In The Envelope of Memory

By Ilana Haley

There is a river of metaphor running in the unconscious mind of each of us that holds all the insight into our life's meaning we will ever need. This collection of slightly fictionalized vignettes, these clippings stored in the envelope of Ilana Haley's memory, is this river flowing within Ilana. And it i

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookTrail Publishing
• Release date: Nov 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781637674239

Book preview

IlanaHaley_In_the_Envelope_Front_Cover.jpg

Copyright © 2021 by Ilana Haley

Paperback: 978-1-63767-422-2

eBook: 978-1-63767-423-9

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021917536

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law..

Ordering Information:

BookTrail Agency

8838 Sleepy Hollow Rd.

Kansas City, MO 64114

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Dedication

Introduction

Separation

Kingdom of the Imagination

(Friends)

(Delusion of the mind)

Hospital

(Muse)

(Letters)

Face lift

Thoughts and desert

Forget fullness

Bury Me, Gabriela

All the stories in this book our based on real events but all characters are the fruit of the writers imagination.

This book is dedicated to all my friends and family specially to my best friend Ora Segalis and my wonderful publishing consultant Ken Moore for the encouragement.

And to all my readers, I hope with all my heart that you enjoy reading this book.

Introduction

The terrain of the area known as Palestine is a rough one, the soil does not readily succumb to the machinations of humans. During and after the widespread killing of Jews in Europe in World War II, many of those that survived embarked on a quest to Palestine to build a Jewish state. Quite naturally, the Arab residents of the area were not receptive to the idea and there has been a continuous state of war between Israel and the surrounding Arab populations. Life has been hard for these people, many bear physical scars and all have emotional and psychological wounds that run even deeper. If you read this book by a child of Israeli pioneers with that in mind, then the dark tone of her stories and poems will make sense. They reflect a sense of hope embedded deeply in a wrapper of fatalistic reality and pessimism. You get the impression that it is largely autobiographical as the discussions about the death of her father have a very personal tonAs Politicians Posture, Woman Remembers Human Cost of War. How Survivor of Israel, Palestine Wars honours memories of those who fought before. As world leaders posture over peace in the Middle East, trading barbs and sound bites through the media, at least one former resident of Israel remembers the human toll of the conflict. The progression of Ilana Haley’s life from soldier to dancer to the designer to the teacher is no more unlikely than the simple fact that she survived her youth to live through it all. Ilana Haley uses her memories of living on a Kibbutz in Israel to tell stories of love and war in her book The Rocky Hill Her recollections span the earliest Kibbutz pioneers who built the nation of Israel, where she served in the army and later returned to earn a Master’s degree in Hebrew Literature. Along the way, she was also a dancer in Tel Aviv with the Israeli Ballet and even came to the U.S. to study with a grant from the Martha Graham School of Dance, and later found further inspiration as a fashion designer with a degree from the Chicago Art Institute. My stories and poems focus on how people lived in Israel during the wars fought over the building of the State of Israel, she said. Many of us lost fathers and brothers and found ourselves not only fighting for a homeland but also fighting to live as we simultaneously grieved for our loved ones. One of my stories focuses on a girl who can’t move past the memories of her father, who died in the war. She shares her grief through forbidden trips through the woods outside the walls of the kibbutz to meet a boy -- a soldier -- who can’t move past the memories of his friends who died in the war beside him. They lay in the meadow together, each ensconced in their thoughts, memories, and ghosts. Individually, they can’t move past it, but together, they find comfort in at least moving toward each other. Ilana Haley’s stories focus not as much on the outer conflict of the war as they do on the inner conflict of those who are forced to live with the dubious spoils of that war. But not every story is tragic, and not every poem is sad. Her message is simple, that through the pain and the struggle, the yearning for love and joy doesn’t go away. People who live amid war do not put their lives and their loves on hold because they live in a world in which others want to destroy what they are building, she added. "Does the fact that a mortar shell might level their home one day erase their need for love and family? Does the political reality of the Middle East conflict mean that everyone who lives in the region is so single-minded of purpose in that clash that they no longer want or feel joy? They are human beings, and their needs are the same as anyone else’s. They are simply forced to Review Ilana’s poetry.

- Review by Charles Eichenberg

This review is from: Stories & Poems (Paperback-Hardback)

Separation

I decided to return back to America earlier than I had planned. I spent a whole month with my parents and friends here in Israel, where I was born. The visit was painful; I felt the walls of my youth crumbling, beholding the fact that most of my friends are ill or dead, my parents feeble, and disappointed. The fantastic dreams of my childhood were gone, or perhaps never existed. So, on this particular visit, I spent most of my time in Tel-Aviv, with you, my soul friend, Ora. I was delighted traveling with you throughout the sun-blasted country. I will finish this part with love words:

Crazy sun; lemon trees consumed; burning paths on their way; you pull me, I am pulled to the centre of light in you. In the vortex of consciousness, you are a glowing gallop. In the abyss of my youth, you are an orchid of the sun.

Singing songs of our youth and laughing crazily for no reason but our silly jokes. Other times, we sat on the roof of your house in Tel-Aviv. You would paint, and I would write. I did miss Teddy, my husband, on this last visit. I longed for his long arms to embrace my body, so gently, utterly comforting. My Teddy, infusing me again with laughter and life. I miss his love, every time I travelled back to visit my parents. Why America? Why indeed.

My parents were with me at the airport. I wished they were not. Mother’s face was sad and angry. Why, Lani? Why? What is there in America that you are looking for? Here you are, a famous ballerina, everyone knows you. There? What is there for you? Teddy? Do you miss Teddy? He isn’t even one of us. It was hard for me to accept you married out of your faith." I didn’t answer, though I felt like smashing her face; how dare she say words like these to me? I could feel my heart pulsating in my throat. And my father stood there, white-faced, smoking cigarette after cigarette. He didn’t say a word; silence enveloped him like a shroud and clouds of foul smoke. My anxiety mounted.

Suddenly across the street, I noticed a friend of mine walking towards the same flight. The fear diminished, my breathing eased a little. Separating from my parents, again and again. I wished to hug and kiss my father whom I loved so much, but he stood there like a statue, not uttering a sound. I turned around and ran towards the terminal. I almost missed my flight. I found my friend, and we sat together.

On the airplane, the anxiety came back: cruel, demanding, sucking my breath. My friend held my hand, as she kept moving her gentle, white fingers over my forehead, insisting, Calm down, Lani. For a moment, I felt better, passing like a dream through a mist of dull pain. After a while, I laid down between the seats on the floor of the plane. It was hard, cold and harrowing. I returned to my seat, my heart booming like the jet engines. My friend urged, as she gently massaged my temples with her rose-scented fingers, whispering, Calm down, and for a while, I sank deep within myself.

Teddy was not home when I arrived. I was utterly fatigued from my flight returning to Chicago that all I could do was to drop everything and collapse on the bed fully clothed. I didn’t even hear Teddy when he came home, although I did imagine that I felt as if a butterfly wing touched my cheek. I awoke. I looked at my watch. The time was only three-twenty in the morning. I wondered, what does one do at three-twenty in the morning? I went to the living room and instantly was enveloped by your paintings on my walls, surrounding me with your aura. The clown looks at me with curious eyes. What’s wrong? he asks. I do not know what to say. With tortured eyes, suddenly he seems old, and tired. A girl is gazing into the distance – her eyes full of blue longing; a dove hovers above her airy fingers. Three women, one faceless, are looking at me in surprise – Well? I don’t know, I answered, turning away in shame. Faceless laughs placidly, You know, she whispers. The two lovers, still longingly entwined; an invisible hand offers flowers to a beautiful woman; she looks at them with a hard, slightly cold eye. Only the mask remains unmoved.

At this point, the fantasy ended. I looked at my watch once again, only four in the morning. What is there to do at four o’clock in the morning? I look through the window. I cannot see the sunset and my Teddy is still fast asleep; each white hair of his beard vibrates in my heart. If I could, I would wrap him in a halo and grant him eternal life. (That would be a curse!) I am conveying to you, my friend, all the chatter my brain contains. You are my soul mate, the woman I love most, because it is my destiny and I cannot change things set in another time. In our previous lives, when we didn’t yet know we’d have one soul in two separate bodies. Not the soul of identical twins, but of two strange and different worlds that meet and part yet remain intertwined, even if harmony is not what it was.

Kingdom of the Imagination

It was morning in Chicago. Soon, Teddy would get up, acknowledge me, and would say as usual, My one and only love. But I am not here yet; I am still at my mother’s home. In my imagination, I see my mother all alone waking up from a night of torment, with an aching heart and a brittle soul. I am not there to smile at her, or soothe her here yet known distant lands, softly drives away the weariness in his head that has turned grey, like a dusty Eucalyptus tree after a heat wave. I think about him, my brother, I speak to him in my head:

‘Do not allow pain to crush you; yours is set up, acknowledge me and say, as usual, My only love. However, I am not here yet; I am still at my mother’s home. In my mind’s eye, I see my mother all alone, waking up from a night of torment with an aching heart, and a brittle soul. I am not there to smile at her or soothe her. Her image in my mind changes suddenly, I see her lips pursed with the injuries of time, and I remember her greedily eating the hard-boiled eggs and cheese she prepared with her hands full of love and sorrow —hands covered with brown spots painted by a merciless, malignant sun and relentless, shaming age. Time drains away, says Mother, as her lips tighten even more. I did not even visit my father’s grave; the ‘Rocky Hill’ exists only in my stories, so rest quietly, father, rest in peace, soon I’ll join you. Teddy will get up, acknowledge me and say, as usual, My one and only love. However, I am not here yet; I am still at my mother’s home. In my mind’s eye, I see my mother all alone, waking up from a night of torment, with an aching heart, and a brittle soul. I am not there to smile at her, or soothe her. Her image in my mind changes suddenly, I see her lips pursed with the injuries of time, and I remember greedily eating the hardboiled eggs and cheese she prepared with her hands full of love and sorrow — hands covered with brown spots painted by malignant sun and, shaming age. Time drains, says Mother, as her lips tighten even more; every line in her face is as deep as a grave. I did not visit my father’s grave’ and the ‘Rocky Hill’ exists only in my stories, so rest quietly my father, rest in peace. There is nothing left. Only the anemones bloom, as a perennial breeze plays on the top of the cypress trees. The scent of lilacs caresses the senses and birds fill the universe with their song as if nothing has changed since creation. And in the Kibbutz? How are things in the Kibbutz? In the Kibbutz, doors are closed like tight mouths, as scarcity of pioneers creep by. Their heads bent, eyes half closed, seeking, asking, Where did creation go? What happened to happiness? Where did the colours go? Where are the children? The silence of Genesis floats around them, embraces, penetrates, and the flesh crawls.

Out of the silence a voice:

Yes; things are changing.

I hear my brother, his voice like a hollow echo, saying what he always used to say when he saw me, My beautiful sister. He too awakes, knowing I am not there to caress his forehead with my hand, a hand that has magical soul, a pure soul –you do not always understand. Who does? Life changes, drained of light. Children disappoint and parents die. There is a deep, scorching sorrow in one’s heart; sometimes sorrow wins, sometimes joy, don’t let pain crush your soul; fight to the end!

The thought of my brother caused a shot of pain to fill my entire body. So, I sat on the toilet, buried my face in my hands and sobbed without tears. I remained motionless for a few minutes, then got up and went into my room.

It is quiet in my room. Teddy is still asleep. I am thinking again of my mother, remembering her sitting on a chair. I moved across the room, touched the soft skin of her arm and put my face down into her lap. She patted me on the head, a quick, nervous pat, not quite an embrace. A cold woman, I remember thinking, a confused race; ambitious and cold, with nothing to give her children, but cold gifts… I remember thinking, later in my life: ‘If I return home, I will be like this, an old red-haired woman without feelings, with nothing to give, but make mischief -dance and disappear.’ Wild girl, she used to call me; When will you stop all this nonsense and be like the other children? Look at your father, sitting there, smoking and reading, never have a good word to say. I remember him looking at her and saying in Yiddish, (they all spoke Yiddish and were sure we didn’t understand, and although we never used that language, we did.) In a soft controlled voice, father said, Leave her alone, Stella. Don’t you see? She wants your love. Give her some. Calm down now, try to understand her. Yes, she is different, but so are you. Who else here works outside in the city and only returns on weekends to be with her family? I tell you; she misses you, and she longs for you. Is that how mothers are? You aren’t in Vienna now. I remember her saying to him, "What do you know about children, David? What do you know about my needs? I was certain that when I came to this country, it would all be wonderful, but it was not. Living this communal life is not my style; everyone gossips about each other constantly. I loved you and married you,