Israeli writer Amos Oz's charming little story opens in a village entirely without animals. A few older inhabitants, such as Emanuella the teacher or Almon the Fisherman, still remember what dogs, cats, and goats looked and sounded like, but people treat their memories with unconvinced indulgence. Almon, of course, is no longer a fisherman because there are no longer fish to catch; he spends his days talking to his scarecrow, even though there are no birds to scare away. No woodworm, either, to send him to sleep with the sound of their gentle chomping on his furniture. One night, all the animals suddenly disappeared, taken up presumably into the dark forest-clad mountains surrounding the village. The inhabitants lock their doors securely at night, for Old Nehi the Demon is liable to come prowling and snatch children away, as he has already taken the animals.
One child does disappear into the forest: Little Nimi with the gap between his buck teeth and the snot hanging out of his nose, who was never really part of the other groups of children, though eagerly tagging along behind. Little Nimi, who disappears one day only to come back three weeks later, whooping like an owl but insanely happy to be going his own way. Which was all very well, since of course he could not go back to school with his whoopitis, or even to his home. Two other children, Matti and Maya, also stay a little apart from the others, because they share a secret: that once, in the depths of a very narrow pool in the river, they saw a small, silvery, but very live fish. One day, Matti and the even bolder Maya decide to go up into the forest to see for themselves; the second half of the book tells of what they found there.
Delightful though it be, this is surely a minor addition to Oz's work as a deeply engaged novelist and political commentator. He has described it as a fable for all ages. It could appeal to children whose interest in the Pied Piper story goes beyond the rambunctious rounding-up of the rats to be moved by the pathos of the final scene. But unlike most fables, its value is less in its central moral (slightly unfocused, but which appears to be one of acceptance) than in the myriad resonances built up along the way. The brooding sense of fear and repression in the deliberately repetitive opening. The obvious ecological relevance to a dying planet. Its echoes of a people haunted by their past but unable to embrace it. Even the hint of a political parable for a nation living in fear of its neighbors? I feel it is almost insulting to put these things in such stark terms, for Amos Oz is far from simplistic. But the resonances are there, and I look forward to reading some of his other books where he addresses them more directly.
