As we walked across the cemetery, the gray hair protruding from his face was illuminated by the afternoon sun. As far as the eye could see, grave stones were neatly lined and trailed off, disappearing into the horizon. Watching him, he didn’t feel like my father. He looked tired, worn down, and as he walked he carried his body with perpetual delay as though he were struggling with an omniscient cargo. Instead, he felt like a stranger that had taken me to this foreign country, exposing my eyes to a whole new part of my life. I carried in my left hand a single rose. A thorn stuck out of the stem and dug into my finger, reminding me of the most essential task that lay ahead. I trailed behind him as he walked down the columns of stones, occasionally stopping to check the names they bore. We fell into a steady syncopated walk. With each stone we passed, I could hear the click of a metronome. Suddenly, he knew where he was. He knew where she was.
We stood in front of the stone and my father stared down at it as though he had been reunited with a friend from another life. I stared too. I felt my grip tighten and I could feel the thorn pierce my finger, “Ouch…”
My father slowly averted his eyes from the stone to me. Kneeling down, he removed the rose from my hand. He looked at me curiously as I scrunched my face in pre pubescent pain. Noticing the blood on my hand, he affectionately wiped it off with his shirt and kissed my hand. He looked at the rose he now held, analyzing it as though he had never seen such pronounced beauty. His eyes stayed fixed on the pedals as he spoke,
“She loved roses. In our village, when I was a child, our house was famous for her garden. People would travel from all over Romania to have a look.”
“Really?” I asked with childish disbelief.
He looked back up at me and smiled, handing me the rose.
“Go ahead…” he said nodding at the grave.
I walked up to the stone, suddenly feeling strongly connected to the person I had never met, buried beneath… my grandmother. I placed the rose neatly against the stone. I remember wanting her to know I was there, to know I existed. I wanted her to smell the rose that my father and I had traveled over 5000 miles to place so casually before her. I carefully analyzed the stone looking for any clues that would reveal my grandmother to me. Nothing. I traced my finger along the Star of David that was engraved on her stone, residual blood escaped, staining the northern tip of the star.


We drove back from the cemetery in silence as our rental car slowly glided along the desert highway. I felt insignificant looking out my window at the vast desert. I could see herds of camels grazing in the distance, the heat escaping the sand beneath them expelling a glistening aura; like fuel sitting on hot pavement. Further down the road was a sign with Hebrew lettering and English translation below; Ashdod, Israel… 32.1 Kilo west / Gaza City… 56.28 Kilo west. Past the sign the highway continued into nothingness as the sun slowly disappeared.
“Asher, wake up,”


My eyes slowly adjusted from sleep. I first saw my father looking at me kindly. As my eyes became keen, I noticed we were still on the highway, however, I could now see the ocean behind him. The moons reflection sparkled gallantly on the Mediterranean behind my father. “We ran into a little difficulty,” he said, pointing out the front windshield.
In front of the car was a barricade of mammoth sized camels. I had never seen a camel up close and I tingled with anticipation as I climbed out of the car. “Be careful,” My father said in a very parental tone as I approached them. He also got out of the car, but stood dubiously by the rear fender. I stood before the one closest to me. While taking measure of the giant beast, a breeze traveling through the desert blew my shaggy blonde hair around my face as it danced across the highway. I could suddenly smell the foul odor of the camels that the breeze had instilled in my nostrils. A gave an over exaggerated gag as I pinched my nose, looked over at my father, “I told you to be careful,” he laughed. He returned to the darkness of the car and I suddenly felt alone, watching these foreign creatures indulging in sleep. Camels had always existed in a fictional realm of my brain, and here I was, a little boy in the middle of the desert watching them exist, before my very eyes. Goosebumps stood erect on my skin as a second foul-smelling breeze came, chilling me to the bone. The odor made me feel nauseous and I began to feel frightened. I walked back casually to the car, not wanting my father to think I was a frier
“So, we just need to wait for them to finish their nap, and we will be back on the road,” he said optimistically.
I looked out my window into the darkness of the desert before responding, “Yeah… and how long will that take?”
“Oh, not too long,”
He killed the engine, turning off the headlights. Everything went black around us except for the Mediterranean that continued to glisten in the distance. I sighed. Silence. The silence grew insidiously loud, revolting against my ears.
“Dad…?”
“Yeah?”
“What was it like?”
“What was what like?”
“You know, not growing up in America… What was it like?” I said looking up at him. He wore an expression of uncomfortable irritation. He quickly glanced at me before grabbing the steering wheel with both hands, squeezing.
“Different…” he said.
“How was it different?”
“I don’t know, it just was…” he closed his eyes, resting them as he tilted his head up.
I reclined my seat and stared up at the ceiling of the car. He glanced over at me. His eyes looked shy as he spoke,
“She would have loved you… your grandmother. She always wanted a grandson,” he said as though he were waiting for the opportunity to present itself all night.
“If she always wanted a grandson than why did I never meet her?”
He rubbed his hand over his skull and almost looked shocked when he found his head still empty and bald.
“Well… to be honest with you, after I left Israel for America, I kind of stopped talking to my parents.” He said, bringing his hand into sight, analyzing it in the moonlight, “You have to understand, my parents grew up very poor in Romania. It was only natural of them to be jealous of me when I moved to New York. The last thing my father told me was that I reminded him of a stuck up American.”
Stuck up American? Would my grandfather have thought the same of me? Did he hate me already when I hadn’t even met them? I continued listening attentively. The reflection from the sea grew brighter and I could see the camels moving. One was actually standing up, next to the car.
“The last time I saw them was when your mother and I went to visit them, soon after we married. Your mother drew the most beautiful portraits of your grandfather. One day, while your mother and I we’re out, he went through all her belongings. When he found the portraits she had drawn he ripped all of them all to pieces,”
“But why? Why would he do that?” I now faced my father as I demanded answers from him.
He watched the camels standing, and I could tell he was growing intolerant, both with them and me. When he didn’t answer, I continued my irrepressible line of questioning.
“Where is he? I don’t even know if he is alive,” I said almost mockingly.
My father started the car, honking his horn, “Alright sand fucker, out of the way,” He leaned against the horn until one of the camels moved just far enough for him to impel us around it.
“Dad…?”
He quickly accelerated down the highway, as he drove faster I could see the city lights from Ashdod come into view over the horizon.
“Dad… Why haven’t I met him?”
He swatted the air next to him as if fending off a mosquito. He returned his hand to the steering wheel and exhaled heavily.
“He’s dead… I didn’t want you to know this or anyone else for that matter, but, he’s dead.” His face turned scarlet, and he looked as though he could have started crying at any moment.
His unexpected anger startled me and I could feel myself contract. Everything went silent except for the four cylinders of out motor as it faithfully whined, propelled us towards our destination. I cautiously peered up at my father,
“When did he die?”
“Two years ago,” he looked shocked as he verbalized this. Slowing the car, he looked back and forth between the road and me as he spoke, “He died two years ago, and I found out… last week. Asher… the reason we came to Israel was so I could see his grave. It was there… next to your grandmother’s. “
He pulled the car over and looked me over. I sat still, looking down at the blemish the thorn had left on my finger. I didn’t want to face my father. I didn’t want to have mysterious dead grandparents. I wanted to know where I came from and most of all I wanted to know that my grandparents loved me. He positioned his hand gently on my shoulder.
“Look, I’m sorry. I’ll take you back tomorrow and you can see his grave too.”
I shook my head as I continued to evaluate my finger, rubbing my thumb over the blood that had dried, coloring my skin. I could picture the six pointed star and the blood that now occupied the northern tip on my grandmother’s stone. I had learned in Hebrew school, that the Star of David has six points to symbolize a number of things: the six days of creation; the six pairs of tribes of Israel; the 600,000 Israelites at Mount Sinai; reception of the Torah on the sixth day of the Hebrew month of Sivan; and the six million Jews martyred in the Holocaust. But to me, on that night in the desert, amongst my father and the camels, it was all six years of my life that I had never known my grandparents.

Impressum

Texte: Copyright 2010
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 29.03.2010

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Widmung:
To my father for being there for me when he had no right to be.