And the Rat Laughed - By Nava Semel Page 0,4

whispered: Will you come to visit me? And they swore they would.

Just before they left the house, as the servant clasped her hands with fleshy handcuffs, she asked, barely audible: Will you come to take me back when you can?

And again they promised they would.

***

The storyteller is supposed to gain something from the very act of telling the story. Release, after all, according to the experts, is supposed to bring relief. The old woman certainly has a hefty motive then. And yet, no gain seems to present itself in the case of her story. The natural act of returning to the past and rummaging through memories brings solace only to those with very different stories to tell. The growing weight of her own story leaves no room for relief. And there’s no turning back now either.

Don’t turn your back on me, the story seems to be imploring in an almost-human voice. The deeper it was buried, the wilder it grew and the stronger its roots, though the old woman had deluded herself into thinking that she had managed to sever its limbs and eradicate it. Now it is her turn to implore, to beg her memory to set her free. She needs its blessing if she is ever to be able to emerge from her hiding place.

***

They stood with their backs to her.

Her mother did not turn around. Didn’t say a word. Not even good-bye. Didn’t touch her either.

The old woman is almost choking. The story is lodged between her throat and her mouth. She couldn’t know that, had her mother made a move – even the slightest one, like holding out a finger or blinking or twitching – everything would have fallen apart.

The granddaughter gets up. The old woman feels that the girl is about to touch her, but as if on an uncontrollable impulse, she turns her back.

For a moment, that seems to be the end, but it isn’t even halfway through.

3

They lowered her into a pit under the ground. The stranger, the one whom she would come to call the “farmer’s wife”, dragged her down the ladder and said, This is where you stay.

The little-girl-who-once-was thought that only the worst creatures in the world lived under the ground. Moles and snakes and worms. And the worst of all were the rats. She was worse than any of them though, if she had to be hidden away from all the people up above.

That’s what the old woman thinks she must have been feeling then. But instead of adding to the story, she only seemed to be detracting from it.

***

Early afternoon in Tel Aviv is always a difficult time of day. The light is invasive. Only rarely does the old woman let herself take it in. Most of the time, she draws the curtains and shuts the blinds, to let in the darkness, her old ally.

Her mother and father hadn’t told her that “there” was in the darkness under the ground. Even the servant, who had shared their secret, had kept it from her. But if the old woman had known ahead of time what lay in store, would it have been any easier for her? Can a person prepare for the possibility of being lowered into a pit under the ground?

The little-girl-who-once-was thought: Maybe I’m really dead. Because only dead people get pushed so deep down.

***

Why do they call the main character of a story the “hero”? Some people naively assume that it’s because the main character gives the story its strength, but the fact that the character happens to be in the centre doesn’t necessarily mean he or she will be heroic in carrying the story along.

The old woman’s style seems more in keeping with our modern approach – choppy, jumpy, breathless. But it’s not because she doesn’t have enough time, or because she’s eager to get to a point that will be particularly rewarding. Nor does she tell it out of consideration for the reader’s impatience.

Her granddaughter is sitting across from her, confused.

***

Darkness.

This is where the story reaches an impasse. The old woman is finding it difficult to explain darkness to someone for whom it has an obvious meaning, part of the day-and-night cycle, associated with the safety of sleep, of dream life.

At this point in her story-line, she is inclined to give up trying. Her darkness is not about a lack of light nor even a contrast with light. It’s a subcutaneous substance that has mass and weight, and has managed to defy the laws