“Maybe that’s how you are for them. For me, you’re easy to read,” she said with finality.
“Who’s in the sketch?” I changed the subject.
“Us.”
“When did you even have time?” I asked, astonished.
“It’s just a rough draft. I want it to be my first painting of this new chapter.”
“And when will you finish it?”
“Not sure I ever will. And even if I do, I might erase it.” She looked at the sketch with a distant gaze and a teasing smile.
“You erase your paintings?” I asked incredulously. I had never heard of artists erasing their own work.
“I may be just starting out, but I’ve already erased several. Even ones that others thought were excellent. Even ones that were already in an exhibition.”
“You’ve already had an exhibition?” I was shocked.
“Yes, at the Army Memorial Museum in Holon.”
She added that at her exhibition, some well-known Israeli art figures had praised her talent, and were surprised that she had never studied in any formal art school. That surprised me too – in my home, education was sacred. My parents invested everything in it. Mom even bought us schoolbooks so we wouldn’t waste time in the library – or worse, meet friends there who might distract us. When I asked her why she hadn’t studied formally, she said it just hadn’t happened, and now, at almost twenty-six, she felt it was too late.
The more time passed, the more I realized I didn’t understand painting – or the world of painters. I asked her what she intended to do with it. Her answer challenged me.
“At thirteen, I dreamed of being an athlete, a swimmer. But the illness killed those dreams. Now I have other dreams. And if those don’t work out, others will come. The thing is, I know my time is limited.”
“Lily, please – never say that to me.”
“Listen, I’m twenty-five years and ten months. I want you to know now – and not say later you didn’t know – I will never see thirty. I promise never to repeat this again!” I felt a desperate need to hug her, to sway with her to some imagined music – and I did. She hugged me back and kissed my neck, as far up as she could reach.
“Remember – you can walk away. Run, escape. I’m not holding you here.” I looked at the woman in my arms, God’s perfect creation. I couldn’t believe her. I couldn’t believe the doctors. All I wanted was to be with her … together … united … one. She seemed so alive.
Chapter 11
Friday Night
I knew my parents well, and at this stage, it was better not to tell them about Lily’s medical condition. I shared this with Lily because I didn’t want them to worry – neither about her nor about us. When she asked me what I meant, I explained that the most common argument between them was about who had suffered more during the Holocaust. My father would point at my mother and say, “She went through more,” and my mother would immediately counter, pointing at him, insisting, “He went through more.” My father emphasized that although he had been in the camps, he at least received a daily food ration, while my mother had depended on cruel Poles who tormented her family, sometimes refusing food even when offered money, and when they did provide, it was often spoiled. She, in turn, would remind us of what she knew about the abuse in the camps, and about the gas chambers – which, to her, represented evil in its purest form. Beyond that, she refused to speak.
“So you understand why I don’t have the courage – or the desire – to tell my parents about your health. At least not now,” I concluded my little speech. I wanted them to see Lily as she was – without the illness – to see how wonderful she was, at least as I saw her. Besides, I told myself, I was convinced that not only could I help her recover, but I could also protect her better than anyone in the world. My sense of calling which had brought me to medicine now gained a new, personal dimension. I would heal her. I didn’t know how, but I knew it would happen.
“Your parents, your decision,” Lily brought me back to reality.
“But if either of them ever asks me directly if I’m sick, I won’t lie.”
“I know. But I also trust you’ll know how to answer.” I said with confidence.
We parted as though we weren’t supposed to see each other again in just two hours.
“Good luck,” she wished me.
I needed that. I rushed down the stairs, excited and nervous, a wide smile spread across my face.
The trip from her apartment to my parents’ home took me twice as long as usual. I wanted to delay the family meeting for as long as I could, though it was already late. When I arrived, my parents and my sister were already seated around the set table. Two tall candles had burned down, the challah was covered, and the wine had already been poured. Candles, fresh challah, and wine were the only symbols that represented Shabbat for us. It was the compromise between my mother and father. Both had grown up in religious homes. My mother liked to remind us every week that her father had been ordained as a rabbi, and she wanted us to honor his memory by keeping traditions. My father, the son of a rabbi as well, had walked away from Torah study in his youth – exchanging one Torah for another, that of Karl Marx.
We never prayed out loud in our home, except when reading the Passover Haggadah – which was usually rushed through just to get to the holiday meal – and, of course, when lighting candles on Friday nights and holidays.
“I gather she’s not getting married.” my sister Rachel said, surprising me at the table, right in front of our parents.
