were old midnight comrades, two cynical ancient beasts. At night, when the blinds of his office windows were open, the creature looked in on him from a safe distance.
A rush of steam blew out into the street as he entered the Thai shop. Garlic. He breathed it happily. The boys behind the counter were most certainly not Thai. Still, nice feeling in here, he thought, and so good not to be in The Building. He usually ate his depressing meals without ever leaving his desk. Irit fetched yellow cheese sandwiches or tuna from a place up the street. Sad little sandwiches in plastic wrap, with a Diet Coke. Yizhar walked over to the counter. Three woks were burning up on the black stove behind the boys. Steam fogged the open kitchen. The cooks kept throwing new things into the woks, rushing in and out from some secret place in the back. In the corner, a man with a rifle over his shoulder sat on a stool, eating stringy stuff. At least Doron hadnât shot the child. Yizhar ordered a noodle dish to go.
Most colleagues would tell Yizhar that this assignment was a solemn one: Doronâs future was riding on it. Yizharâs too, possibly. Israelâs international reputation. But Yizhar was a fatalist, because he had learned on the job that this was the safest, wisest approach. He knew about destiny: how it came in different guises, and not usually with a drumroll. Sometimes with the honk of a horn just before impact. Sometimes with the whistle of the artillery shell before it hit. Sometimes, just a shout or a phoneâs insistent ring.
He paid and took the poorly wrapped package from the cashier, who was Thai. With the steaming bag in his hand, he walked quickly back up Jaffa. Three soldiers passed him heading in the other direction, down to Zion Square. Yizhar could imagine Doron walking with them, a nice boy, good soldier, whatever that meant. But to Yizhar, he was just a figure in the big game. Whatever happened, it was not Yizharâs personal responsibility. It was fate, and fate would pull the boy out of it or it would let him drown and Yizhar was just an instrument, too. His role was incidental.
The correctness of an action lay in its outcome, a Gertler motto. You could claim that the outcome was the result of your masterly strategy, your brilliant cover-up, your clever ruses, your unpredictable subterfuges, but in fact, it was all preordained, and your little part in it was mapped out beforehand, and really, you had little or nothing to do with the end result no matter how deep you were in it. Destiny was destiny, and no other thing. Character did not play a part in it, Yizhar believed. Good actions were as useless as bad ones. He had known this ever since Gertlerâs breakdown. The man fell apart in war, fell absolutely apart, and then went on to become prime minister! Fate was fate.
This is what happened to your thinking when you lived in Jerusalem, even if you werenât religiousâand Yizhar had never prayed in his life and never would. You became a fatalist, and superstitious. You went along with the master plan. One thing Yizhar did not believe in was going against the tide. He did not see value in vain gestures. That was Daniel Yizharâs religion, so-called, of which you had to have some kind if you were going to survive in this hateful city. If you werenât going to wear black bloomers and homburgs and bathrobes and stockings and sidecurls, or run around screaming about Allah and blowing up buses and yourself, you still had to find some ground to stand on with the Lord, and Yizharâs ground was soft and he could dig a trench in it and let the Lord pass over on his march toward the end of everybody, including this nice young soldier, who probably would normally have been out eating Thai food with his girlfriend in Zion Square if only he hadnât let a baby die in the rain somewhere outside the ancient floodlit walls of this holy place.
There was too much history here for Yizhar to
A rush of steam blew out into the street as he entered the Thai shop. Garlic. He breathed it happily. The boys behind the counter were most certainly not Thai. Still, nice feeling in here, he thought, and so good not to be in The Building. He usually ate his depressing meals without ever leaving his desk. Irit fetched yellow cheese sandwiches or tuna from a place up the street. Sad little sandwiches in plastic wrap, with a Diet Coke. Yizhar walked over to the counter. Three woks were burning up on the black stove behind the boys. Steam fogged the open kitchen. The cooks kept throwing new things into the woks, rushing in and out from some secret place in the back. In the corner, a man with a rifle over his shoulder sat on a stool, eating stringy stuff. At least Doron hadnât shot the child. Yizhar ordered a noodle dish to go.
Most colleagues would tell Yizhar that this assignment was a solemn one: Doronâs future was riding on it. Yizharâs too, possibly. Israelâs international reputation. But Yizhar was a fatalist, because he had learned on the job that this was the safest, wisest approach. He knew about destiny: how it came in different guises, and not usually with a drumroll. Sometimes with the honk of a horn just before impact. Sometimes with the whistle of the artillery shell before it hit. Sometimes, just a shout or a phoneâs insistent ring.
He paid and took the poorly wrapped package from the cashier, who was Thai. With the steaming bag in his hand, he walked quickly back up Jaffa. Three soldiers passed him heading in the other direction, down to Zion Square. Yizhar could imagine Doron walking with them, a nice boy, good soldier, whatever that meant. But to Yizhar, he was just a figure in the big game. Whatever happened, it was not Yizharâs personal responsibility. It was fate, and fate would pull the boy out of it or it would let him drown and Yizhar was just an instrument, too. His role was incidental.
The correctness of an action lay in its outcome, a Gertler motto. You could claim that the outcome was the result of your masterly strategy, your brilliant cover-up, your clever ruses, your unpredictable subterfuges, but in fact, it was all preordained, and your little part in it was mapped out beforehand, and really, you had little or nothing to do with the end result no matter how deep you were in it. Destiny was destiny, and no other thing. Character did not play a part in it, Yizhar believed. Good actions were as useless as bad ones. He had known this ever since Gertlerâs breakdown. The man fell apart in war, fell absolutely apart, and then went on to become prime minister! Fate was fate.
This is what happened to your thinking when you lived in Jerusalem, even if you werenât religiousâand Yizhar had never prayed in his life and never would. You became a fatalist, and superstitious. You went along with the master plan. One thing Yizhar did not believe in was going against the tide. He did not see value in vain gestures. That was Daniel Yizharâs religion, so-called, of which you had to have some kind if you were going to survive in this hateful city. If you werenât going to wear black bloomers and homburgs and bathrobes and stockings and sidecurls, or run around screaming about Allah and blowing up buses and yourself, you still had to find some ground to stand on with the Lord, and Yizharâs ground was soft and he could dig a trench in it and let the Lord pass over on his march toward the end of everybody, including this nice young soldier, who probably would normally have been out eating Thai food with his girlfriend in Zion Square if only he hadnât let a baby die in the rain somewhere outside the ancient floodlit walls of this holy place.
There was too much history here for Yizhar to
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