Authors: J David Simons
The Land Agent (11 page)
L
ETTER 12
Kfar Ha’Emek, Jordan Valley, Palestine
My dear Charlotte
It was so good to receive a letter from you this morning. I kept it unopened all day until I had some free time and then I walked down to our small cemetery to read it. Yes, we have already lost two dear souls in our little settlement. Before I came, a young man was killed when a paraffin lamp spilled over and set his tent on fire. Only last year, a baby was stillborn. They have a beautiful resting place here overlooking the valley. There is a bench where I can sit and contemplate (and read letters), young eucalyptus trees that will grow to provide shade. In the spring, you can see wild lupins here and anemones. Lavender and sage. Also, some plants I only know the names of now in Hebrew, for we never see them in Scotland.
I so enjoyed hearing about your holiday in Rothesay with Maggie and Big Bessie. I remember when we made the same trip ourselves, just the two of us, going down the Clyde in the paddle steamer from Glasgow. We took the temperance boat, of course. No drunken singing and vomiting on our vessel, or fighting couples on the way back home. We stood on the deck up against the railings, gazing out through the mist in wonder at the giant ships in their docks, as we sailed out passed
Greenock and Dunoon, the sailors unloading the crates and milk churns at the pier as we got off the boat. It was so busy. It must have been the Glasgow holidays. We had to share a room and a double bed with two strangers. I even remember their names, Eileen and Lizzie. One of them snored and the other wore a nightgown with cigarette burns all over it, I can’t remember which one was which. It rained the whole time except for the one day we could walk along the esplanade without our umbrellas. Everyone and their grannies must have been out that day. I don’t know what was worse, the crowds or the rain. We could hardly move or eat our ice creams for want of someone jostling our arms. And then there were these two young lads from Edinburgh having a lark with us, making us laugh at their stupid jokes. Do you remember them? I can’t remember laughing so much in my whole life. I hardly laugh at all now.
I would love a holiday, even if it were two weeks of rain down in Rothesay! We pray for it to rain here. It is strange how our needs are so opposite in these different parts of the world. I was sick for a few days with a very high fever and stomach cramps. I am all right now but I feared it was malaria. The thought of getting that disease terrifies me, never getting rid of it, always suffering the return of its fits and fevers.
Do you remember that young man I told you about? Lev. The one who said he might come to visit. Well, he did come. Along with his brother, who is going to build us a children’s house. They came when I was sick. I wonder what Lev thought of me, this sweaty young woman smelling of vomit and antiseptic? He was kind to me. He held this poor patient’s hand and told me his life story when he thought I wasn’t listening. He has now invited me to visit him in Haifa. I may go. One of the members here has a relative with a house in Haifa so I have a place to stay. As I said, I would love a holiday even if it were only for a day or so. Just to see the sea. To breathe in the salty air. To feel the sand between my toes.
I saw your Arabian prince today. Or I thought I saw him. When I was sitting reading your letter, looking down at the valley, I could see the Bedouin camp. I saw two horsemen riding out with their hounds. The
dogs are called salukis. They are like magnificent greyhounds, not bare and skinny like those we might see running around the streets of Glasgow. They have this long hair on their limbs and faces that flows back when they run. Anyway, I am sure one of these horsemen was your prince. He is such an elegant rider and really does sit perched on his mount like royalty. Of course, I cannot ride well although you would be surprised to learn that I am quite good with a horse and wagon these days. But you, Charlotte, with that fancy upbringing of yours, I remember you grew up with horses. I can imagine you and this handsome Arabian prince riding out together into the desert with your two salukis running alongside. I told you before that his name is Ibrahim. I still don’t know if he has any wives. Perhaps he is waiting for you.
I must finish this letter now if it is to make today’s post truck. I must also go to the kitchen to help prepare the evening meal. I am sure you are also busy with your campaigning. If you keep getting women to sign up their husbands on these temperance pledges, the divorce courts will soon have to shut down.
I apologize for such a brief letter but I promise to write more soon.
All my love, as always
Celia
A
LONG WITH HER COMPLAINTS
, Madame Blum served up a Polish breakfast. Eggs (soft-boiled or scrambled) accompanied by copious amounts of bread as beds for the white cheese, slices of
vursht
, honey and various jams laid out across the table. There was no place for the bitter green olives of the region, the yoghurt cheese dripped with oil, the warm flat bread, the tomatoes and the cucumbers. When Lev first arrived in Haifa, he had appreciated Madame Blum’s steadfast refusal to adopt the local fare, for her meals reminded him of home. But after over five years of Madame Blum’s Eastern European cuisine, he would have preferred the lighter breakfast, the one that sat easier on his stomach during these hot, hot days. Although that still did not prevent him from calling out ‘Scrambled’ to Madame Blum’s question from the kitchen. A response Lev knew would cause Mickey to look up from his copy of the
Ha’aretz
newspaper purchased solely for the English language supplement of the
Herald Tribune
.
‘Scrambled?’ Mickey said. ‘Scrambled? Every morning for, I don’t know how many years, you have said: “soft boiled”. And now you say: “scrambled”?’
A perplexed-looking Madame Blum emerged from the kitchen to confirm the request had indeed come from her Polish rather than her English lodger.
‘Yes, Madame Blum, you are right to be confused,’ Mickey continued. ‘Lev is having scrambled eggs.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’ Lev protested.
‘Nothing, nothing at all,’ Madame Blum muttered in a retreat to the kitchen. ‘A man has a right to choose whatever he wants. Even if it means choosing a worthless young harlot over a wife who gave him years of devotion. Otherwise I would not ask. But I may have to go out for more eggs.’
‘It’s all right,’ Lev called out. ‘Just the one soft-boiled. I was only joking.’
‘
Gott sei dank
,’ was the murmured response from the kitchen.
‘Your trip north has certainly improved your humour,’ Mickey said.
‘It was productive.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘My PICA business went well. And I planted some date trees.’
‘I’m sure PICA and palms weren’t responsible for your present cheerful disposition.’
‘Go back to your newspaper.’
‘News of your romantic endeavours is far more important than an article on Tutankhamun’s inner tombs.’
‘There is nothing to tell.’
‘Are you saying your second visit to this den of collective lust has not produced the desired result?’
‘Kfar Ha’Emek is not a den of collective lust. It’s a proper
kibbutz
.’
‘Aha! Now I see what has happened here. Now I see. Not only has some Jezebel captured your heart. You have been corrupted by the socialist dream. Soon you’ll be marching out to the fields to plant trees with your comrades, a spade over your shoulder, singing the
Internationale
.’
Lev stayed quiet.
Mickey put down his paper, nodded thoughtfully, assumed a more serious expression. ‘Tell me something then, about this proper
kibbutz
of yours. Is it a border settlement?’
‘It’s close to Trans-Jordan.’
‘And are the neighbours friendly?’
‘Not really.’
‘What about security?’
‘Nothing much from what I could see.’
‘Did the members carry out guard duty?’
‘Not in any formal way.’
‘Dogs?’
‘A few strays picked up as pets.’
‘Revolvers? Rifles?’
Lev shook his head.
‘Are you sure? Nothing to defend themselves with? No guns?’
‘No guns.’
‘I don’t want any talk about guns in this house,’ Madame Blum warned, as she entered with a plate of cold meats, which she placed centre-table. Lev noticed the brushing of her ample cleavage against Mickey’s cheek as she did so.
‘Lev has decided to live on a
kibbutz
,’ Mickey said.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Why would he do that?’
‘He has fallen in love with a young woman of the Revolution.’
‘Oh, Lev. Is that true?’
‘Of course it is true,’ said Mickey. ‘Can’t you see from the colour of his cheeks?’
‘Finally, Lev, you have found someone.’
‘Nothing has happened, Madame Blum. I am staying here in Haifa with you. Mickey is only joking.’
‘What’s with all this joking this morning? This is no time for joking.’
‘Why is that?’ Lev asked.
‘You weren’t here yesterday. When the terrible thing happened.’
‘What terrible thing?’
Madame Blum wriggled herself up to her full height, stroked the base of her throat, now flushed with what Lev assumed was her indignation. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘I walked into town early to Koestler’s Bakery. Just as I do every morning and have done for all the many years I have been here. To fetch the bread for breakfast. They do such a fine rye with caraway seeds, the taste always reminds me of home. And just as I was coming out of the shop, this man he spat at me. Just like that. Right at my feet. Isn’t that true, Mickey?’
‘I don’t know, Madame Blum. I wasn’t there.’
‘Whether you were there or not, you could still back me up.’
‘All right, I am sure it happened just as you said.’
Madame Blum scowled back at him. ‘Just as I said.’
‘Are you sure he was spitting at you?’ Lev asked. ‘Perhaps he was just clearing his throat at the very moment you came out of the bakery.’
‘Of course he was spitting at me,’ Madame Blum shrilled. ‘Because he said the word “Jew” after he spat at me. “Jew, Jew, Jew.” As if he were talking to a dog.’
‘What kind of man was he?’
‘A young Arab. Perhaps in his twenties. Spitting at me. A respectable widow. It is a disgrace.’
‘There is a lot more tension here,’ Mickey said. ‘I can feel it myself.’
‘Tension?’ Lev said. ‘In Jerusalem. But surely not here in Haifa?’
‘What do you know, Lev? You keep to yourself. You only work with Jews. But in the coffee houses, the Arabs are talking.’
‘What are they saying?’
‘Too many Jews. That’s what they’re saying. Too many Jews. Poland’s taxing them out of business. And America’s toughened up on immigration. So they’re coming here in their thousands.’
‘I think you’re wrong,’ Lev said. ‘We’re not seeing any more land applications than usual.’
‘These new Jews aren’t interested in farming. They’re not pioneers. They’re not socialists. They’re opportunists. They start off with a soda stand in Tel Aviv. Then a small business. A cobblers, maybe. A café. Or a bakery. And the next minute they’re building hotels and factories. With jobs for their own Jewish workers. Soon they’ll be moving into Haifa too. The Arabs feel it. They feel they’re being hemmed in or pushed out. Fifty thousand Jews arrived here in the last two years. It could be Jaffa all over again.’
Lev remembered the Jaffa riots. They had happened not long after he had arrived in Palestine. Forty-seven Jews killed, a similar amount of Arabs. He couldn’t even recall the actual incident that caused the flareup but the overall reason was the same as what Mickey was talking about now. Arab fears over increased Jewish immigration. The fighting then hadn’t spread from Jaffa as far north as Haifa but the British had sent in a warship just in case. He remembered watching the grey destroyer with its
twin guns fore and aft trained on the harbour. He wasn’t sure if it was there to defend or attack him.
‘That’s the way it goes here,’ Mickey said. ‘More Jews come in, the Arabs riot in protest, the British introduce quotas, the Zionists pressure the government in London and the quotas are lifted. Then it starts all over again. Soon it will be time for the riots again.’
‘I don’t know why these Jews want to come here in the first place,’ Madame Blum exclaimed. ‘Nothing works. The electricity is off and on. The water is off and on. A person could suffocate to death in the heat. I never understood why that adulterer of a husband, may his soul rest in peace, brought me here. To a place where they spit at a widow in the street. Why would a Jew come here?’
On his way to work that morning, Lev thought about what Mickey had said. Were there really tensions here? Were those knives being sharpened on that grinding wheel meant for Jewish hearts? What kind of plot was being conjured up by those old men sitting outside the coffee house? Was that joyful or mocking laughter he heard behind his back? What was inside the basket that woman carried on her head? A revolver for the Arab nationalist movement? He had almost forgotten those old feelings of fear he had been brought up with. The Catholic farmboys chasing him home from the forest, the pig-like snorting that followed his walks through the town, his father’s hushed talk about pogroms in Russia. The few years spent here had been more or less peaceful ones. The deep-water port was being built. There was talk of a pipeline bringing oil from Iraq. A new olive oil and soap factory had opened. Surely there was work for everyone, Jews and Arabs alike?
He went straight to Sammy’s office. Sitting behind his desk, head in hands, his boss seemed wrapped up in a tension of his own.
‘A heavy curtain has come down on my brain,’ Sammy said.
‘You should lie down,’ Lev suggested. ‘Or go home.’
‘Lie down? Go home? That is the opposite of what I should do. This visit from our Anonymous Donor. So many accounts and reports to prepare. So many meetings.’ Sammy rubbed his fingers vigorously into his temples.
‘What do you want to tell me?’
‘That land at Kfar Ha’Emek. The piece that doesn’t exist on any map. You were right. It is
Mewat
.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I checked it myself. It is definitely out of earshot of the nearest settlement. I have a statement signed by myself and corroborated by an independent witness.’
Sammy peered at the document. ‘Who is this witness?’
‘My brother.’
‘Then he is not independent.’
‘The surnames are different. He is still a Gottleib. No-one will know.’
‘And the Bedouin?’
‘I made a deal with them. We will register the title in their names under
Mewat
. Then they will sell us what we need, keep the rest.’
‘How much are we paying?’
Lev told him.
‘A little high for a slice of swampland. But I suppose it is not unreasonable in the circumstances. At least we will have a clear and legal title. Otherwise, we could be fighting in the courts with the British, the French, the Arabs and even Those Bloody Zionists for years to come.’
‘I will make up the necessary documents, take them to Jerusalem.’
‘Before you do that, I will need the office of our Anonymous Donor to sign off on the purchase price.’
‘How long will that take?’
‘As long as it takes to get an appointment.’ Sammy turned his attention back to the accounts on his desk. ‘Now leave me alone with my headaches.’
‘There is something else.’
‘What is it now?’
‘I met Gregory Sverdlov.’
‘You met Sverdlov? Where was this?’
‘At Kfar Ha’Emek.’
‘What was he doing there?’
‘He said he was surveying the region for potential projects. He wouldn’t tell me exactly what.’
‘Of course, he wouldn’t tell you. Sverdlov gives nothing away for free. Yet he wants you to tell him everything. Did you notice his eyes? The way he looks at you?’
‘Yes. Very unsettling.’
‘Some say he hypnotizes people into giving him information. Like some kind of Rasputin. Did you tell him anything?’
‘Nothing. No-one, apart from my brother, knows why I was there.’
‘Good. With Sverdlov sniffing around, we need to act secretly. And quickly.’
‘He says he has an important proposition to make to our Anonymous Donor. Something to the benefit of the whole of Palestine.’
‘He means something to the benefit of Gregory Sverdlov. Go on.’
‘He will make his own approaches to our benefactor. But he wanted you also to know.’
Sammy shrugged. ‘To know what?’
‘That was all.’
‘See. He tells you nothing. Just stirs things up. That’s what Sverdlov does. Stirs and stirs away. Like Rasputin. No wonder I have a headache.
