Israel (23 page)

Abe was noncommittal. “Maybe you're right.”

“You'll never get anywhere being polite,” Stefano warned him, then shrugged.

“Let me tell you what happened.” He beamed at Abe. “First I told all the guys right here what you did for the union. I bet you got about fifty dollars in that tin can.”

Abe smiled. “I'm grateful for what they done for me.”

“You ain't heard it all yet,” Stefano laughed. “I went around to all the other locals, telling your story to the rest of the membership. Now, come the next elections, everybody will know who Stefano de Fazio is, and everybody will know that he takes care of his friends.” He reached into his pants pocket and came out with a fat bankroll.
“Union membership all over the city gave to replace what you lost, my friend.”

Abe stared at the money. He'd never seen so much. Stefano thrust it at him. Abe tentatively reached out for it and then withdrew his trembling fingers, shaking his head, once again wondering if it wasn't some kind of mistake.

“Go on, take it,” Stefano chuckled.

“That is my two hundred?” Abe whispered.

“Hell, no,” Stefano grinned. “I got here exactly three hundred and eight dollars for you, my friend.” He thrust the roll of currency into Abe's hands.

“They gave you this for me?” Abe squeezed the money as if to prove to himself it was real.

Stefano nodded. “Even the big shots uptown. Even Miss Grissome threw in fifty cents of her own money when she heard the whole story.”

Abe heard himself giggle, felt himself begin to weep. He was dimly aware of the other workers forming a semicircle.

“I got some bad news for you, though,” Stefano said loudly. “I'm advising the manufacturer's foreman that you should be fired, and I ain't calling no strike on your behalf.”

Abe heard the surrounding workers' laughter. It came in two waves as those who understood English translated the joke to fellow-countrymen who had yet to learn English.

“You're through at Allen Street as of today, Abe,” Stefano continued. “My advice to you is to forget about all this and open up a business of your own.”

Men all around Abe congratulated him and patted him on the back.

“I'll walk you home myself,” Stefano announced. “We got to see to it that your fortune stays safe.”

Abe said his farewells to all the friends he'd never known he had. Then Stefano, true to his word, saw him safely home like a shepherd tending his flock.

It took Haim Kolesnikoff three days in a horse-drawn cart to reach the Arab village of Um Jumi, just east of the Jordan River and close to the Sea of Galilee. His transport ran supplies between the towns and settlements; consequently it followed a meandering route. Haim wondered if he was ever going to arrive at Um Jumi and whether the handful who were already there would think badly of him for being tardy.

He was looking forward to good, honest, physical work, and though he was saddened not to be present for the birth, he was firmly convinced that he was doing the right thing.

Haim felt reborn. Let the capitalists back in Tel Aviv think what they might; his money and power had been chains on his soul. Now that his wealth was out of his hands, he felt unfettered. Stripping himself of his material assets had returned his youth and strength to him. He still had his wife and soon would have a child, but his days of sitting behind a desk were over. He was going to be a pioneer again.

Haim grinned to himself as the squeaky cart rolled northward. Yol, old friend, he reflected, it looks as if you were wrong. It appears that I've managed to win beautiful Rosie without having to compromise my dream.

Slowly the terrain began to change. The evergreen oaks gave way to leathery, gnarled carob trees and then to low scrub and thorny bushes. It became colder as they approached Galilee and it rained a lot more.

Five miles from Um Jumi they found that the Jordan had overflowed its banks. There was only swamp and blood-crimson mudbeds as far as the eye could see. The mud sucked at the cart's wheels like something hungry. Haim had to push from behind as the brace of horses, heads lowered and hooves kicking and slipping, strained to pull the cart. Haim gave it all he had. Several times the horses abruptly found firmer footing. The cart would lurch forward several yards, leaving Haim stretched full length on his face in six inches of mud. Soon he was crusted over with it.

It took the cart nine hours to cover the last five miles. When they finally rolled into Um Jumi beneath a pelting, icy rain that soaked Haim to his skin, the new pioneer wanted nothing more than a long sleep in a warm, dry bed.

The cart made its way through muddy garbage-strewn streets lined with low clay huts and tattered tents. Dark Arab eyes stared out at Haim as he rode past. Now and then a mangy dog would dart between the plodding horses' legs or a scrawny chicken would flap its wings, clucking in outrage. From some hovel came the sound of a child crying. From all the huts and tents greasy smoke curled up into the rainy sky.

This is worse than how the lowliest serfs lived back in Russia, Haim thought. These poor fellahin—we must do something for them as soon as we can.

When the cart reached what the driver mumbled was the Jewish portion of the village, things seemed little better.
There was no garbage, but the streets were just as muddy and the clay huts just as wretched. A rickety wooden building stood on the very outskirts of the Jewish encampment. Haim glimpsed Yol leaning against the rain-shiny planking, totally unprotected from the weather. Water was dripping from the end of his nose to join the rivulets streaming down his beard.

Silly little monkey, Haim thought fondly. He may be in charge, but he doesn't know enough to build a roofed porch. I'll get on it first thing.

Yol detached himself from the building and walked over to meet the cart. He was dressed in his simple work clothes, red Arab slippers and his kaffiyeh. His revolver was nowhere in sight.

Because of the rain, Haim told himself. Why ruin the gun by getting it rusty? Besides, those poor souls I passed seemed peaceful enough.

The cart came to a stop. As Haim rummaged around to collect his belongings, he wondered why the rest of his comrades had not turned out to greet him. During the last leg of his journey it had been in his mind that the others would gather around him like a family welcoming a long lost member; this was to be the ultimate homecoming. At last he would be with people of his spirit if not his blood. At last he would be with kin.

“Shalom,” Yol said, not smiling at all. “Grab your stuff and follow me. There is work waiting for you.”

They went directly from the cart to a large, mildewed, leaky canvas tent. There for the rest of the day he oiled and sharpened rusty scythe blades. He was so tired he couldn't see straight, and several times he cut his grimy fingers. Cold, wet and miserable, Haim wondered where all the others were and cursed himself for thinking of coming to this hellhole.

He thought that first day at Um Jumi would never end, but at last Yol came to fetch him for dinner. The
large wooden building turned out to be the communal dining hall. Haim timidly took his place upon a long bench and sat quiet and withdrawn. Water dripped down his neck and onto his plate from the leaky roof. The others talked around him. There was lamb stew, flat bread and dried fruits soaked in hot water. The dried fruits had come in on Haim's cart and were garnering far more attention than he.

When the meal was over Yol called a meeting to order. Haim saw that his normally easy-going friend was not enjoying his position of leadership. Yol looked supremely uncomfortable guiding the discussions, recognizing speakers and calling some of them out of order.

Haim was asked to stand up and was introduced to the group. A scattering of scowling faces glanced at him and turned away.

All right, Haim told himself, don't worry. You know how meetings are. Remember Dizengoff's endless assemblies to discuss a name for Tel Aviv.

He sat quietly, biding his time to speak out and make a good impression. Yol suggested that Haim make his bed in the dining hall until the rains were over and a hut could be built for him. Haim offered to have Rosie bring along a tent to save everybody the work. He expected gratitude, but the others only shook their heads knowingly. Yol merely shrugged and said it was time to discuss new business.

Haim impatiently listened as the others discussed pesticides, kitchen duties and work details out in the fields. During a lull in the conversation he raised his hand.

Yol hesitated but finally recognized him. “What, Haim?”

“1 had an idea coming in this afternoon,” he said loudly. “The dining hall has no porch. I know a little about building. Why don't I put one on? It'll keep us dry in the rainy season and give us shade in the summer.”

“And where should the lumber for your personal project come from?”

Haim turned. The speaker had long black hair and a beard with no mustache. His name was Isaac; Haim had used all his concentration to memorize names as he heard them.

“There are no trees here,” Isaac said with amused contempt. “If there were, we would cherish them, not cut them down to make a porch.”

“This spring we will begin planting seedlings to reclaim the swamps,” Yol added kindly. “Haim, perhaps you should get the hang of the way things are around here before offering comments.”

Half an hour later the meeting ended and the halutzim filed out to their beds. Only Haim and Yol were left.

“They hate me,” Haim blurted.

“What did you expect?”

“But why?” Haim shook his head in bewilderment. “What have I done to them? Why should they treat me so coldly?”

“My friend, listen to me. All of us have slaved for years to earn this opportunity. To us this misery is a privilege. Do you understand? This is an experiment, my friend, one that the National Fund is watching very closely. The fate of other proposed settlements rests on our shoulders.”

“This is the great experiment,” Haim scowled, nodding. “I know that. Arthur told me about it.”

“Arthur!” Yol exclaimed. “You call him Arthur. To us he is Dr. Ruppin. These people you ask to accept you as an equal have never laid eyes on Ruppin, and yet you call the great man by his first name.”

“Is it my fault I worked for him back in Jaffa?”

“It is not a question of fault, Haim, but merely that you are the newcomer and you must fit in.” Yol smiled
sadly. “We offer to build you a hut and you say, ‘Don't bother, I'll buy one.'”

“One little mistake,” Haim muttered.

“I'll build you a porch,” Yol mimicked, chuckling. “My friend, I was waiting for you to suggest that the lumber be delivered from Tel Aviv.”

Haim blushed. “What, then, little monkey? Help me. This is so important to me—their approval too.”

Yol came over to Haim and put his hand on his old friend's shoulder. “If you want to be accepted, try to see their side of things. Right now the men are suspicious of your success in Tel Aviv and jealous of your blue eyes and curly blond hair. ‘Here is a handsome bigshot among us,' they grumble. ‘Will our wives think less of us compared to Haim Kolesnikoff?'”

“Absurd,” Haim scoffed. “The women glared at me worse than the men.”

“Absolutely,” Yol nodded. “The women are thinking, ‘Here's the one who married Rosie Glaser, the rich girl.' Don't forget, the Glaser family is famous in Palestine. ‘Where is this rich girl?' the women are asking each other. ‘Is she too good for us or is she waiting to come when the weather is more to her liking?'”

“You know why she isn't here,” Haim said reproachfully.

“Yes, I do,” Yol agreed. “The other married couples have vowed not to have children until a permanent settlement is built. Also a couple just last week announced that they were expecting a child but that woman will work until delivery is imminent, and only then go to the clinic at Tiberias.”

“So!” Haim snapped. “It was necessary for me to risk the lives of my wife and unborn child to prove I have the right spirit—is that what you are saying?”

“No, my friend. What I am saying is that everything takes time. Eventually you as well as Rosie and the baby
will be accepted. For now I can only give you this advice: I know that your heart is in the right place, but you have been wealthy for a long time. Maybe you've given up that wealth, but you still think and act like a rich man.”

Haim looked rueful. “How'd you get to be so wise, monkey man?”

“Leadership, responsibility, maturity—terrible things like that.” Yol made a face. “Hurry up and become a leader here the way you have everywhere else. Then I can go back to doing what I do best: getting drunk, shirking and making jokes.”

Haim seemed not to hear him. “I thought it was going to be like one big family,” he moped.

“It is exactly like that!” Yol laughed sardonically. “Your problem is that you know nothing of family life. You imagine it to be love and kisses all the time, but it is rivalry, jealousy, intense hatred until a crisis threatens, and then everyone pulls together.”

“If that's what it takes, then I pray that a crisis comes soon,” Haim said forcefully.

“Don't worry,” Yol chuckled. “That's like praying for the sun to rise. Which it's going to, and not so many hours from now. I'm going to bed, and so should you. Tomorrow is going to be a long day.”

Left alone, Haim found that he was far too agitated to sleep. He decided to write to Rosie. The letter would go out on the returning supply cart and would likely take a month to reach Tel Aviv, but sporadic communication was better than none at all.

“My most precious love,” Haim began his missive, “everything is wonderful here.”

It was mid-January before Rosie received Haim's first letter from Um Jumi. Late one morning one of the servants brought it up to her bedroom. Rosie was still in bed. Her
time was drawing near and it was doctor's orders that she stay off her feet as much as possible.