack had burned to the ground. Now too, while Avram was drying his face on the towel, he lingered a moment on the threshold to see what might be dropped on him from above. But when the airplane was obliterated by smoke, Avram the Patron spat to one side and went to his shack, not turning out the light in the washhouse, for immediately after him, every morning, Madame Rashelle came in.

Madame Inez the seamstress was almost last to wake, because of her easy life, and when she glanced through her window, which overlooked the road, Madame Rashelles daughter, in a dress and frayed cardigan from which she did not part summer or winter was already up by the wall of the washhouse. Madame Inez twitched aside the black cloth that covered the pane because of the blackout regulations, and enjoyed the sight. For her it was a sign that the sky was indeed strong and sweet this morning, otherwise that lizard of Rashelles, thin and tiny and damp, would not have been up against the blue wall, absorbing the sun.

Madame Inez did not turn on the radio to hear the threats of the Egyptian president and his imprecations, because all over the quarter there were already rumbles of blood-fire-and-danger whenever scary news was broadcast, or there was just talking and talking and the music suddenly stopped like staunched blood. Despite it all, Madame Inez was calm and confident that in the end nothing would happen, even though the tension infected everyone with a sort of disease of fear and useless rushing about, and the Bukharan fortune-teller, her pet aversion, who polished her crystal ball in the urine of black cats, did good business. Unlike her, Madame Inez had a babys trust in the lovely sky, and because she had no children to worry about she didnt care that what would happen would happen, for God, about Whom it was possible to say many things wasnt blind! He had eyes in His head, did the Creator of the World, so that even if He passed judgement on them, in the end He would surely mend the tears and tie the new knots with goodness; exactly as she herself, every Lag BaOmer, sewed for the children the guy they planned to burn, made of sacks they lifted from the market, cutting out the figure that had been chosen with her shears and sewing it up with her thickest needle, and stuffing it with the rags she amassed from her work, even though there were never enough. And so she sent them, every year, for the rags collected by the laundress: clothes that had not been called for, which Madame Rashelle saved one by one in the bottoms of the coppers, only until Lag BaOmer, the last date for claiming them. On the long-awaited day, the old clothes and tattered blankets filled the guy that was to be paraded in wild song and full honours, to nod from the top of the bonfire, and to catch fire with the very first spark.

This year Nasser would be burned, and good riddance, thank God... Madame Inez luxuriated in the touch of the young sunbeams that rambled over her face, smiling at the thought of the huge sacking guy she had put together this year, still empty and limp. Except that this time they had agreed, she and the laundress and the children, to wait to the very end, for Madame Rashelle to take the last of the rags out of the tubs, so that the guy would swell flesh and fears, hatreds and revenge, hopes and prayers, so that they would see it on top of the bonfire in all its glory, and it would burn endlessly... Patience... Nevertheless, the seamstress did not easily relinquish the view from her window the lizard lapping up the sun opposite, the growing mound of wood on the left until going to turn out the flame under the kettle, to brew a cup of tea with the quince jam she made specially, always giving Madame Rashelle a jar for the daughter that hardly ate and hardly grew. And now, stirring the thick mixture in the boiling darkening water, Madame Inez decided that this year she would also get rid of the rolling pin next to the gas burner, the old rolling pin scored by use, which swallowed a little of the dough and spoiled the baking. Madame Inez took the steaming cup and turned to her window to sip in peace. Peace reserved for widows who surveyed the budding sky whose only trim was the brief clouds raised by Madame Rashelles laundry bubbling over the roofs of the shacks opposite; while her rolling pin, stuck in the belt of her housecoat, rubbed against the sill... patience...

Five men in black suits and shirts that were pure white but liberated from ties, were spotted by the laundress out of the corner of her stinging eye as she bent over the steaming tub. Five, who entered the courtyard in procession, moving in coordination, and unwittingly harassed the girl standing there they slowed their pace who was still pasted to the wall of the washhouse, moving in the orbit of the sun, with big eyes locked in red dreams that were ripened in the sky and boiled on their backs.

Busier than usual with her own concerns, Madame Rashelle guessed that they were looking for Avram the Patron; party hacks always came offering various deals to Avram the Patron, but his wife, who returned to her medicine-smelling sheets the moment he, followed by all the family, went to work, did not open the door to anyone. And, Madame Rashelle smiled at the bubbles of starch and they burst against the inanity of her smile, one by one the black band broke up, the band that was vainly asking the fool if a certain person lived here... does she know... and where is he... when will he be back... and the more they repeated his name, the more the girl shuddered like a lizard caught by its tail and the more she cowered against the wall, so they didnt know if it was better to let go of her twisting tail so as to grow a new one. The irritable quintet writhed in anger and stamped on the chocolate earth, stubborn and almost besieging the daughter, until she finally detached herself from the wall with a screech, brandishing the muddy chicken leg she took out of her cardigan pocket, and was swallowed into the washhouse to defile the walls Ai-yai-yai and again Ai-yai-yai, meaningless and non-stop; followed by two of the idiots in hot pursuit, perhaps under the impression that Avram was there. As it happened, they only stayed in there a second, not understanding what was going on or what was scrawled on the wall there. The noon sun, too, dazzled their eyes after the darkness of the hut, and they emerged angrier than when they had entered. Their ire infected the other three, until they suddenly saw Madame Rashelle through the smoke, and they swarmed round her asking: Where is Avram the Patron, does she know... when would he come, did he say... Maybe not at all, he was at Dejani, there was a possibility... And the key to Bet Haam, the library, did she have...

Madame Rashelle continued to nod a gentle negative with the ends of her damp hair and her wilted collar, with her arms drowning in the murky washing water that exploded in shiny soap bubbles; forced to launder in the middle of the courtyard instead of in the washhouse, which would have been more convenient, so that the neighbours could see she was not using more water than she paid Avram the Patron for, and also because Avram the Patron, two or three times a week no one knew exactly when used to come home early from the hospital, steal behind the laundress, peel her daughter off the blue wall, and shove her with his hairy, solid knee into the washhouse, which during the siesta was always empty, and there in the shadowy interior which had only a mesh skylight and where even when it was bright outside he was careful to switch on the meagre light in advance, he locked the creaking door and pressed the girl up against the soggy wall her body all skin and bones, under the huge enamel boiler, so that if she raised her head she would get a sharp bang on her forehead or temples from the metal pipes even though in any case he shoved her wizened face away and stopped her mouth, which squawked uselessly against his meaty hand; this is how he raped her, from behind, two or three times. Then he came out and spat on the doorstep, dumping her on the concrete floor a mess of tangled limbs on the ground only for a moment, no more, because the laundress immediately came in after him to clean up and to wash her daughter, in icy water because she had already used up her hot water ration. And the moment she was freed, the daughter flew outside again and was caught on the wall, twitching in spasms like those that attacked her drunkard father, to absorb sun, new life and breath, which gradually calmed her down as if nothing had happened, ever; and now the light was already sopped up, and from the west the sunset threatened, like Avram the Patron, the only one who knew about her husband: who he was and where he came from, and when he would come; he would suddenly appear and demand her. The daughter he would leave to Avram as a token of gratitude, good riddance, and immediately start beating her again and dropping her laundry money into his pocket, for only Avram the Patron knew what a husband she had been blessed with, and apart from him who knew what the day would bring forth, and what would flow toward her and what away from her...

Did you see it? Yes, look, there... theyre burning Nasser today, Madame Rashelle finally confided, not to arouse suspicion of too much labour among the hacks who still hung around in the courtyard, arguing irritably if it was worth their waiting or not. But her ploy worked, for ten eyes immediately turned towards the sandy heap of junk by the fence, the one beneath the school, whose windows were already broken. Only a week ago, a long-limbed soldier had climbed up on the roof and oiled the siren, following the headmasters complaint, for it was impossible that now, when war was on the threshold, the siren should croak like a slaughtered fowl.

Oh yes, but there below, a great blow to the emergency regulations the five Party hacks were sure. Justly, for the entire mound was a bonfire, crammed with lumber, broken furniture, planks and tree trunks and other sticks and rubbish, whose only distinction was that they would burn; and the bonfire was already brushing the power lines which drooped because of the last rains and dangled in danger of catching fire from below. And because of the twilight, which had been darkening the horizon for the past hour, a number of boys were faithfully milling about the wooden calf, passionately and loudly gathering more and more wood, arranging it and packing it in and counting the kerosene cans, just to use up time and bring the coming moment nearer.

...Yes, if hed just come already; for only Avram the Patron can stop these lawbreakers from playing into the enemys hands, and the unplanned opposition meeting calling for a pre-emptive strike, you find out for yourselves how important it is, fumed the hack in the suit that was better pressed than anyone elses, and looked with a grimace at his watch. But, ah, discounted another of them, recognizable as a joker by the two dimples that deepened in his cheeks, nonsense! If Nassers burning, even Avram wont put out the bonfire... Maybe Rabins the only one who can deal with the fire of youth, so lets wait and see... He laughed in front of the laundress who froze and burned in turn, even though he had twice sneezed at the smell of starch and the pungent steam that she wafted around them on purpose.

Yes, yes, the three others supported him, Nasser will probably come before Avram... lets go... but the well-pressed one wasnt satisfied until he picked up a grimy pebble and tried his luck with the girl who was stuck like an election poster to the washhouse wall. And only when the stone stung her knee the laundress steamed her face in the boiling water and the daughter ran inside again with the muddy chicken leg to scribble... he laughed: Yes, lets go... and I hope it rains on them and everything goes pfft, he added maliciously and straightened up she glanced over her shoulder there he was, already in the lead, with the others at his heels, also ignoring the mound. And that one, where is it; the laundress fished in the softness of the washing water to locate the slippery knife. Ah, she touched it, as if it was a babys curl, and she let it be and resumed her kneading of the clothes against the washboard, lifting them up occasionally with an effort and dropping them again in the clear water, which took on the colour of the sky purplish-silvery splashed around by Madame Rashelle, let time flow away...

Sha-sha, it wont rain, Madame Inez, who came round while the five men were swallowed into their vehicle, encouraged her, patting the laundresss hunched back, the children wont let there not be a bonfire... Here, look at them, theyre coming again... Even so, Madame Rashelles tears flowed one by one into the tubs, while she moved the soapy clothes from the hot tub to the cold, and began to swish them about languidly. But by the time the crowd of scratched and bruised children, sent from the mound, burst into the courtyard and demanded the guy, the laundress had already wiped her cheek on her sleeve, and had even joined in the laughter of Madame Inez, who rounded on the urchins firmly: No! An agreement is an agreement! Patience! Well wait for Avram the Patron and the pole, that was the agreement, so now off you go. Nasser is in good hands, added the old woman, and nodded toward the locked barrels of clothes.

The childrens eyes blazed in loving hatred: we want to see, Madame Inez! they shouted. We want to see! No one saw the laundresss daughter standing shivering against the washhouse wall in the last ragged rays. No one saw anything except what Madame Inez grudgingly agreed to take out of the tub: a pair of huge sacking legs, limp and ragged and infuriatingly empty, a glance at which sent the children into panic, and they wanted to pull them out. No, no! refused Madame Inez, shaking the rolling pin stuck in her housecoat, patience. Madame Rashelle has a million more rags for it down there, wait. Stuffed or empty, without Avram the Patron it wont stand up anyway... Then go on, now, go! Madame Rashelle will finish the laundry and then, only then, well get ready, so all-of-you the seamstress said in a chirp, pushing the sweaty heads that drooped in disappointment and went off reluctantly all you children, out of the courtyard!

The wild and noisy chorus "Nassers waiting for Rabin..." greeted Avram the Patron from the mound as he came back through the rear entrance of the courtyard, dragging a rusty infusion pole which he had lifted from the hospital.

The courtyard was empty. The laundress had rolled the empty open coppers to the main entrance, but her tubs were drying against the fence and her washing lines fluttered over her shack, wet sails of washing which swelled despite the blue sky that was gradually darkening and dwindling and, except for a few stars, had lost its sparkle.

In contrast to the desert of the dead sky, the mound was full of life. People, elderly and infants, and clusters of children, excited and hoarse from rough singing, shouting and cursing, marched rank by rank around the wide bonfire dormant for the time being like a drowsy monster though it had of itself expanded its range, and blazed in eyes anticipating victory. Occasionally two or three children knocked wildly on Madame Inezs open window or on her door, but Avram the Patron knew that the women were waiting for him in the washhouse, where they planned to hang Nasser on the infusion pole before pushing him, swollen and stinking of kerosene, to the mound... But why, damn it to hell the Patron tugged at the wheels of the pole that squeaked on the ground why hadnt the two stupid women put on the light in the washhouse? Angrily he pressed the switch, and cursed when the light was unresponsive. And Avram the Patron kicked the door and went inside with the pole.

Dark as Egypt, bloody hell, whats this?

The naked daughter of the laundress was lolling in a small tub of foam, her small head pulled back by force and her tiny bones whitening the darkness! Avram the Patron began to laugh out loud, rattling the squeaky metal pole, in surprise and satisfaction. Whats this, then? In honour of the holiday? barked Avram the Patron, slowly approaching the girl, who gurgled deep in her throat, although her face was invisible... Youre uglier than Nasser, you know, bitch? Its you they should be burning, sniggered the Patron and bent awkwardly to nip the knee that quivered in the water, swallowing in utter silence the knife that penetrated his neck as if it were excavating his artery and tearing it up. But a moment before he was about to turn around, bleeding and dazed, he fell heavy and dark on his head, and the knife that was finally pulled out of his throat raked his back and buttocks. Small and stinging, and very hungry was the knife, and the rolling pin above his head again and again brought down on him dazzle and darkness, dazzle and darkness.

To the sound of the same song, the women pushed the guy, floppy and stuffed and hanging by its neck from the metal pole. Avram the Patrons twins insisted, because of their status, on putting it atop the bonfire themselves and splashing a full can of kerosene and more around it, and reaching up on tip-toes to wet its head, where Nassers stuck-on moustache would jeer one more time; the others, possessively eager, straightened the guy, for due to its weight it sank sometimes or swayed to one side, but just a minute, Nasser, judgment and fire, he threatens best who threatens last, wait, wait, patience.

No one remembered who struck the first match. Certainly there were several, and from several directions. Certainly the fire dawdled until it gathered strength, taking over the stage generously provided for it, but no one remembered... Just see how pretty it is whispered Madame Inez in the laundresss ear, against the exploding sky see how the fire, happy and free, drives out the darkness, look at the clouds one by one like ripe peaches, by my life I swear, orange and pink, and the black just like milk, everything white because of the caul of smoke, so beautiful, see...

Smiling, Madame Rashelle wiped her tears on her damp sleeve and took a deep breath of the singed air. She was not at all upset by the sights of the burning the seamstress did not take her glance from the sky logs, fingers and chins that suddenly toppled among the pieces of wood, all aflame, or the fragments of charred furniture among the hairy pancakes of the knees that collapsed, with the truncated leg and the shoulder that were instantly folded into the flames. Instead, Madame Rashelle turned her eyes to the dark washhouse across the way and cocked an ear:

"Nassers waiting for Rabin,
Ai-yai-yai
Nassers waiting for Rabin,
Ai-yai-yai,
Hes waiting sure as hell
for Rabin to ring the bell."

sang the children on the mound, while there, across the way, with a chicken leg smeared in leaves and blood, dust and mud, the girl, too, shouted from the walls:

"Ai-yai-yai
Ai-yai-yai
Ai-yai-yai"

Translated by Suzy Shabetai

* "Nassers Waiting For Rabin" was a popular song in Israel during the weeks preceding the Six-Day War of 1967. It derives from a threat made by Egyptian president Gamal Abdel-Nasser.

** The 33rd day of the "Counting of the Omer"; a festival commemorating Rabbi Akiva and Rabbi Shimon Bar Yohai. Children traditionally light bonfires, often topped with a guy that is consumed in the flames.