Davidovich and Farouk • A short story from an estate neighborhood

I saw Davidovich for the first time when he was walking around our house and measuring the bumps in order to give a quote for the whitewashing of the apartment. He was dressed in stained clothes, his face and shoes were also dirty with lime spots. He was quite an old man, probably seventy years old. His face was pale, his eyes flickered and he was not focused when talking to people.

I wondered why they hired him for the job, when everyone knew he was a bit "terra la la", a Bisele
Crazy... It turned out that a few years earlier, he had the name of an excellent and reliable professional, but he always preferred to work alone, without assistants. On one occasion he whitewashed a stairwell and climbed a particularly tall ladder, and reached the last step, without anyone supporting the ladder. He fell off the ladder and injured his head, but the ladder remained intact... Davidovich would surely be declared these days as head injured and receive occupational therapy and psychological treatment. But then, in the sixties, he was not cared for and he suffered from a lack of memory, and forgot almost everything he knew, but he continued to be an excellent plasterer and knew very well how to repair accessories in the house: shutters, locks and faucets, which are constantly breaking down.

Davidovich mainly lost the ability to count and estimate quantities related to work and materials. He got the name of the neighborhood clown. He was able to determine the performance of work for which he would receive a total of 2,000 lira, perform the work and go home without demanding payment for it. After a week he remembered that he had not been paid and returned to demand what he was due. And he would say: "What did you do? You forgot to pay me for the work. You owe me 4,000 pounds!". The fraudulent customer would answer him: "Davidovich, what about you? I only owe you 400 lira.

Here, take 200, come to me next month and then we'll talk about the rest"... We hired Davidovich to work. He asked for money up front and went to get some lime. Two hours later I saw him coming down the alley carrying two cans of white lime. Every 50 meters he would stop to rest a little , rubbing his hands together to reduce the pain, and after a few minutes he continued walking towards our house. At his last stop near our house, he started talking to our neighbor, Mrs. Weil. He pointed in the direction of our house to hear their conversation, but it seemed that they agreed on something...

The Seyed arrived at our house and began his work. At first he whitewashed the ceiling, while walking on top of the ladder, on which he liked to work. He would move the ladder from place to place by moving his legs while standing at the top of the ladder. It was really scary to look at him - it looked like he was going to fall. To the weight of his body that the ladder carried was also added the weight of the full lime can whose volume was about 20 liters as well as the tin of minium paint that was intended for the "silver stripe".

The ladder was made of wood, particularly dilapidated, I think from the time of the Turks. Davidovitch praised the ladder and said: "Don't worry, it's an excellent ladder! It's old, but better than the new ones, because it's made of beech wood. Today, the ladders are made of aluminum and they're worth nothing!" There are cracks in your ladder", I said. "Don't worry, I won't fall again", he replied and laughed... The work lasted for many days due to unexpected delays. The Seyed was late for work and after one hour of work he said he had to go to a funeral. In another case he claimed he had to leave urgently On his way he exchanged a few words with the neighbor Mrs. Weil and disappeared from the horizon.

One day we discovered his true deeds. It turns out that on his way to us he would talk to different neighbors and receive job offers from them. In this way he managed plastering works in our neighborhood in several apartments at the same time. The matter was discovered when I saw him enter our neighbor's house with a bin full of lime in his hands. I followed him and discovered that he whitewashed there as well. Davidovitch was a little surprised to see me and said: "Hello, I know you, I was at your house too, right?" It was impossible to be angry with him. He had a goofy grin and his calf eyes darted from side to side. "Good," said Davidovich, "tomorrow morning I will come to your house to complete the work." I told him: "You can't work yourself in so many jobs. Why don't you hire an apprentice?" Davidovich replied: "That's a good idea. I know an Arab guy who is interested in working for me. I'll talk to him."

The next day Davidovitch appeared with the guy, who was short and chubby. The guy, a resident of a village near Karmiel, introduced himself as Farouk and said he was an expert painter. Davidovitch told us in Yiddish: "Er Larent Zich Bei Meer". (He is my apprentice). But that was not the case. Farouk was a talented painter and precise in his work, diligent and serious. At the end of each working day they would shout and argue about the payment. The ritual was repeated. Farouk would ask: "Davidovich, where is my money"? Hela would answer: "Why are you coming to me at the end of the work day, in the evening? Tomorrow morning we will talk about the money."

The next morning Farouk would again ask for his money and Davidovich would put him off until the evening, and God forbid he would return. Farouk used to complain to me when he said: "I don't understand Davidovich. We have an agreement that we are partners, but he does not share the profits with me."

After a while, Davidovitch would come up to me and say in Yiddish: "Er meint ez er ez mein partner" (he thinks he is my partner, but this is not true). I was impressed by Farouk's diligence and behavior. From time to time he would talk to me candidly. I understood that he was from a good family. He and his father are devout Muslims, and have values ​​of decency and kindness. One day Farouk saw me near my house with my friend Nina, who came to visit me wearing a dress fluttering in the wind and her mouth full of seductive smiles... Nina hugged me lightly before leaving. Farouk, who noticed Nina's coquettishness, said to me: "Who is she? This girl, your daughter-in-law? Are you marrying her?", I replied, "Why not?", "She's just a friend. We spend time together, go to the cinema and have a good life"... Farouk was serious and said: "What are you doing? Why are you wasting time on girls like this? You are already over twenty years old. When will you be serious? You should get married and start a family and not play." I was amazed by his words. All in all he was a guy my age, maybe a little younger than me. Over time we became friends.

Since Farouk walked a lot in our neighborhood in the estate, he saw me talking to one of the neighbors who was a judge in Haifa. The judge asked how my mother was doing, whom he knew and would speak to her in Yiddish. Farouk approached me and asked "Have you talked to the judge? Are you his friend?", I answered no, the judge is our neighbor and he, like us, immigrated to Israel from Poland. We know almost all the tenants in the neighborhood... His work with Davidovich was a kind of Catholic wedding, which lasted weeks and months. One day Farouk came to work happy and kind. He said: "Bless me with the blessing of Mazel Tov. I got engaged and in a month I'm getting married. I'll invite you to the wedding." Who's the happy one? I asked. Farouk began to praise the bride. "First of all, she's a girl as tall as the door," he said and laughed.

The fact that he has a tall bride and he is short made him happy for some reason. He added: "There is a small problem. She is only 16 years old, 10 years younger than me. She told me that it would be better for her to die than to marry me." I noticed that this fact did not particularly bother him. He pointed out that among them the parents decide who will marry whom and when, so she will probably marry him because she has no other choice, and in time, after she has children, she will get used to it. I asked Davidovich if he was preparing to attend the wedding. He answered: I was still in Hungary afraid of the Gentiles,
Besides, I know how to get into Farouk's Arab village, but I don't know how to get out of it." "Who will prevent you from leaving the village?" I asked worriedly. Davidovich said: "They think I owe them money. What will I do if they demand me? I am staying in Haifa," and added: "You must not believe them, they are our enemies." I reassured him by saying: "The Arabs are hospitable, and will show us great respect when we come." It seemed to me that Davidovich was convinced and decided to go with me to the wedding in the village.

In the morning we set out on our journey in the good old "Morris-Oxford" car, on the bumpy roads of the Galilee. We passed by the construction sites of the city of Karmiel, which is being built, after that we climbed a sharp ascent towards the north, and entered the village where Farouk lived. We immediately felt a feature in the village. We were greeted by a friendly guy named Walid, who introduced himself as Farouk's younger brother. "Where is your brother?" I asked him. To this he replied: "Farook is preparing for the big celebration. In the meantime, get to know our father." Near their house stood a group of people dressed in traditional Arab clothes. Valid approached a chubby and short man, and introduced us as the guests from Haifa. He smiled at us under his mustache and greeted us: "Hello and Sahlan, Farouk told me a lot about you, you are good people, and also good clients. Come and be honored! My name is Abdullah." He shook our hands warmly.

Valid led us to a small hall, where refreshments were laid out on small tables, including oriental sweets and soft drinks. We walked around there and felt a bit strange, being the only Jews in the Arab village. Davidovitch was nervous and whispered to me: "Amir Gein will be shocked." (Let's get out of here) He was not used to Arab company at all. In contrast, I felt like a fish in water, since on the occasion of my work, I traveled a lot to Arab villages, mainly in the Wadi Ara area.

Suddenly, I thought I heard a girl crying. I left the room where we were staying and walked near the family house. Through the open door of a large room, I saw the bride, dressed in a white dress, sitting on a throne, and surrounded by a number of women. The bride wept loudly, and tears flowed down her cheeks. The women next to her wiped her tears and spoke softly to her. One of the women even sang her songs.

Walid, who noticed me peeking into the room, said to me with a smile: "She is crying with excitement. You know, all brides cry on their wedding day"... I wasn't at all sure that these tears stemmed from excitement... Meanwhile, the large crowd of guests began to leave towards the main street of the village . Behind me I heard shouts coming from some distance away. I left the crowd and suddenly I saw a boy about 12 years old running towards the groom's house, with a knife in his hand. The boy shouted: "I'm going to kill the groom"! One of the young men who were there tried to stop him, but the boy pointed the knife at that young man. The young man moved away a little and took in his hand a board with a large, rusty nail protruding from the end, and threatened the boy. The 12-year-old continued to scream, and the young man tried to push him away.

Adults, youth and children gathered around the hawks. The mob began to encourage them to continue brawling. The young man holding the board laughed, and so did the crowd. In contrast, the boy continued his shouts while crying loudly. For a moment I didn't understand this absurd spectacle - a boy with a knife versus a guy with a nailed board, in front of the audience roaring with laughter and encouraging the continuation of the fight. Walid who approached the place, noticed me, then emerged behind the boy and held him tightly. After that, he took the knife out of him and said to him: "Ruch man hoon"! (walked away). The boy walked away crying, and the crowd returned to the main street. Walid told me with a smile: "It's nothing, what happened here. This boy is the bride's brother, and loves her very much. He knows she doesn't want to get married, so he decided to kill the groom... but he's small and stupid."

From fortune to fortune the wedding began. Villagers gathered in the main alley as they await the main event. From a distance, a caravan approached, at the head of which was the groom, who was riding a white mare. He was dressed in a "farangi" suit with a shiny white shirt, and was smiling everywhere. He was followed by an old Jeep Willys in which "bards" sat, who sang songs in praise of the groom. It turns out that at Arab events it is common to bring gifted poets, who invent verses of glory on the spot and recite them in a monotonous, albeit very interesting, rhythm. The convoy passed by us. Davidovitch trembled with fear and said to me: "Did you see how they almost killed the boy and how the boy almost killed the groom? We are the only Jews here. Soon, out of joy, they will kill us and no one will even find us. I know it. I was in Europe during the Holocaust , and it seems to me as dangerous as in the villages of the drunken Ukrainians... when they got drunk, the Jews had to run away. Let's run away, before it's too late." I said: "Davidovich, Muslims do not drink alcohol."

From the bride's house is heard the voice of women singing happily, while in the background is heard the crying of the unhappy bride. Davidovich was pale. It got late, and we decided to return to Haifa. We didn't want to drive in the dark on the winding roads of the Galilee. After the wedding, Farouk's behavior changed for the better. He would occasionally appear in the Carmel Center offering new business initiatives. He did not work much with Davidovich, although he did not cut ties with him. One day he appeared, holding in his hands a large sign made of white tin, with his advertisement on it: "Expert paint, accepts all kinds of lime and oil paint work, and repairs zadakim." To put it mildly, it can be noted that the letters on the sign were not particularly beautiful.

"How did I write?" Farouk asked. "Okay," I replied, but you should write "cracks" and not zadakim!" He sat down to correct the ad, and wrote "zadakim"... He told me: "You know, my wife is already pregnant. I need to earn more now. Please find me clients." Indeed, since then, his fate has improved for him. He got more work, and became an important renovation contractor in the Galilee region. One day I met him together with his tall wife near the hospital. He was very happy to meet me, and when I asked why he was visiting a hospital he replied: "I came to do tests for my wife. Can't you see she's pregnant?" "I'm happy for you that you'll soon be a father! Congratulations!" I said.

"What do you think, this is already my third!" His wife smiled a smile full of happiness and said: "Thank God!" I remembered her angry little brother... Before we parted Farouk asked: "What about Davidovich, is he still working? Tell him that I have a lot of work in Haifa, and if he wants, I can offer him to work for me."

After several months, I was passing by Herzl Street, the main street of the Hadar HaCarmel neighborhood in Haifa, and I saw a man who looked similar to Farouk. I wasn't sure, as from a distance his head looked very red, as if he had been sunbathing for 12 hours in the hot sun. As he got closer to me, I was convinced that it was Farouk, but he was behaving strangely. He walked without seeing what was before him. I stood in front of him and asked him: "Farook, what about you?" His sealed face did not respond. I wondered - how, is it possible that he does not recognize me? "Farooq, what about you," I asked. "Don't you say hello to a friend?" His look was sad and he said: "My friend, my friend, I have no life now!"

"What happened to you? Tell me! Come and let's go into a cafe and tell me." At that moment I was afraid that she had fallen seriously ill. He didn't move from his place and said: "Do you remember my father Abdullah? A perfect and honest man, really righteous, loving people and respected in the village and its surroundings. What happened to your father?" I asked worriedly. "Listen, I will tell you everything in detail. My father was walking in the village on the main road, and on the roof of one of the houses he saw two people shouting and threatening to kill each other. It turns out that there was a conflict between them based on a blood feud, which lasted in our village for over 200 years. Many people gathered around, looking at the roof of the one-story house.

My father saw what was happening and shouted to them from below: "Stop the fight, in the name of God! We don't want another murder in the village! Wasn't what happened in the past enough for us?" The hawks did not hear his voice. My father climbed on the roof, spoke to the people and stood among them. Suddenly, one of them, named Ahmed, called out to my father: "I've waited 20 years for this moment!" He pulled out a knife and stabbed it in my father's heart. My father died immediately. A riot began in the village, and the police barely managed to rescue the murderer from the hands of the crowd. These days the trial of the murderer is actually taking place in Haifa. I go to court every time and watch it. I hear the killer's lies, and only one thought sleeps in my head - I must kill him no matter what!

Now, or the moment I have the opportunity to do so. I have no life and I'm not interested in anything other than that - neither work nor family. I will be patient as long as it takes, but I must kill him. Then I will turn myself in to the police, confess to the murder, get a life sentence, and only when I sit in prison will I have peace of mind. Quiet, that's what I want in life. And so I will end my life in prison!" "Farooq," I cried, as if waking him from a dream. "Think about your children, your wife and the members of your family. They need you. They lost your father, and now they will lose you... Let the legal system take its course. Your father's murderer will surely be sentenced to life imprisonment and spend the rest of his life in prison!"

Farouk replied: "You don't understand, in addition he is also a liar, and he has a manipulator lawyer. He does not admit to the murder at all, even though many people saw it with their own eyes. There are clans in the village. Didn't you read about it in the newspaper?" I replied: "Yes, I read, but I did not relate it to your family. I am sorry for the loss of such a righteous person and so dear to your heart. Farouk, think logically. Do not act hastily. Try to relax and go back to living with your family!" Farouk didn't answer, and we said goodbye. Because of that day, I started following the case in the press, and I did read that Abdullah's killer did not confess to murder and claimed that Abdullah attacked him, and that he killed in self-defense. The trial ended in a plea deal. The murderer received three years in prison, and was released after two years for good behavior.

Of course that was not the end of the affair. Upon the killer's release from prison and when he returned to the village, Walid, Farouk's brother, ambushed him. who attacked his father's murderer and stabbed him no less than ten times in all parts of his body. Walid abandoned his bleeding victim, sprawled on the ground, and was sure he was dead. Then he went to the police station and turned himself in, saying: "I just killed my father's murderer!" The police are not ready to accept such confessions without seeing the body. When the officers arrived at the scene, they found that the victim was still breathing, but barely. An intensive care unit picked him up and rushed to the "Rambam" hospital. The doctors did the unbelievable and saved his life. He was hospitalized for many months, and when he was released from the hospital, he became severely disabled and severely disabled. Walid's trial lasted a long time, and fortunately for him He was only accused of murder. Farouk again watched his brother's trial. He realized that his brother would be in prison for many years. One day Farouk called me and said: "I have to see you right away! I have no one to talk to! Only you remain my friend! "I went out to meet him. We sat in the memorial garden in front of the district court in Haifa.

"Well, Farouk, how are you?" I asked him out of politeness. Farooq replied: "You must have heard about everything." I answered: "Everything was written in the newspaper." He asked: "Help me, you are the only one who can. You live in Haifa and know people. Maybe you should contact the press, ask your neighbor judge and ask him to help us and not to punish Walid my brother. You know he is not guilty at all..." Farouk was desperate, and really begged. I answered him: "Farook, I cannot and must not ask for such a thing. I hope the judges will act with mercy towards your family members." When I said goodbye to him and continued on my way to the streets of Upper Hadar, I met Davidovitch, and he, with his rolling eyes and his stupid smile, said to me: "You know, from time to time I see Farouk in Haifa. He probably comes here because he's looking for a job, and wants to be my partner... "

In the end - Walid was sentenced to six years in prison.

PS Based on a true story with slight changes in names and places.