himself — in her features.
“Even better than creating a symphony, eh, Mr. Rossi?”
It was their obstetrician, who happened to be passing by on his rounds.
“Oh yes,” Danny quickly agreed as he shook the doctor’s hand. “Thanks for everything. Maria says you were great.”
“My pleasure. And don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.”
“What?”
“Having a daughter. Most men secretly want boys — at least the first time. But I know Sylvie, will bring you a great deal of happiness.”
Danny thought about the doctor’s words and felt relieved. During the flight home he had been unable to suppress the tinges of disappointment that Maria had not produced a son. He had hoped for an heir to continue the musical tradition he was establishing. After all, there were so few world-class women pianists. And the only time a female got to lead musicians was when twirling a baton. He had not considered that a girl might become a prima ballerina.
Sylvie was christened three weeks later and the Rossis had two hundred guests to their home for a champagne brunch. The Philadelphia papers published large photographs of their orchestra’s popular associate director with his lovely wife and new child. Danny was exhilarated. Being a father seemed to elevate him to a new status.
Yet, something puzzled him. Maria didn’t want a nanny. The most she would agree to was a nurse for the first few weeks. After that, she wanted to raise Sylvie on her own.
“Danny, I’ve spent the last nine months reading books about child care. I don’t want some starched-apron biddy telling me I don’t know how to be a mother.”
“But you’ll be exhausted,”
“Not if you help a little.”
“Sure,” he smiled, “but I’ve got a helluva concert schedule.”
“You act as if you’re a slave to your own fate, I mean, you don’t have to make so many guest appearances all over the place, do you?”
How could he make her understand?
“Maria, darling, you know that old chestnut about music being an international language? Well, nowadays it’s an international business. I have to do a certain amount of traveling — just to keep up my contacts.”
Maria looked at him. Her face grew flushed.
“Danny, I thought marriage would change you. And then when it didn’t, I thought at least being a father would. Why the hell can’t you grow up?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Why do you keep buzzing around the world like a bee from flower to flower? Do you still need that much adulation? if I’m not enough, there are plenty of local women to worship you.”
Danny did not feel compelled to justify the lifestyle of an artist.
“Maria, I assume this whole outburst is just the product of postpartum depression.”
Then, realizing he had wounded her, Danny came over and knelt by her side.
“Hey, that was shitty of me to say. Please forgive me. I really love you, Maria. Don’t you believe that?”
She nodded. “I just wish it were
Scarcely five months later, Maria was pregnant again. And the following year gave birth to a second daughter.
This time, Danny was in New York when she went into labor and made it to the hospital before the child arrived.
By January 1964 Jason had completed his six months of language training in the Ulpan. Having exercised the utmost discipline, using English only to write weekly letters to his parents, he found himself reasonably fluent in Hebrew.
The elder Gilberts had exerted frequent epistolary pressure on him to come home for Christmas. Jason had demurred, arguing that his course did not break for anything but the Jewish holidays in September. Now he once again avoided the possibility of returning to the States, even for a short visit, by saying that he was about to undertake “a very important job.”
He discussed it with Eva and Yossi — in Hebrew —on his first visit to the kibbutz since the summer.
“I’m going to join the army,” he announced.
“Good,” the kibbutz secretary exclaimed. “They can use an experienced man like you.”
Eva said nothing.
Yossi noticed the stern expression on her face and asked, “What’s the matter, aren’t you pleased with his decision?”
“I’m glad he’s staying,” she replied. “But I’ve a feeling he’s doing it for the wrong reason.”
“And what may that be?” Jason inquired.
“As a personal vendetta — to revenge Fanny’s death.”
“I don’t care what his reasons are,” Yossi retorted defensively. “Besides, doesn’t the Bible allow us an eye for an eye?”
“That’s primitive and you know it,” Eva countered. “It’s a metaphor, not to be taken literally.”
“The Arabs take it literally,” Yossi interposed.
“Hey, let’s cut the polemics. Do I have your blessings to enlist or not?” Jason asked.
“Not mine,” Eva stated adamantly.
“Well, you have mine,” Yossi countered, “and that of your whole kibbutz.”
“But I’m not a member of the kibbutz,” Jason replied.
“You will be after this week’s meeting,” the secretary responded. “That is, if you want to.”
“Yes. I want very much to belong.”
Though it was winter, Jason spent the next weeks in punishing, self-imposed, pre-basic training: getting up early to run in the freezing rain, lifting weights in the primitive kibbutz exercise room, and then running again before dinner.
He spent a lot of time talking to Eva, trying to convince her that his dedication was sincere. And pleading with her to make him less ignorant about the country’s history. Sometimes, at night, their conversation tentatively approached the personal.
He asked about her childhood. How it had been during the war with Fanny’s family. How she had been able to recover from the trauma of the Holocaust and the discovery that her parents had been slaughtered.
She told him how shattered she had been by the news of her parents’ fate. Still, she now felt she had been luckier than most. During the war, she had been blessed with the loving protection of the van der Post family. And afterward the establishment of Israel meant that her children would never suffer as she had.
Her talk of children led Jason to ask hesitantly why she was not married. At first she told him that like so many others, she had emerged from the Holocaust with her emotions deadened. But Jason sensed she was hiding something. And one night Eva told him the truth.
When she was in the army she had known a young officer named Mordechai. They had become very close. He was killed during his last month of active duty. And not by enemy fire, but during a training exercise with live ammunition.
“
“Oh, I know you will,” she said, unconvincingly. “Nobody gets killed working in a clothing depot.”
“What makes you think I’m joining the Quartermaster Corps?” he asked.
“I told you,” she replied. “I’ve been in the army. Most recruits go in at eighteen. A man like you is considered practically senile. You’ll be lucky if they don’t make you check handbags at the cinemas.”
