The Others, Sarah Blau [hardest books to read txt] 📗

mere mention of his name would bring a dreamy smile to Efraim’s face, and he’d send me on all these ridiculous errands, fussing around me like a wrinkled old Cupid. Those good intentions again.

“Kill me now!” Yifat bursts into the room and collapses onto one of the chairs. “What an awful group, they wouldn’t stop complaining the entire session.”

“What do you expect from teachers?” the seasoned Efraim says. “Don’t worry, it’s all been taken care of; they just want a slight alteration in their lesson plan.” He informs me that subsequent to recent events, this particular group of teachers from the settlement of Elkana in the West Bank is now interested in a “brief overview of that famous article by, you know, that friend of yours – but be gentle, Sheila, don’t start up with all those aggressive opinions of yours.”

That friend of yours. I once read that when someone uses that expression, more often than not they’re referring to someone who isn’t your friend at all. I take the instruction manuals and make my way to the auditorium, hearing from a distance the wax figurines bursting into giggles.

They’re already waiting for me, sitting there chewing despite the No Eating sign hanging above the entrance to the auditorium.

A closed room crowded with religious women of child-bearing age has a very distinct smell, a combination of sweetness and acidity, the aroma of hormones, milk and blood. I feel the invisible babies nestled up against a few of them.

“Hello there,” I begin. “I understand that, following recent events, you’re interested in a brief review of Dina Kaminer’s article.” The words get stuck in my throat, but one should never show weakness, certainly not in front of a room full of teachers.

“Excuse me.” It’s one of them, the invisible baby clinging to her neck. “It’s absolute hogwash. What does it even mean that women in the Bible didn’t want to be mothers? Who doesn’t want to be a mother?”

I look at her without blinking, taking in the smell of sweat and milk.

“Well, that theory certainly has quite a few detractors, but there were indeed several prominent biblical women who didn’t have children, supposedly by choice. It might also explain the fact that many women in the Bible, including the nation’s matriarchs, were portrayed as barren.” I recite the essay’s opening line, feeling my voice becoming lower, purring.

“What are you talking about?” a few of them exclaim in unison. “Those women begged for children, Rachel almost died childless!” I note to myself that Rachel eventually died in childbirth, but I don’t want to incite the room, which is already starting to buzz with commotion.

“That’s certainly the opinion of the biblical narrator,” I reply calmly, “who was a man, of course, but he doesn’t conceal the fact that some of the most active and accomplished women in the Bible, like Miriam the prophetess or Huldah the prophetess, didn’t have children.”

“A life without children is no life at all!” a woman shouts from the back of the auditorium. “Look at Michal, daughter of Saul, her punishment was a life without children.”

“Punishment?” I reply. “Perhaps she simply wasn’t interested in having children with the man who murdered her father and brother?” Michal’s wax figurine flashes before me; maybe she’s not sad at all, maybe her expression is one of relief, I was spared.

“Where did you come up with that nonsense?” Another one, ruddy and round, stands up in front of me, going on the warpath, Don’t take my motherhood away from me, it’s all I have.

“It’s in the essay, dear,” I reply peaceably.

“What essay? That’s Kaminer’s famous theory? That malarkey?”

“Call it whatever you like, but that theory gained her international acclaim, and has a very deep, serious factual basis.”

“And how would you know?” It’s the flushed one again, and she’s standing so close to me now she almost looks cross-eyed; she’s starting to resemble the wax figurine of our mother Leah, melting babies to boot.

“As a matter of fact, I was the one who helped Dina Kaminer develop the theory.” Efraim, who happens to be passing by the auditorium on his way out, halts and fixes a curious gaze on me.

“Are you sure?” Then how did you become such a loser?

“Yes, I’m sure. Google it and see for yourself,” I say, and hear the sound of all the wax figurines starting to applaud. With the exception of Miriam, of course, I can picture her evil eyes. A little girl standing between the reeds, frozen in time, never to grow up to be a leader, never to hold the drum.

By the end of the instruction class I revert back to my familiar calm and collected self again, including during the usual conciliatory closing round, in which each teacher likens herself to an inspirational biblical character. The ruddy one, as could be expected, chose Leah, the great matriarch. Good for you, homegirl. All that hormonal, milky sweat I have inhaled makes me a little sleepy and I almost blend into them to become one of them. As it was back then, living in the all-girls national service apartment, when after a while the little garbage can in the bathroom filled up with bloody sanitary pads on the exact same day, and later at the exact same hour. That subterranean female connection, working around the clock. Tick-tock.

And now, as I make my way home to prepare for Micha, I run through the list of suspects who could have told him about my meeting with Dina that evening, and none of the possibilities makes me very happy.

But only one makes me shudder at the mere thought.

6

HE’S COMING. Tidy up the place, hide whatever needs to be hidden.

I rush through the rooms, checking every box, making sure that what happened last time won’t happen again.

A quick sniff reveals the slightly dank odour coming from the plumbing system, always the same smell. I spray a few aggressive spurts of a special mist that’s supposed to give my living