Day After Night (31 page)

“‘Toward morning, large police forces surrounded Kibbutz Beit Oren and Kibbutz Yagur.
When the news reached Haifa many workers and youth left work and school and rushed
to assist the besieged farms. Thousands of people returned to Haifa from the Carmel.’”

“Thousands?” someone shouted. “There were maybe six hundred people here. You can’t
believe anything you read in the newspapers.”

“‘A crowd of four thousand people gathered on He’-Halutz Street. Speeches were made
emphasizing that the workers of Eretz Yisrael and the Settlement are ready for a long
battle with any decree against immigration.

“‘All of the factions expressed sorrow at the losses suffered by the police. The British
officer Gordon Hill was killed. Twenty-two years old from Avedon, with a master’s
degree in law from Aberdeen University, he attended an officers’ course before joining
the police force of the British Mandate.’”

“Gordon?” Tedi whispered to Shayndel. “Was he the young sergeant from Atlit who worked
in the commandant’s office? The blonde boy who spoke Hebrew?”

“I don’t know.”

After the kibbutzniks headed off to work, Leonie moved closer to the others and whispered,
“They made her death sound like an accident.”

“So be it,” said Tedi. “No name was given, did you notice? It has already been forgotten.”

Zorah shrugged. “I don’t know what you are talking about.” Seligman approached their
table, rifling through the papers on his clipboard. “Eskenazi, Shayndel?” he asked.

Shayndel raised her hand.

“Do you know someone named Besser?”

“I knew a Shmuley Besser,” she said, remembering how he used to hold the camera as
though it were made of glass. “But he is dead.”

“This is from a Yeheskiel Besser,” he said and handed her an envelope.

She took the letter, which had been opened and carelessly refolded. “It’s from Shmuley’s
uncle,” she said. “He writes that I am to join him at Kibbutz Alonim. Is that far
from here?”

“Not far,” Seligman said. “Close to Haifa. I have many friends there. They will be
sending someone for you tomorrow.”

“What do you know about my friends here?” Shayndel asked.

“Names?”

“Dubinski,” Leonie said.

“Dubinski, Leonie. You are going to Kibbutz Dalia.”

“That is also near Haifa, isn’t it?”

“How did you know that?” Tedi asked, impressed.

“I think that is where Aliza’s uncle Ofer lives. I wonder if she had anything to do
with this. Is that possible, Monsieur Seligman? I worked in the infirmary with Mrs.
Gilad. Nurse Aliza Gilad?”

“I have no idea how these assignments were made.”

“What about me?” said Tedi. “Pastore.”

“You are going to Kibbutz Negba. That’s in the south,” he said. “And you should go
and pack your things. They’re coming for you this afternoon. You may have to stop
overnight somewhere; Tel Aviv if you’re lucky.”

“Negba,” Tedi repeated, trying to get used to the sound of her new home.

“Do you have any letters for Weitz?” said Zorah, trying to sound as though it didn’t
matter.

“You are Weitz, Zorah? No letter.” He consulted his list again. “But you are going
to Kibbutz Ma’barot. I hope you speak Romanian.”

“Why?”

“They’re all Romanians down there,” he said, and made a circle with his finger beside
his ear. “A little crazy, you know?”

“What about Esther Zalinsky? She’s my cousin. Also her little boy, Jacob. The name
is Zalinsky.”

He ran his finger down a list. “Kibbutz Elon.”

“Where is that?” Zorah said.

“That’s up in the north. Mostly Poles, so your cousin will be fine. You can tell her,”
he said. “Pastore leaves today but the rest of you have until tomorrow. Enjoy Beit
Oren while you can. Good morning.”

Zorah turned to Shayndel. “This is a disaster,” Zorah said. “Esther is a terrible
liar and the minute she opens her mouth they’ll know she’s a peasant. If she winds
up among a bunch of doctrinaire Poles, they’ll throw her out. You have to do something.
You have to get it changed so I go to the same place.”

“I can’t do anything about this,” Shayndel said.

“Don’t be stupid,” Zorah said. “Tell them who you are, what you did in the war. They’ll
all shit in their pants and do whatever you ask.”

“I don’t think so,” Shayndel objected. “The whole idea of the kibbutz is that everyone
is treated the same.”

“That is not the way the world works,” Zorah said. “Not even in a kibbutz, my Zionist
friend. And listen to me, Shayndel, I will not permit those two to suffer anymore.
You can fix
this, I know it. And I am not going to leave you alone until you say you will.”

“You might as well do what she says,” Leonie said. “She won’t let go. You know perfectly
well that our Zorah is like a tick.”

Shayndel pulled away from Zorah’s grasp. “All right, I’ll try,” she relented, and
chased after Seligman.

Zorah trailed behind and watched as Shayndel caught up with him. Seligman turned around
with the bemused, tolerant smile of an adult responding to someone else’s annoying
child. After Shayndel made her request, he put the clipboard under his arm and actually
lifted his finger to deliver a lecture about procedure or fairness or some other principle.
But she interrupted, saying something that made him stand up straight and look her
in the eye.

He lowered his chin and asked a question.

As Shayndel answered, her eyes narrowed and her jaw tightened, and in that moment
the immigrant girl turned into a battle-tested commander. At one point, she reached
up to her shoulder as though she were searching for something. She leaned close and
pointed at the clipboard.

Seligman bit his lip as he flipped through the papers, pretending to look for something,
taking a long time to prove that he was the one who wielded the power. Then he made
an offer, screwing up his face like he was biting into a slice of lemon.

Shayndel nodded her thanks primly and walked away with the hint of a swagger in her
step.

“So where are we going?” Zorah asked.

“Nowhere yet,” Shayndel said. “You’ll all be staying here until they come up with
a place that will take the three of you. It may take a few more days. But you have
to understand
that this may be temporary. You could be split up again at any time.”

“I just want to get them settled,” Zorah said, and raised an eyebrow. “And wherever
we go, I will let it be known that we have a friend in very high places.”

“You are relentless,” said Shayndel. “Go tell Esther and Jacob.”

Zorah took Shayndel’s hand. “Thank you, my friend.”

Tedi had nothing to pack, so she wandered around the kibbutz, inhaling the comforting
aroma of baking potatoes, the happy stink of the goats, the dry-kindling smell of
fallen pine needles. A few kibbutzniks asked where she was going, but none of them
had been to Negba. They wished her good luck and safe journey and invited her back
for a longer visit.

By midmorning, she was sitting on a bench near the front gate, where Esther and Jacob
found her. Tedi hugged the boy so tightly that he pushed away and said, “You are strong,”
and ran back toward the children’s house. Esther kissed her on the forehead and scurried
after him.

A little while later, Leonie, Zorah, and Shayndel sat down with Tedi, but nobody felt
much like talking.

After a while, Leonie said, “Too bad that Nissim fellow isn’t going to the same place
as you.”

“I heard they took all the Iraqis straight to Yagur,” said Shayndel. “By now, they’re
probably scattered around the country, where no one can find them.” The others nodded.

They ate a quiet lunch and returned to the bench, moving closer together as the afternoon
wore on. Esther and Jacob
came by again, but Jacob could not sit still and Esther promised to return. Shayndel
took Tedi’s hand. Leonie put her head on Tedi’s shoulder.

Tedi was grateful for the silence, sure she would break into pieces if anyone asked
her a question.

At three o’clock, another woman from Atlit joined them on the bench. She was carrying
a one-year-old baby and a basket full of pink and white clothes, gifts from the kibbutz
nursery. “I hear it’s hot in Negba,” said the young mother. “But it’s close to the
seashore. That will be nice, don’t you think?”

It was nearly five when the jeep pulled up to the gate. The moment she saw it, Tedi
jumped to her feet. “Does anyone have a camera?” she demanded. “I want a picture of
us together—Shayndel, Leonie, Zorah, and me.”

The woman with the baby got into the jeep, but Tedi refused to budge. “I cannot go
without a photograph,” she said, her voice suddenly high and shrill. “Surely someone
has a camera.”

Seligman walked over. “You lot again? What’s the problem now?”

“All I want in the world is a photograph,” said Tedi. She showed him the small paper
bag that held all of her worldly possessions, but it was her brimming blue eyes that
undid him.

He offered her his handkerchief and said, “There’s an old Brownie in the office.”

The driver honked his horn. Leonie went over to ask him for a little patience, and
Seligman returned with the boxy black camera.

“Get ready,” he called as he ran toward them.

The girls stood in line as he peered through the lens. “Everyone smile. One-two-three.
That’s it. Good. Good luck. Goodbye. ”

Tedi hugged him. “Promise you’ll send it to me: Tedi Pastore, Kibbutz Negba. Write
it down.”

He chucked her under the chin. “How could I forget anyone as pretty as you?”

“No, no,” she insisted. “You must write it down. I will not go if you don’t.” She
grabbed his pen and clipboard and scribbled her name and the kibbutz on a piece of
paper, and stuffed it into his shirt pocket.

Her friends surrounded her. The four of them held each other, weeping and whispering
salty oaths.

“See you again,” said Zorah. “This is not good-bye.”

The driver leaned on the horn and gunned the ignition.

Tedi sobbed as she ran through the gate. She kneeled on the seat as the jeep pulled
away and shouted, “Write to me! Shayndel, Leonie, Zorah! Remember: Kibbutz Negba.
Tell Esther good-bye. Give Jacob a kiss. We will see one another again.”

Seligman forgot to empty his shirt pocket that night and Tedi’s address went into
the laundry, where the ink washed away and the paper melted to lint.

It was a full year before the roll of film was developed and returned to the kibbutz.
The pictures were laid out on a table in the dining hall, but no one recognized the
four young women standing by the gate. Seligman had left Beit Oren and even if he
had been there, he would have been hard-pressed to remember the name of the girl who
had begged him to take the picture, much less where she had been sent.

The other pictures in that batch were group shots of one sort or another. There were
weddings and holiday meals, parties and dances. The snapshots were all meant to go
into a kibbutz archive, but they had a habit of disappearing. Wedding photos were
taken almost immediately, purloined by brides for family
albums. The photos of birthday parties vanished over time, claimed, far too often,
by young widows who had no other pictures to show their fatherless sons and daughters.

Because no one could identify Tedi or her friends, their picture was consigned to
an envelope with blurred images of crowded Seder tables and out-of-focus horas. Over
the years, the leftover photos were moved into a cardboard folder, which yellowed
as it was transferred from desk drawer to filing cabinet.

From time to time, one of the more enterprising Beit Oren children would discover
the cache of old pictures and use them for projects about early kibbutz life, until
finally there was barely anything left from the 1940s.

In 1987, the Beit Oren kibbutz went bankrupt, ceased being a collective, and reorganized
as a spa and mountain hotel for tourists. Some of the old-timers stayed on as part-owners,
but only a handful of them remembered what it had been like in the days before statehood.

For now, the Kibbutz Beit Oren archive—a few letters and some first-person accounts,
as well as a handful of orphaned pictures—resides in a battered gunmetal gray cabinet
inside a tiny, damp, cinder-block building within sight of the swimming pool.

The visitor from America walked through the chill of an overcast March morning, up
the winding pathway surrounded by enormous hosta plants, sheltered by graceful pines.
She had taken a tour of Atlit, now an education center at the site of the old internment
camp—a museum surrounded by a barbwire fence. The story of the heroic rescue and the
perilous climb up the mountains had moved her to learn more.

Leafing through a fly-specked folder in the one-room hut,
she picked up a photograph of four young women. “Could these girls have been among
the ones who were rescued?”

“I couldn’t tell you,” said Gershon, Beit Oren’s unofficial historian, an unbowed,
still-handsome elderly man whose recent illness had not dimmed his smile or the light
in his blue eyes.

“I was not here at that particular time,” he said. “I was back in Romania, helping
to bring more of our people to Israel. It is possible that these girls could have
been among the group from Atlit, but there are only a few of us left from those days,
and I’m sorry to say that I’ve got the best memory of the bunch.” He smiled. “Perhaps
someone at the museum can tell you. They have computers there, you know.”

Gershon cleaned his glasses and took another look at the picture.

Shayndel and Leonie stand at the center, hip to hip, arms around each other’s shoulders.
Their heads are tilted, almost touching. They are the same height and wear similar
white, short-sleeved blouses; even their smiles seem to match, except for the fact
that Leonie’s eyes are open so wide, she seems haunted.

Leonie hated having her picture taken. Her husband—a doctor she met in ’46—would beg
and tease to get her to smile for the camera, but she would always turn away. After
ten childless years, they divorced, and Leonie never remarried. For forty years, she
worked as a clerk in a Tel Aviv hospital; when the staff was assembled for its annual
portrait, Leonie hid in the last row.