My Michael by Amos Oz

quite right when he told me that night in Geula Street that my husband would have to be a very strong man. At that moment I felt that, although he had to stand there smoking under a lamppost like a child in disgrace, yet he had no right to blame me for his suffering, because I should soon be dead, and so I need show no consideration for him. Michael knocked out his pipe and started walking back. I hurriedly lay down on the bed and turned my face to the wall. My mother asked him to open a can for her. Michael replied that he would be delighted. An ambulance siren sounded in the distance.

    One night, after we had turned out the light in silence, Michael whispered to me that he had the feeling, sometimes, that I didn't love him any more. He said this calmly, as if reciting the name of some mineral.
    "I'm depressed," I said, "that's all."
    Michael was understanding. My condition. My poor health. Difficult circumstances. He may have used the words "psycho-physical," "psychosomatic." All the winter a wind stirs the tops of the pine trees in Jerusalem, and when it dies away it leaves not a trace on the pines. You are a stranger, Michael. You lie next to me at night, and you are a stranger.

14
    O UR SON Y AIR was born in March 1951.

    My late father's name, Yosef, had been given to my brother Emanuel's son. My son was given two names, Yair and Zalman, in memory of Michael's grandfather, Zalman Ganz.
    Yehezkel Gonen came up to Jerusalem on the day after the birth. Michael brought him to see me in the maternity ward of Shaare Zedek Hospital, a dark and depressing place built in the last century. The plaster on the wall opposite my bed was peeling, and as I stared at the wall I discovered weird shapes, a jagged mountain range or dark women frozen in hysterical convulsions.
    Yehezkel Gonen, too, was dark and depressing. He sat for a long time by my bedside, holding Michael's hand and tediously recounting his troubles: How he had come from Holon to Jerusalem, how from the bus station he had gone by mistake to Mea Shearim instead of Mekor Baruch. There were corners of Mea Shearim, among the twisted stairways and sagging washlines, which had reminded him of the poor areas of Radom in Poland. We couldn't possibly imagine, he said, how great was his pain, his longing, how deep his sadness. Well, he got to Mea Shearim, and he asked, and they told him, and he asked again, and they misdirected him again—he wouldn't have believed that Orthodox children were capable of such tricks, or perhaps there's a deceptive quality in the side streets of Jerusalem. Finally, tired and worn out, he had managed to find the house, and even that had been more by chance than anything else. "Still, all's well that ends well, as they say. That's not the point. The point is that I want to kiss your forehead—so—to give you my best wishes and also those of Michael's aunts, to hand over this envelope—there's a hundred and forty-seven pounds in it, the rest of my savings—flowers I'm sorry but I've forgotten to bring you, and I beg and implore you to call my grandson Zalman."

    When he had finished speaking, he fanned himself with his battered hat to refresh his weary face and sighed with relief at having finally rolled the great stone from the mouth of the well.
    "The reason for the name Zalman I should like to explain to you briefly, in a few words. I have a sentiment about it. Does all this talking tire you, my dear? Well then, I have a sentiment. Zal-man was the name of my father, our dear Michael's grandfather. Zalman Ganz was a remarkable man in his way. It is your duty to honor his memory, as good Jews should. Zalman Ganz was a teacher, and a very fine teacher indeed. One of the best. He taught natural sciences in the Hebrew teachers college in Grodno. It was from him that Michael received his aptitude for science. Well then, to come straight to the point. I am begging you. I have never asked you for anything before. By the way, when will they let me see