AMOSOZ
551
Underground? Brave boys signalling to each other from rooftop to
rooftop with faint pocket flashlights? Sometimes after midnight a succes–
sion of heavy explosions came from south of the city, from the direction
of the German Colony or, further still, from the Valley of Hinnom or Abu
Tor or the Allenby Camp or the hills of Mar llias along the way to
Bethlehem. A dim rumble rolled through the thickness of the ground
under the asphalt of the roads and the foundations of the buildings mak–
ing the windowpanes chatter and rising up from the floor into my bed,
producing a cold shudder.
The only telephone in the vicinity was at the pharmacy. Sometimes late
at night I seemed to hear repeated ringing from three streets away, plead–
ing out there where there was not a living soul. And the closest radio was
in Dr. Buster's flat, six buildings eastward. We would know nothing until
dawn broke. Not even if the British tiptoed out of Jerusalem and left us
alone, surrounded by masses of Arabs. Not even if hordes of armed maraud–
ers forced their way into the city. Not even if the Underground stormed
Government House. Through the other wall, from my parents' room, I
could hear only silence. My mother might have been reading, in her dress–
ing gown, or writing out a shopping list for the institution where she
worked. My father would sit up till one, sometimes two o'clock, his back
hunched, his head outlined by a halo of light from his desk lamp, intent on
filling cards with information he needed for his book on the history of the
Jews in Poland. Sometimes he would make a note in pencil in the margin
of a book: The evidence is inconclusive, or, This could be interpreted
dif–
ferently, or even, Here the author is definitely mistaken. Sometimes he
would incline his self-righteous, weary head and whisper to some tome on
one of the shelves: "This summer too will pass. Winter will come. And it
is not going to be easy." My mother would reply: "Please don't say that:'
Father: "Why don't I get you a glass of tea. Then you must get some sleep.
You're so tired." There was a hesitancy in his voice, a midnight gentleness.
In the hours of daylight he mostly spoke like a judge passing sentence.
One day a minor miracle occurred: one of Mr. Lazarus's hens laid some
eggs and sat on them till five chirping chicks hatched out. Even though we
had never seen a cock. My mother made some joking remark, but Father
rebuked her:
"Stop it. The boy can hear."
Mr. Lazarus refused to sell the chicks. He gave each one a name. He
spent the whole day pottering around on the sunbaked roof, with an
expression of faint surprise, wearing a waistcoat, with a tape measure around
his neck. He had hardly any work. Most of the time he argued in German
with his hens, shouted at the chicks and forgave them, scattered seed,
crooned lullabies, changed the sawdust, or stooped down and picked up a
