Israel (11 page)

Haim frowned. “Why did you come to Palestine?”

Yol immediately was serious. “Now Haim, I make a joke or two, but when all is said and done, I am still a Jew, yes? Back in Lublin I got mixed up with the Friends of Zion, and through that group I joined the Zionist Workers. I helped forge passports for those who wished to emigrate. The Turks, as you've no doubt learned, don't look too closely at the papers as long as they get their baksheesh.” When Haim nodded, Yol continued. “At first my clandestine work for the party was enough. I felt bold over it. It was the spice in my life”—he pointed at the remains of Haim's breakfast—“like the
za'atar
. A little goes a long way, yes?”

Haim agreed. “Then what happened? I mean, you're here.”

Yol shrugged. “One morning I woke up and knew it was time for me to come.”

“Your mother and father stayed behind?”

“Yes. They had many reasons. The goyim who came to buy challah were our friends, my parents claimed. Things were going to get better, they swore. The Turks would never let the Jews stay in Palestine.” Yol frowned.
“Words, that's all. The reality was that my parents were too old to live anywhere but in Poland and I was too young to live anywhere but here.” He brightened. “So. You must tell me what has brought you to Jerusalem.”

“To cut stone,” Haim said. “I heard there was such work available.”

“Absolutely. Men are needed. I've come to do the same work, and you've reminded me that we are already late. The day starts at sunrise at the quarry.”

“Shouldn't I find myself a room before beginning work? I don't have much money, so the search may take a while.”

“All the more reason to stay with me. I have a room with board lined up, and it's big enough for two. I've stayed there before. It's a nice enough place, clean, at least.”

Haim was hesitant. Solitude was still an enjoyable novelty to him. “Maybe I'll find something on my own. I don't intend to be in Jerusalem for very long.”

“You needn't worry about having to pay my way,” Yol promised. “The Zionist Workers' Party is paying me a subsidy, and in a fortnight we'll receive our first stonecutter's wages.”

“Well—”

“Suit yourself, my friend, but two sharing expenses can live a lot cheaper in Jerusalem.”

Haim found himself laughing. “You remind me of someone when you talk like that.”

“Really?” Yol asked, charmed. “Who? Tell me.”

“Come on,” Haim smiled. He shouldered the smaller man's heavy suitcase. “Take me to the quarries. We can't be tardy on our first day there.”

They walked north past the green gates of the Mosque of Omar and the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, where Jesus was said to have been crucified back when this site was called Golgotha. They walked through a labyrinth of
twisting stone alleys where Haim found himself dizzied by the quick interplay of gloomy perpetual shadow and dazzling sunlight. In just moments he was hopelessly lost, but Yol, chattering all the while, seemed to know just where he was.

“Mark Twain has written that Jerusalem is so small that you can walk all around its walls in less than an hour. That is true, but inside the walls you can walk up and down and underneath and around. It takes awhile to get used to this ant's nest.”

Haim was only half listening. They were passing through a marketplace and his attention was captured by the exotic Arabs selling strange purple and red fruits. Feminine black eyes above black veils seemed to follow him as he walked. The smoke from countless charcoal braziers collected under the worn stone spandrels of connecting archways, making it hard for Haim to breathe.

“Have you read Mark Twain?” Yol asked.

“I heard he met with the czar years ago. Who is he?”

“An American writer, very popular, a great man.”

“You know English?” Haim was impressed.

“Absolutely.” Yol looked to be a very proud little monkey. “I know everything.”

He led Haim out of the Old City through the Damascus Gate and on towards Mea She'arim, the site of the most recently begun Jewish quarter.

Another Jerusalem was being built around the cramped confines of the old. The Jews, whose numbers had increased until overcrowding was intolerable and the landlords completely out of hand, were venturing from the security of the walls to establish new settlements just north and west of the Old City. At the same time the churches began putting up hotels and monasteries to accommodate growing numbers of Christian pilgrims.

Haim and Yol introduced themselves to the Yemenite foreman in charge of the stonework at Mea She'arim.
When he asked them what experience they had, Haim turned shy, but Yol cheerfully announced, “None at all.”

The foreman sighed, indicated the expert Arab masons and instructed his newcomers to “Do as they do.” Laboring alongside the Arabs were the children of Jews who had come to the Holy City during the last decades. These families lived like beggars, dependent on handouts from the Zionist committee in charge of distributing money donated from abroad.

Just how this money should be divided was a thorny question. For instance the Jews who had come from the pale insisted that all Russian donations should go to them. The dispute splintered the Jewish community into ghettos within the greater ghetto, each comprising those from a certain town or country and laying claim to the money that came from their place of origin.

The children of these feuding Jews were thoroughly demoralized. It was the hope of the various philanthropic agencies that hard work done on the behalf of all Jews would renew the spirit of these young people.

Haim, excited at the prospect of earning his first money in Palestine, stripped off his tunic and set to work. The Arabs all around him nudged each other and laughed.

An hour later the novelty of chipping stone had quite worn off. Haim's fingers were bleeding and his shoulders and face were stiff and sore with sunburn. By the end of the day his hands were too raw with blisters even to hold the hammer and chisel. All thought of finding a room of his own had vanished. When Yol renewed his invitation to share his quarters, Haim fought back the urge to kiss him.

The inn was in the Jewish quarter near the Western Wall. Yol led Haim beneath archways that were blessedly cool after the searing heat of the quarry and then down dark slippery steps until at last they came to a rotting wood facade that jutted out of a mossy limestone cavern.

Haim said he was too tired for supper, but both Yol and Mrs. Gertz, the gaunt, grey-haired landlady, insisted that he eat. He waited, almost falling asleep at the table, until a plate of fried eggs and bread was put before him. One taste of food and Haim realized he was ravenous. He ate half a dozen eggs, and finally pushed away from the table to follow Yol up the sagging, creaking staircase to their room.

The top-floor chamber had a vaulted ceiling with peeling plaster and one small window facing the wall across the narrow courtyard. Haim collapsed onto one of the thin straw-stuffed mattresses lying on the warped floorboards and tears of exhaustion seeped from his eyes.

“Here now, you'll get used to it,” Yol said soothingly. As tired as Haim, he was sprawled half off the mattress and did not have the strength to right himself. The white limestone dust powdering his curly beard and hair made him seem to have aged fifty years.

“Haim? You wouldn't have maybe a bottle of schnapps in your pocket?”

“No.” He smiled. “Again you remind me of Abe. He always liked to take a drink before going to sleep.”

“Who?”

Between yawns Haim told Yol about himself. He left out yesterday's incidents in Jaffa. If and when the time came to describe Rosie, Haim wanted to have enough energy to do the job justice.

“So, Mr. Shoemaker,” Yol teased as he stripped off his clothing and tossed it into a pile in the far corner of the room, “how do you like stonecutting?”

“I think I ruined more stone than I cut,” Haim muttered.

“Don't worry, there's plenty more.” Yol sighed. “You know the worst? Not the hard work but the way those Arabs kept laughing at us.”

“How did you get stuck doing this?” Haim asked.

“For the last year I have lived in Zikhron, north of Jaffa on the southern spur of Mount Carmel. They grow grapes and olives there, also a little barley and wheat. The Workers Party asked for volunteers to work the land. The old Jews who own it all depend on Arab labor to do the work. You will find that the different generations of Jews here in Palestine have very different ideas as to how things should be done. Anyway, the party pulled a few strings and off we workers went, led by our manager, a nice enough fellow by the name of Ben-Gurion. In Zikhron I followed a plow,” Yol continued. “It was a job I am even less suited for than stonecutting, I must admit.”

“Then why did you go in the first place?” Haim asked.

Yol chuckled. “To impress the party a little bit, but mostly to get on Ben-Gurion's right side.” Despite his weariness, Yol's voice took on an excited edge. “You see, my friend, Ben-Gurion had just returned from Galilee, where he helped form a watchman's organization called the Hashomer to guard pioneers from Arab attacks.”

“Really? With guns and horses?”

“Absolutely.”

Haim turned on his side to face Yol. “I don't understand why you would have to learn how to plow a field in order to join the Hashomer.”

“We must be self-sufficient in all things if we are to make this country our home. We must know how to farm and build as well as fight.” Yol shrugged. “Anyway, that is the party's belief. The plantation owners of Zikhron Yaakov see it another way. Jewish labor would cut their profits. Arabs will work very cheaply, you see.

“Places like Zikhron and Rishon le Zion are Rothschild colonies, and the great baron has done much for land settlement in Palestine, but the Jews who got here first have grown wealthy thanks to the baron's tzedakah and forgotten what it feels like to be poor. The party asks them
what shall the thousands of newcomers do to make a living if only Arabs are allowed to work in the established colonies?” Yol shook his head in disgust. “The farmers are locked in greed and suspicion of us young Zionists. On one hand they like to think that we are not capable of hard work in a warm climate—”

“They may be right,” Haim groaned, feeling his aching body.

“No they're not,” Yol insisted, “but there is more here than mere prejudice or even greed. The old generation scorns us for not praying every morning, for daring to go with our heads uncovered. They say we are not good Jews and so must not be trusted. When we tried to reason with them they looked down on us like we were fellahin. They called us intellectuals, and when we sang a song or danced the hora in order to relax after a hard day's work, the old Jews locked away their daughters from us.”

“So what happened?” Haim asked. “Why did you leave Zikhron?”

“I was banished. They came for me with pitchforks.”

“Why?”

“Remember those daughters?” Haim wordlessly nodded and Yol's grimy bearded face split into a lascivious, lip-smacking smile. “They didn't lock them up so good after all.”

Haim sank back upon his mattress, chuckling softly as he shook his head. “Some watchman you're going to be!”

“What can I tell you? The girls of Zikhron thought I was something special. It was all very innocent, Haim. I merely danced with the lovely daughters of the bourgeoisie. With them I was not a plowman.”

Haim rolled over onto his stomach and shut his eyes. “Good night, Yol.”

“At first, when the angry fathers began a boycott of us halutzim, it seemed quite funny,” Yol rambled on. “It
was like a holiday, but soon we had nothing to eat. Something had to be done, so Ben-Gurion went to make peace with the old boys. It turned out that peace required me to take my leave of Zikhron. It was arranged for me to have a subsidy to learn stonecutting here in Jerusalem. I got rides down the coast to Jaffa, and from there I took the coach, which brings you up to date on me, my friend.” Yol glanced over at Haim, who seemed to be sound asleep. “At least I got to make an impression on Ben-Gurion. He won't forget my face so fast.”

“That's a certainty,” Haim grunted. “Yol, you are a clown.”

“So?” Yol settled back and closed his eyes. “If we're to be self-sufficient in all things, we'll need our own comedians, yes?”

“Go to sleep,” Haim said smiling in the dark.

The days passed quickly. For Haim the work in the quarry never got easy, but with the aid of leather gloves his hands grew callused and hard and his skin baked bronze beneath the bright sun. None of the Jews ever came close to matching the expertise of the Arab masons, but each man, be he a halutz or a second-generation Jerusalemite, began to take pride in the fact that he was doing his part to build the homeland.

Both men grew hard and lean from moving and cutting stone. After several weeks Haim went to buy new clothes and was shocked to see how his waist had shrunk and his chest and arms had put on meat. Even little Yol looked less like a monkey and more like an ape. The other Jews had taken to calling them David and Goliath.

It wasn't long before they found themselves with the energy to wander the city in the evenings. Haim, playing the role of a true turn-of-the-century Marxist Zionist, belittled the importance of visiting the Western Wall. Yol forced him to go. The little man stood back grinning as
Haim became oblivious to the Arabs who'd built their huts against the remains of Solomon's Temple. Haim began to weep as he ran his fingers across the rough stonework.

“Do you believe, Yol?” Haim asked as they left the temple's remains. “Do you believe what the rabbis say, that God has never left the Wall?”

Yol scratched at his woolly curls. “I know that our hearts have never left, and now we are back again.” He patted Haim's shoulder. “And God is with us, yes?”