A Tale of Love and Darkness - Amos Oz [191]
And I can remember, vaguely, somebody, a hairy, short man, with a bushy mustache, wearing a gold watch on a very wide bracelet, maybe he was one of the guests, or one of the host's sons, dragging me roughly out of there, pulling me by my torn shirt, almost at a run. And on the way I could see a furious man, standing by the well in the middle of the paved terrace, hitting Aisha, not punching her with his fists, not slapping her cheeks, but hitting her hard, repeatedly, with the flat of his hand, slowly, thoroughly, on her head, her back, her shoulder, across her face, not the way you punish a child but the way you vent your rage on a horse. Or an obstinate camel.
Of course my parents intended, and so did Staszek and Mala, to get in touch and ask how the child Awwad was and how serious his injuries were. Of course they intended to find some way to express their sorrow and shame. They might have considered offering suitable compensation. It might have been important to them to make our hosts see with their own eyes that our side had not come off unscathed either, but he had cut his chin and needed two or three stitches. It is possible that my parents and the Rudnickis even planned a return visit to Silwani Villa, in which they would bring presents for the injured youngster, while my task would be to express my humble remorse by prostrating myself on the threshold or putting on sackcloth and ashes, to demonstrate to the al-Silwani family in particular and to the Arab people in general how sorry and ashamed and embarrassed we were, but at the same time too high-minded to seek excuses or extenuating circumstances, and sufficiently responsible to shoulder the full burden of embarrassment, remorse, and guilt.
But while they were still conferring, arguing with each other about the timing and the manner, possibly suggesting that Uncle Staszek should go and ask his boss Mr. Knox-Guildford to put out some informal feelers on our behalf and find out how the land lay with the Silwani family, how angry they still were and how they could be mollified, how helpful a personal apology would be and in what spirit they would receive our offer to put matters right, while they were still laying plans and exploratory measures, the Jewish high holidays arrived. And even before that, on the first day of September 1947, the United Nations Special Committee on Palestine presented its recommendations to the General Assembly.
And in Jerusalem, even though no violence had broken out as yet, it felt as though all of a sudden an invisible muscle was suddenly flexed. It was not sensible to go to those areas anymore.
So Father bravely telephoned the offices of Silwani and Sons Ltd in Princess Mary Street, introduced himself in English and in French, and asked, in both languages, to be put through to Mr. al-Silwani senior. A young male secretary answered him with cold politeness, asked him in fluent English and in French to be kind enough to hold the line for a few moments, and came on again to say that he had been authorized to take a message for Mr. Silwani. So Father dictated a brief message about our feelings, our regrets, our anxiety for the health of the dear child, our readiness to meet any medical expenses in full, and our sincere wish to effect a meeting at an early date to clarify and to try to right the wrong. (Father had a pronounced Russian accent in English and in French. When he said "the," it sounded like "dzee," while "locomotive" came out as "locomotsif.")
We received no answer from the Silwani family, either directly or via Mr. Knox-Guildford, Staszek Rudnicki's boss. Did Father endeavor to discover by other means how serious little Awwad's injuries were? What Aisha had or hadn't said about me? If he did indeed manage to find anything out, they didn't say a word to me. To the day my mother died and afterward, to the day of his own death, my father and I never talked