< Yankle: Chapter 4  

The Curse of the Striped Shirt

You may have heard those rumors about me: How I escaped by moonlight; how I hid inside each one of the seven wells of Beersheba, with nothing in my possession but the shirt on my back; how I eluded my enemy, my brother; and then, how frightened I was, how alone. I’m afraid you have been, at best, misinformed; or, more probably, mislead by some romantic foolery, some fiction and lies, the kind of which can easily be found, and in abundance I might add, in the holy scriptures.  

I insist: It was not moonlight but rather, high noon; I was wearing no shirt whatsoever—nothing, really, but a goatskin sleeve. There was only one well in which I could hide, not seven. And most importantly, I was hardly alone; for the entire camp—all the maidservants, the shepherds, the guards—stood aghast all around me. So now, you must see that I could not, despite my best intentions, escape stealthily out of there; nor could I elude anyone.

Instead I was flung out, kicking and screaming, with tugs and pulls loosening the remaining shreds of my clothes, and whacks and smacks coming at my bare back from all directions. My left eye swelled up to such a degree that out of necessity, I resorted to use the right one—only to discover, once I raised my head from the dirt, that my brother was standing right over me. His foot could be seen coming straight at me, at an easygoing, unhurried pace, until it turned into a full blown kick.

I managed to roll away, mainly by flailing my arms wildly over my head. With a great sense of urgency I crawled on all four through the crowd, and hid inside the closest well. Luckily it was bone dry, thanks to a yearlong drought; and so for a second, I could hang there by my fingernails and pant, and catch my breath.

Then I tiptoed behind the corner, right into the shade of my mother’s tent. From there I took a plunge and hurled myself downhill—where, to my utter disappointment, I found out that my brother had already caught up to where I was headed, and was waiting there for me with open arms. He made a point of letting me know that his hate for me would, by no means, stand in the way of our closeness.

“Come, Yankle,” said Esav. “I promise not to hurt you.”

“Really,” I said. “Can I trust you?”

“Aha,” said he. “I will just kill you.”

His bulging, bloodshot eyes were full of vigor; and so, unfortunately, was his fist. It met my chin once, then again, attempting to drive the point home; but on the third try, he missed—which was the sole reason why I still had my wits about me.

I staggered away, aided in my movement by the quaking of my knees. A desire to live made me, somehow, light on my feet; I turned and ran, leaving my brother     behind, way back in the dust. I could no longer see him. He may have given up the chase; but still, knowing his skill as a hunter, I had to keep on going, opening a measure of distance between us. An hour later I found myself crossing the dry river bed, which was such a long distance from camp, so far from where I used to feel safe, that it was, for me, an unknown, dangerous zone.

The sun scorched overhead, beating upon the steep, rocky slopes. I hesitated. I looked back: The peaks of the tents had shrunk away; a short time later, they disappeared completely from view.

The notion of asking my brother—no, begging him—to forgive me, crossed my mind. I thought of tracing my footprints and perhaps, finding my way back home; only to realize, by nightfall, that those footprints had led me astray. I must have been walking around in circles that entire day; which made me feel as helpless as a newborn baby. I thought that in the future, if I was lucky enough to have one, I could never become more vulnerable than this. How wrong was I then!

Now I laid down under some wilted bushes, using a rock for a pillow. So miserably disgraced, so alone was I, that I wished to bury myself right there in the sand. A great blackness yawned upon me. It was like no other night sky I had ever seen before.

Back home, I remembered, it would be lit up by the campfire, around which the family would gather for the evening meal. The faces of the young girls, sitting with their skirts spread on the woven mat behind my mother, would blush. You could see their cheeks flaming as they giggled, hinting at the shepherds, who would rise up then, stand in a loop and play their flutes, made out of reeds, or strum their stringed instruments, made out of sheep sinews.

The blaze of the fire would be mirrored in my father’s eyes; and looking at him, you could barely believe he was going blind. His rich voice would lead us in songs, which turned, gradually, into wordless melodies, as the wine cask was passed from one hand to another, making its way several times around the fire.

At bedtime you could spot, through the canvas of your tent, the glitter of my mother’s candlelight; her soft, charming voice would bid goodnight to you, goodnight to all.

Then, from the maidservant’s quarters, you could hear the gurgle of a baby, falling asleep on his mother’s breast. And later, the whispers of love making from one tent, then another, followed by peaceful rhythms of breathing. All around you, men and women stirring, from time to time, in their sleep.

The glow of this memory was as tempting and as fanciful as delusion. I ached for warmth, and wished I could leap, somehow, over time and distance, and find my way back into that circle. I wished I could sit there by the fire pit, and stretch out my hands, even blacken them by touching the dying embers. 

But here, in this place, the moonless sky was completely devoid of light, and for the first time in my life I was forced to listen, really listen, to the desert. Here was the void. The silence of God.

I was trying desperately to separate it into notes, invent some variants, some life. I imagined I could hear a rustling in the dry, brittle brush. Could roaches be creeping over me? Could a scorpion be slithering under my rock? I sat up, my mind tortured by things of phantasy, such as the noiseless flight of vultures; but then I decided to calm my nerves. I yelled, Come! Flap your wings! Let me hear you! Come here, scavengers, prey upon me! Pick my bones!

Then the echo answered: Bones, Bones...

Let them perch on me, upon my skull! Who cares? Come morning, my brother would find me. He would spill tears all over my remains; for my untimely death, he would surely blame himself. My mother, too, would sob; she would grieve inconsolably. Now that ought to teach them, teach them all a big lesson!

There was chill in the air. It quivered with last echoes of the echoes of my voice; and then—I swear, this is no exaggeration—the heavens opened up right there, before my eyes. This must be a dream, I said to myself. A dream born out of exhaustion. A vision, which I had seen once before; one that would keep coming back to me in later years, even in my old age—even as late as tonight!

Nowadays, however, I am so much wiser; so much more cautious. Hush! Don’t tell my sons. Are they here? Let them not hear that which I am about to tell you; because I know, all too well, what happens to old men; crazy old men who are nearly blind, but can see things, things that no other human can see.

But I digress. A distant lightning tore through the sky, and in a flash, I thought I saw a ladder: It was set up on earth, and the top of it reached to heaven, turning from time to time, like a flame in the wind. And behold! Winged creatures were ascending and descending on it. Were they lost souls, rising up from skeletons in the desert, and coming down to mourn them? Or else, were they angels, pulling my soul up, in agony and distress—and then, seeing how weak, how famished I was, coming back to hold me, in pity and compassion?

The sight vanished in smoke, and I wiped my eyes in amazement. Soon I fell asleep, and dreamt of the long way awaiting me, and of the years of exile lying ahead, in foreign places, places faraway from home; and I saw myself coming back one day, with sons and daughters, and their sons and their daughters, a family, a tribe, a people, a multitude like the dust of the earth.

And from the dust of the earth I awoke, to a clap of thunder. I knew instantly what it meant: The dry spell had broken! In a matter of minutes, the crevices and cracks around me filled up; they were bubbling with water.

Rain washed over me, lightly at first. I opened my mouth and let it trickle in, let it break my thirst. I drank it up, in big, long gulps. I was intoxicated! I was alive! I sprang to my feet and it was just then that I saw, coming out of nowhere, a river gushing, rushing into the valley.

I had heard of flush flooding before—but never did I stand in the midst of it. I started up the slope. My path was slippery, for a torrent of rain poured down mercilessly upon the earth. At one point I stopped to try and catch my breath. Was it my imagination? Between one thunder clap and another, I could hear a sound, a delicate clip clop coming towards me from the top of the mountain.

And look: Out there in the damp distance, against the backdrop of a clouded sunrise, you could detect two humps traveling in unison along the ridge. In a little bit, a camel came into view. And up there in the saddle, riding like a queen, wrapped in her goatskin coat, was no other than the woman I admired, the woman I adored: My mother.

Hope filled my heart. She was my shelter, my home! With her, I knew I would be safe: Safe from hunger, safe from thirst, and above all, safe from my brother. With a new burst of energy, I scrambled over the last few boulders that stood between us, and cried out for her.

The clip clop came to a stop; I drew closer; so close that by now, those long eyelashes and those ear hairs, used by the camel as a barrier against sand, swung by and gave my nose a sudden tickle. Meanwhile, my mother’s face remained high above me, curiously out of sight, hidden behind a black veil; and so, it was only by her shoes, which hung right there at eye-level, that you could recognize her.

“Mom!” I cried.

She gave no answer.

“Mom!” I cried, even louder this time. “Help! Please, help me!”

To which she whispered, “Hush, my child.”

I shrank back. Long seconds passed, during which rain kept coming, sheets and sheets of rain. Her veil was so soaked—it clung so tightly to the features of her face—that by now, I could begin to guess her expression, even the movements of her eyes.

Her gaze, I noticed, flew far beyond me; it seemed to focus at something—someone—in the direction from where I had come last night. Somehow I knew who it was, even before turning around.

Right there, on the opposite hill, he stepped forth, his arrow slung into his bow. My brother raised it slowly, aimed directly at my heart, and drew the bow; but at the critical second he halted, stopping just short of releasing the string. His hand seemed to waver; and just as I allowed myself to breathe more freely, I caught him taking one more step. This time he pointed the arrow higher, aiming it at her—at our mother. For what seemed like an eternity, the three of us froze in position.

She stuck up her chin, looking at him steadily, even defiantly. I closed my eyes. The only sound that could be heard was water, filling up the deep divide between us.

When I opened my eyes, my brother was gone. It was then that her bold expression gave way to tears. She started laughing, a wild laughter mixed with cries. In a fit of rage, she shed her snakeskin shoes and threw them, one high heel shoe after another, in his direction. And one after another they splashed into the water and sank in. I figured, good riddance: Those shoes were ill-suited, anyway, for the desert sand.

“What did I do,” cried my mother, “to deserve this?”

She sounded so pure, so innocent, that if I did not know any better, I would swear that this woman was incapable of any sort of manipulation. No, she could not possibly have crafted the best, the most reliable way to deceive her husband. She could not have plotted against her son. Her tone was so injured as to convince not only me, but herself as well. It would be easier to believe that I had gone mad, that my grasp on reality must have failed me, that truth had no basis in facts.

She moaned, “Where did I go wrong?”

How could I answer? I might as well have asked that question myself. Like a good, faithful son, I had followed her instructions, followed them to the letter, and took advantage of my old man; so that in his blindness, he had given me that which belonged to my brother, that which I did not deserve: The last blessing.

Well, if that was a blessing, I wonder what a curse might look like; because here I was, lost, hungry, empty-handed, and stranded in the middle of nowhere.  Where, I ask you, did I go wrong? It was all her fault; her calculations had missed the mark and brought me here, to this place. Now I trusted that my mother, of all people, could show me the way out.

She was such a shrewd woman. A woman unlike any other.

Perhaps she could read my mind. “I am not like other women; never was,” she said. “During the first years of marriage I was incapable of giving life; I am no goddess of fertility, you know. So for twenty years, I bathed in holy water. For twenty years I prayed on my knees for children; and in the end, all that effort did pay off: I was pregnant! Not one baby, but twins! Oh, the bliss, the happiness! Right from the start they kicked me, on the double. First he, then you, you, he, kicked so hard I would fold over...”

Right away I felt defeated by the endless suffering, which she professed to have experienced on my behalf. My God, she was the mother of all Jewish Mothers! She was such an expert at guilt! You had to admire her.

“I nearly died at childbirth,” she whispered. “Oh God, I wish I did.”

I wanted to hug her, to calm her down, but she was perched up there, way out of reach.

“Did I not feed both of you; hold you when you were sick; taught you everything you know?” said my mother. “What, in God’s name, did I do to deserve this?”

“What did I do?” said I.

To which she replied, “This is about me, not you.”  

I looked at her black veil and it dawned on me, suddenly, that she was in mourning; and that in my absence, my father, Isaac, had passed away.

“I wish I were dead,” she said, and then her hand fell, sleeveless, out of that coat.

I had been wondering why she was wearing it—her pristine, expensive goatskin coat—which by now, looked utterly disheveled. It looked rumpled not only because she had ripped out that sleeve, not only because it was soaked wet, and not only because its hair, that fine, long, humanlike hair, was curled out of shape; but mainly because her arm, coming out of that hole where the sleeve used to be, looked bare, almost mangled.

That missing sleeve which I was now wearing on my own arm, was the evidence linking us together. That sleeve, to me, was more than a costume. It was part of a plot; and she was my partner, my partner even in crime. Her finger trembled slightly as she pointed back, vaguely in the direction of the camp.

“They forced me to wear the coat,” she told me. “When Isaac died, they sneered at me. They said, Wear it. It’s your mantle of shame.”

“Forget them,” I said. “I love you. Now, you are both my mother and my father.”

At the sound of my words she bent over and kissed me on my forehead; which made me gush on, “Come with me! I know I don’t know where I am going, you know, but wherever it is, mom, I promise: you’ll be safe with me!”

“You?” she said, chuckling to herself. “Ha! If I put you in a brown paper bag, I bet you would never, I mean not ever, find your way out!”

That really stung. The other day, I recalled, my father had asked me, How could a follower become a leader? It was too late to go back to him, too late to answer. But now I swore, I promised myself: I would learn to live by my wits, even in the harshest of conditions. Even here in the desert. I would find water to drink, even if I had to suck it out of a rock with my cracked lips. I would find food, even if I had to skin wildcats and scorpions with my bare fingers. I would survive, even if it had to kill me. Never again will she—or he, or anyone—ridicule me!

Still chuckling, my mother thrust a little bundle, tied in a knot, into my hands. With that, she gave a slight nudge to the camel, turned it swiftly around and with a clip and a clop away she went, taking her chances elsewhere, into a rainy fog.

Never again would I see her. Upon my return to this place, more than two decades later, I would learn that my brother never forgave her for loving me, loving me only; and in the end, her funeral was poorly attended, because the letter announcing her death was never delivered to me. And no wonder: He could not bring himself to write it, nor did he come there himself to lay her to rest.

Again, I digress. Back to the matter at hand: I untied the knot, opened the little bundle she had just given me, and what do you think I found inside? Food? Drink? A map, perhaps, to guide me on my way? No, no and no! It had a hint of her jasmine perfume, and when I unfolded the thing, I recognized the pattern of the weave: It was her shirt, that unusually beautiful shirt, striped blue-on-white; the same one she had let me try on, way back in the past, when I was a little child.

It was a token of her love for me; her love only for me. I caressed the fabric, fondled it between my fingers. It gave a soft swoosh, above which I could hear, as vividly as I hear you, the resonant, deep voice of my father.

“Beware, my son!” said the voice. “Being the favorite son is as much of a curse as being the one rejected.”

My heart sank and at once, I knew I should bury that shirt. He who wore it would forever be cursed.

But I could not bring myself to do it. It was, after all, the only thing I had, the only thing to which I could cling, a small reminder of home, of love, of my mother. So instead, I made myself a solemn promise: This curse stops here, with me. I would never pass it on to my children; neither would I single out one of them from the rest, to make him my favorite.

I have no clue why you laugh; but I can tell by the sound of it, how bitter you must be; perhaps even resentful. What a pity, son! Up to now you have been listening so patiently. Was it something I said? I guess you have heard this story already. Maybe you have heard it many, many times before. Forgive an old man. What did you say your name was? Forgive me, these days I have no memory for names anymore.

In the years to come, I came to father many sons. They are a flesh of my flesh; so they tell me. Blood of my blood. Yet somehow I can barely remember their names. One of these days, I tell you, they would try to fool me, like I did my own father. I guess it is the nature of things. Which is why I keep telling myself: Beware; watch out; eye each and every one of them with great suspicion.

I like to think of myself as a modern man. A confused one. One left to his own devices, because of one thing: The silence of God. When Isaac, my father, laid on his deathbed, waiting for me, or rather, for his favorite son to come in, he suspected, somehow, that he was about to be fooled. And yet, God kept silent. Now, all these years later, I wonder about it.

God did not help the old man. He gave no warning to him; not one whisper in his ear, not a single clue. Now as then, He is silent still, and will not alert me when my time comes. When they, my sons, flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, are ready to face me. To fool their old man.

As I said, I could not care less for any of them—until, that is, Yoseph. Yosele my son, my son, Yosele.

When he was born—were you here, then? Did you see him? Really! So cute, so handsome!—I forgot that curse, the curse of being the favorite one. Even worse, I forgot the promise I made to myself, never to pass it on. And so I wrapped him tightly, with all my hope, all my love, all my yearning; wrapped him in that beautifully striped shirt, paying no attention—none whatsoever—to the jealousy flashing, every now and again, from the eyes of his brothers.

What is it with you; why are you shuffling around so much, on that bench? Are you uncomfortable? No? Then I must be boring you. I admit, I can be overbearing at times; forgive me. Why I go on and on like that, I have no idea.

You wanted to say something? Who are you? Reuben? I do not know you, do I? You are my child, you say? My firstborn? Flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood? Forgive an old man. I do not know you. No need to cry. I do not remember, is all.

You are in my way. I cannot see: Right there, behind you is that light, that ladder to heaven, and behold: An angel is starting to drift away slowly, slowly fading away, just like smoke... Can you see it? No? There, in all its glory, is the silence of God. I must watch; I must learn to accept it. Now, can you move? The other way, if you don’t mind. And remember: Don’t tell my sons; please don’t tell anyone I said this.

Now where is my sweet child, my Yosele? Late, I’m afraid; so very late. He did not come home last night. I waited. I waited past midnight. By the crack of dawn, I fell to dreaming. I thought I heard a scream for help, a terrifying, bone-chilling scream. Did you hear it, too? No? How strange. Morning came and went, then noon, then evening—and nothing. Still, no sign of him. Listen: Can you hear a voice? Is he calling my name?

My heart, this foolish old heart, is heavy. There is a voice, I trust, a voice calling me out there; it is so faint, so high pitched that perhaps no one else can hear it. Maybe it is nothing; nothing but the desert wind, shrieking. Sometimes, if you listen hard, it can sound like a tortured soul. Yes, it is the wind all right. It must be. I have to believe it; I do, really. If he comes back, don’t tell him I said any of this.

It is the end of the day, and my eyes are so weak. I cover them with my wrinkled hands. They look like my father’s. In their flesh I can see a web of blood vessels. It is a strange sight. Is this my body? Or am I beginning, perhaps, to lose my mind?

I try to recover. Gradually I become more alert and—bracing myself—I can hear things with great clarity: First, the silence. So dead, so divine. Then, you: You moving, you taking something out of that bundle; something I do not wish to see. It gives a slight, subtle swoosh... You are holding it in your hands, raising it to my eyes, asking me some question, over and again until, in my despair, I have no choice: I stamp my foot, trying not to hear, not to look. I am beside myself, so desperate to stop you. At last I cry, Enough!

Please... Just stop... There is no need to ask me anymore, do I recognize this thing—this unusually beautiful, striped thing that is slashed here, and here it is torn to pieces... And even before I can smell the blood—even before I can feel the rips in that which was his shirt—I hear someone wailing, roaring like a wild animal, like a father, in agony, in pain, from the depth of my soul.

Let me be. I grieve alone. I have no family. You are no blood of mine. Now go. Go away, son.