Israel (13 page)

Haim still brooded. Perhaps Dizengoff was not a rival, but who knew when someone else might catch Rosie's eye?

He was stuck here in Jerusalem and she was in Jaffa. What if some single fellow like Dizengoff came along? Against any penniless young halutz Haim was confident he could compete, but against a prosperous older man? In Russia the wealthy could take their pick of young women. Rosie could very easily talk herself into such a match. Of course she would end up miserable, not to mention himself. This new worry only made the time pass more slowly.

A week before the stonecutting was to end, Yol came to Haim with exciting news. The Jewish National Fund had been buying up land in Galilee. It came cheap, sold to the fund by Arabs who thought the Jews insane for planning to farm in a desert in the summer, a muddy mosquito-infested swamp during the winter.

“A bunch of us are going to Kinnereth,” Yol began. “We'll be working under a fund supervisor, which isn't perfect, but it is better than laboring for some bourgeois plantation owner of a Jew who thinks Palestine is only fit for growing cabbages by Arabs.”

Haim nodded, happy for his friend and more than a little envious. “When do you leave?”

Yol shrugged and looked down at his shoes. “Day
after tomorrow, old friend. I guess the stone will get along without me, yes?”

“We'll manage,” Haim smiled. “You take care of yourself, now. There are Arab marauders—”

“I know. A couple of Hashomer will be assigned to our settlement, but all of us will have to take turns patrolling. Isn't that wonderful? At last I shall be trained with a gun and a horse.”

“Just stay away from the girls,” Haim laughed, “or else they'll send you back to the quarries.”

“About that you needn't worry. Only one woman is coming along to manage the house, and I hear she is quite fat. Not my type at all, you know . . .” Yol suddenly grabbed hold of Haim's shoulders. “Do you want to come?”

Haim shook his head. “You know why.”

That night they got drunk on wine made at Rishon le Zion, ignoring the disapproving looks of the Jews they passed as they staggered down the streets. The next morning they awoke with a sick feeling that had nothing to do with drinking. Yol did not go to work at the quarry that day. He had too much to do to prepare for his journey. Haim chiseled stone without his friend beside him and had a foretaste of how much he was going to miss the little monkey.

When he returned home that evening, he found Yol sitting on his packed suitcase in their room. “It turns out I'll be leaving tonight.”

“Good riddance.” Haim pretended to scowl. In a way it was a blessing in disguise; he had not been looking forward to this last awkward night.

“I told Mrs. Gertz not to throw you out,” Yol joked.

“That's good of you, considering that it's me who always remembers the rent's due.”

“I never held that against you. Anyway, money will be unnecessary in the settlements of the future. No one will possess anything, so no one will be lacking.”

“That's quite an Eden you're planning to build. Just don't die of swamp fever before it's finished.”

“Do you doubt?”

“I envy you, Yol,” Haim said. “Go and build. I would join you if I were not in love.”

“Hmmm, love.” Yol looked unhappy. “Aren't we friends?”

“The best.”

“Then it is out of friendship that I presume to tell you so much about yourself. I wonder whether friendship isn't a pleasure with you but a necessity, a drug to maintain your sense of well-being, like the hashish maintains the Arabs in the bazaar.”

“I don't understand.”

“People like you need to be surrounded by admirers, Haim. Can you stand to be alone?”

“I came to Palestine by myself, didn't I?”

“And within the first couple of days found for yourself a lady love and a replacement for Abe.”

“Are you saying you believe that I am not really your friend?”

Yol shook his head. “No. I don't question the sincerity of your feelings. I do wonder how much having been an orphan has to do with them. I wonder how your inability to remember your family affects you.”

Haim took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, trying to control his fury. “Yol, I know you mean well,” he said thickly, “and I will always be your friend, but I think you had better go.”

Yol nodded. He picked up his suitcase and started for the door. “I will write to you in care of Erich Glaser,” he called over his shoulder. He stopped to turn and gaze at Haim from the doorway. “Think things over carefully. Your dream has just begun. Once you marry Rosie, you will have to share that dream.”

Haim listened to Yol's footsteps as he descended the
creaking staircase. At first they were loud, but too soon they faded.

He looked around the room at the peeling plaster and warped floorboards. The four walls were screaming at him in deafening silence. He tried to sleep, but Yol's words—his accusations—came back to him every time he closed his eyes. Finally he gave up and went up to the flat roof of the inn.

On the hottest nights he and Yol dragged their straw mattresses up here to sleep beneath the moon and stars. The night sky never failed to please him during those times. The cool breezes wafted the flowery scent of incense through the darkness, lulling him into drowsiness.

Tonight the Jerusalem evening was devoid of sweet smells, and the pearly moon and cold, glittering stars brought no solace. Haim restlessly prowled the roof. The spires and domes of Jerusalem lay spread before him, stark shapes and purple shadows. In the distance lay Mount Scopus. Haim remembered Yol and himself walking those hills and sleeping beneath the olive trees, and he felt his heart begin to ache with the pain of separation and loneliness.

If he had to share his dream with Rosie, so be it. And what did he care why he loved her as long as that love was real? Yol was knowledgeable, perhaps too much so for his own good. Haim had to get through this one awful night of loss, and then tomorrow he would think not about losing Yol, but of winning Rosie.

Haim arrived just after daybreak and wandered about, unwilling to call on the Glasers at such an hour.

The first indication that the ambience in Jaffa had changed was out on the bay. It was a windless day and the water was a flat blue mirror flecked with gold. Three steamships packed with immigrants were anchored together like herd animals. The small rowboats usually manned by Arab boys were beached upon the yellow sand; the youths themselves were nowhere to be seen. An older halutz—one Haim had never seen—was arguing with a Turkish officer. The Jew was wildly gesticulating, pointing to the steamers with a wad of money clutched in his hand. The officer stood with his arms crossed, shaking his head in refusal.

The second sign came after Haim bought breakfast in an Arab inn. The place was clean and it had tables and chairs instead of mats on the floor. Many windows afforded a view of the water. Finding the food to his liking, and the Turkish coffee thick and strong, Haim decided it would be a good place to stay. After all, he could not expect to move in with the Glasers while he was courting a daughter of the house.

He asked for the proprietor and was directed to an Arab seated at a small table in the corner. The man had a massive head with a thick shock of fleecy black hair. His right eye was badly swollen and wept constantly.

Haim asked for a room and was startled at how impolite the innkeeper's refusal was. The Arab made no apology nor even deigned to look at Haim.

“There are no rooms available here or anywhere in Jaffa for more Hebrews.” As the innkeeper spoke he dabbed at his wet eye with a handkerchief. “Why don't you go to the Dar al-Yahud?”

“The Hebrew Inn is not suitable,” Haim replied. He was careful to show no emotion and to keep his voice even. “That you do not welcome me is clear. Surely you know of a place that would welcome a paying guest?”

The Arab was not interested in that particular conversation. “Is it right that the workers answer to Jews in their own country?” he demanded, pressing his sodden handkerchief against his teary eye. “If I gave you a room you might complain. Jaffa is plagued with guests who insult our hospitality by complaining and turning us poor fellahin from the old ways handed down to us.”

Haim had no more patience. “God be with you,” he said before he returned to his table to finish his meal.

The innkeeper watched him in silence. “God go with you,” he cried, sounding ashamed, when Haim rose to leave.

The glowering Turk on the beach who refused baksheesh and the innkeeper who was not interested in a paying guest puzzled Haim, but he began to understand their displeasure as he explored the town. During his infrequent overnight visits he'd had eyes only for Rosie. Now he was really looking.

When he first arrived in Palestine, Jaffa was a sleepy little place. Now the narrow, dusty lanes were clogged with shrill Jewish peddlers, hawking ribbons and pins right
in front of the Arab stalls. Haim stared at these newcomers with their long beards, black coats and fur hats, at their sullen wives and screeching children. When he landed it was with a sense of wonder and an earnest desire to become part of this new land. How strange seemed these Jews from his own part of the world. It amazed him to realize that he felt more comfortable with the Turks and Arabs than amongst these upstarts.

He walked the Jewish neighborhoods. A year ago both the older communities and the newer had rooms and houses going begging. Now the twisting alleys were alive with homeless immigrants. The close, still air felt like wet wool on the skin and the flies and the reek of the garbage-strewn gutters assaulted the senses. Signs in Yiddish, Russian, Polish—every language but Hebrew—advertised beds for rent at impossible prices.

Haim hurried on to the Glasers' home. By this hour the inn and its grounds were teeming with activity. Haim made his way to the more sedate family quarters. A slender, elderly manservant named Kamel answered the door: he had been with the Glasers for years, so Haim was known to him. After a polite welcome he told Haim that neither Mr. Glaser nor Rosie was available but Mrs. Glaser was in the rear flower gardens.

Cultivating flowers was the only domestic routine Miriam Glaser had not delegated to her staff. She lavished as much care on her roses, violets and gladioli as she had on her many children. Just now, it was the gladioli to which she was turning her attention. Great lush spikes of salmon pink, scarlet, light green and violet-blue flowers lay in her wicker basket.

“Haim, how nice to see you,” she cried, embracing him. “Are you here just overnight?”

“Actually, no. The work in Jerusalem is finished, Mrs. Glaser. I have come back to look for a place to live—”

“Please!” Mrs. Glaser stabbed the air with her pruning shears. “The Jewish quarter is intolerable and the Arabs will not have you these days.” She frowned. “Things are awkward in the Arab district just now. You will stay with us.”

“But you have so little room as it is,” Haim protested. As much as he would like to remain under the same roof as Rosie, he didn't want to wear out his welcome. “Your sons may not want to share with me.”

“My two eldest are not even here. Josh and Solomon are visiting family friends in Petah Tikvah. They've gotten it into their heads to be citrus growers, so they've gone to learn the art. You can have their room to yourself.”

“I don't wish to be a burden.”

Mrs. Glaser laughed. “You'd be doing us a favor. We miss the boys. Erich will look forward to talking with you.” She winked. “Between us, the painting is not going so well just now. He's been an ogre. Your arrival is sure to distract him from his work.”

“And Rosie? Do you think she'll be glad to see me?”

“That is something you must discover for yourself,” Mrs. Glaser smiled, her brown eyes sparkling. As she turned back to her glads Haim began to get an idea of where Rosie had come by her tricks.

“Where is she now?” he asked.

“You know the Sha'arei Torah, the school in Neveh Shalom? In the back there are offices. That's where you'll find Rosie.”

“What is she doing there?”

“That I'll let her tell you,” Mrs. Glaser murmured. Haim knew it would be a wasted effort to try and get more out of such a sly woman. He thanked her for her invitation and said he would be back later in the day.

“Kamel,” Mrs. Glaser called. When the servant appeared she said, “Kamel, see to Haim's bag. He'll be staying in Josh and Sol's room.

“Dinner will be at seven o'clock,” Mrs. Glaser reminded Haim, “same time as always, but tonight there's an important guest coming—besides you, of course.” she giggled. “Kamel, after you show Haim out, I'll want you to cut some tea roses for the centerpiece.”

Haim waited until he and the servant were out of earshot before he stopped Kamel. “Tell me, please. What is happening in town?”

The old Arab looked uneasy. “You will say nothing to the master and mistress?”

“I swear.”

Kamel nodded. His dusky skin crinkled like parchment as he offered Haim a wry smile. “Young fellow, I will tell a story in which neither of us figures, and in that way avoid all impoliteness. Say an unfortunate Hebrew pilgrim was drowning in the sea after being cast off of his ship by a cruel Christian master. ‘Help! Help' the Jew calls out, on the verge of sliding beneath the waves. A kind Arab sailing by, a good Moslem, pulls him from the ocean. Before the Hebrew is dry he claims to be captain of the Arab's ship. Not only does he insist on the right to give orders to his savior, he even insists that he knows the correct course in which to steer this ship that he has commandeered.”

“What if there are two Arabs on this ship, a sailor and the owner of the vessel? What if the owner sells the ship? Must not the sailor take orders from the new owner?”