Newcomers in an Ancient Land

by Paula Wagner

  But now the interruption only served to galvanize a united twin front, one that I hoped even Dad’s best logic couldn’t crack. Downstairs, Mom, Jonathan, and even six-year-old Laura had already gathered. I flopped down on the cushioned seat of a bow window, hoping its vaguely musty velveteen curtains wouldn’t make me sneeze.

  Dad (who didn’t share my allergies) flared his nostrils, then slowly released the air, waiting for our rapt attention before solemnly announcing, “We’ve made a decision.” An awkward silence and another Big Sniff followed.

  “Since you girls apparently won’t reconsider your, uh . . . decision to, uh, get married, uh . . . I’ve come to a decision.” He looked as if he were trying to make the best of a bad situation without directly admitting complete defeat. Glancing at Mom for reassurance, he continued. “I mean, we’ve made a decision, isn’t that right, Jeannie?”

  Despite his lofty principles about equality, when it came to family matters, Dad ruled like a patriarch.

  “Well, yes, we’ve come to a decision,” Mom agreed, her voice more curt than encouraging.

  “Yes, well, we’ve decided that since you girls don’t seem ready to budge, we will come to Israel for ten days to meet these young fellows, uh, your fiancés, before going home to California at the end of my sabbatical at the end of August. Then we’ll sail home from Haifa on the Theodore Herzl—the same horse, I mean . . . ship . . . you rode in on.”

  It was hard not to laugh at Dad’s mixed metaphor, but I let it pass. Given his love of word play, the slip was a good indicator that his mood had lightened.

  But the words he left unsaid were the ones I heard most clearly. Was he really hoping Naomi and I would come to our senses and go back to California with them? We would see about that. Still, his attempt at humor broke the tension. The image of an amphibious horse galloping over land and sea reminded me of a favorite army story Dad had told so often I knew it by heart:

  Sergeant: Lookie here, we’ve got a new

  ambidextrous tank.

  Dad: Sir, don’t you mean amphibious’?

  Sergeant: Oh, no. It’s ambiguous.

  However ambiguous Dad’s expectations might be, this was definitely not the lecture I had anticipated.

  Suddenly we were all talking at once, but Dad had already figured out a plan. Naomi and I would leave for Israel the following week, with the rest of the family arriving in Israel two weeks later.

  But by the scheming look on Naomi’s face, I suspected she was cooking up an even more daring idea.

  “Why don’t you let Jonathan travel with us?” she asked.

  Dad stroked his chin as he pondered this new twist. Having already finished the spring term at the American School in London, Jon was at loose ends for the summer. Sending him with us would give Dad a welcome break from the growing teenage tension that often erupted between them.

  For his part, Jon beamed at the sudden prospect of freedom and adventure. Five years my junior, I hadn’t paid him much attention as we were growing up, but now I welcomed the chance to spend some time together. With almost thirteen years between Laura and me, our age gap was even greater. By the time Laura came into our family, I had been old enough to figure out that she’d been a happy accident, conceived under a full moon on an especially fun camping trip in Santa Cruz—a beloved afterthought, more like an only child—when my mother was already thirty-five. Although I adored my little sister, we would grow up hardly knowing each other.

  At last Dad turned his gaze toward Mom, his liquid brown eyes begging for her approval. Could we be entrusted to handle our unruly brother? Dad’s question struck me as ironic. His doubts about our maturity apparently didn’t extend to our ability to manage Jonathan on a 2,500-mile trip. Were we grown-ups only when it suited him?

  Mom pursed her lips, as if weighing the lesser of evils— whether to let Jonathan go with us, but more importantly, struggling to accept our unexpected independence. I couldn’t help wondering if she was reliving her own youthful decision to marry—a decision that had altered the course of life. At last she nodded with a sigh. If nothing else, in the short term, this new arrangement would save her from the role of referee between Jon and Dad.

  Relieved of Jon, Mom, Dad, and Laura would make a pleasant traveling trio. Not only was Laura an easy child, but she and my parents shared a special bond as youngest in a long line of our family tree, going all the way back to both sets of grandparents, all of whom were also the youngest of their siblings. I vaguely envied their exclusive membership in the Club of Youngests. As a firstborn by only fifteen minutes, my honor was mixed: expected to shoulder more responsibility on one hand but challenged by Naomi on the other.

  “How about a cup of tea?” Mom offered, sealing the new travel plans which had lightened the energy in the room like a fresh breeze, sweeping away my negative thoughts.

  The following week whirred by as Naomi and I feverishly finished our dresses. Various aunts, uncles, and cousins must have appeared and vanished in a blur as we bought tickets, packed bags, and pored over maps. All the while, Jonathan wore a continuously crinkly grin at the prospect of visiting the Acropolis, a dream come true for a boy whose favorite subject was ancient history. Now he would get to see the dusty ruins he knew only from books.

  Chapter 28

  JONATHAN COMES TO ISRAEL

  Even with the added responsibility of shepherding Jonathan back to Israel, I felt giddy with independence as the weight of Dad’s control slipped away. Having already made the one-way trip unscathed, perhaps our parents’ confidence hadn’t been misplaced. Now, traveling in reverse, the journey felt strangely familiar yet also new as we caught a train from London to the south coast, crossed the English Channel by ferry (no Chunnel then), rode the Eurorail through France and northern Italy, and back to Brindisi on the Italian coast to catch a final ferry for Haifa with a stop in Athens.

  Throughout the trip, Jonathan’s eyes twinkled with growing excitement. His only complaint was hunger. With the voracious appetite of a teenager, he was constantly famished. After several days of frugal snacking on the train through France, he was clamoring for a real meal, so we took advantage of a half-day layover in Italy. Sitting under a tricolored umbrella at an outdoor bistro, Jon wolfed down a huge plate of spaghetti and meatballs and polished off an entire loaf of crusty bread slathered with butter. But I soon regretted ordering a bottle of Chianti (there seemed to be no age limit on alcohol) when Jon’s tongue began wagging and his cheeks turned rosy.

  “Basta” I said finally, setting bottle out of his reach.

  Arriving in Greece, Jon couldn’t wait to visit the Acropolis and the Parthenon. He knew all the Athenian gods and goddesses by name (as well as the Romans and Egyptians) as if they were old friends.

  “I finally get to meet Athena and Zeus!” he shouted, racing up the rocky paths to pay homage to his idols, his face as red as his hair in the blazing summer heat.

  Two nights and a day later, our ship docked in Haifa. As planned, Gidon and René were waiting for us at the port.

  “Meet Jonathan,” we chimed.

  “Ah, Yo-na-tan,” roared René, enunciating each syllable of Jon’s name in Hebrew. “Do you know what your name means?”

  Baffled, Jon took a step back. Who was this strange man with a heavy French accent, and why was he asking such an intimate question? But René persevered with the zeal of a prophet initiating an acolyte into the tribe.

  “Well, I’ll tell you. Yo means God, and natan means given. So Yo-na-tan means God-given or gift of God! Now you know you have a very special name!”

  Jon only looked more confused as he squinted into the sun and shifted on one leg, trying to get his bearings in these strange new surroundings. But the significance of the moment was not lost on me. Even if my parents had known the meaning of his name when they chose it, by now they hardly thought of Jonathan as heaven sent—quite the opposite. Although he excelled in school, Jon rarely lived up to Dad’s expectations of perfection at home. Unlik
e Dad, Jon was not especially competitive in athletics, and Dad would become frustrated and critical. Worse, at age eight, Jon still wasn’t dry at night. Dad seemed to take this as a moral failing. I remembered my father’s angry voice rousing him from his sodden bed and calling him a Wetster as he hauled Jon into a cold bath. (Enuresis wasn’t well understood in those days.) Their hostility had only grown as Jon reached adolescence, with Mom assuming the role of mediator, her loyalties torn between husband and son. For all these reasons, it was hard to imagine my parents considering Jon a gift of God. But now was not the time to dampen the joy of our arrival.

  As the sun arched higher over the steamy port, the time came to go our separate ways. Naomi and I had worked well enough together over the past several weeks—perhaps needing solidarity to face our parents—but the pressure of coordinating every move in close quarters for that long had worn our patience thin. We were more than ready for some individual space. Our plan was for Jonathan to accompany René and me to Kibbutz Dan for the first week, then for him to spend the next with Naomi and Gidon on Hazorea. Then we would all meet up when our parents and Laura arrived.

  After a quick lunch at a falafel stand, we headed for the Central Bus Station, where Naomi and Gidon took the short ride to Hazorea, while René, Jon, and I boarded a bus for the four-hour trip to Kibbutz Dan. Bumping over the potholed road, Jon marveled at the Crusader castles, Bedouin tents, and the sparkling Sea of Galilee, mesmerized by the site of so much history strewn among the rocks and ruins.

  Venus was still glowing on the dark horizon when I roused Jon well before dawn the next day.

  “Rise and shine—time for work,” I chirped. “And don’t forget your hat. It’s going to be hot in the vineyards as soon as the sun comes up.”

  He roused himself from a sound sleep in the vacant room next to ours that I’d fixed up as best I could. The war-ravaged walls had been hard to hide, but I had passed off the pocked plaster as living evidence of history. Jon was impressed.

  The summer harvest was in full swing, and I knew Rivka would be glad to have an extra pair of hands, if only for a week. After a quick cup of tea and a few bites of toast, I led Jon along the shadowy path to the vineyards, assuring him he’d get a full breakfast later.

  “See those hills over there? That’s Syria,” I said, gesturing toward the Golan Heights as the sun rose in a blaze of gold and magenta.

  “Are machine guns trained on us up there like you said?” Jon asked with a mix of fear and excitement, wanting to verify the stories I’d told him on our trip.

  “Yes, maybe, but the soldiers are probably just bored because we’re in a peaceful period now, so don’t worry.” I didn’t want to alarm him. As if on cue, the Syrian donkeys began braying in the nearby fields.

  “You could do worse than donkeys for enemies,” laughed Jon, relieved.

  As we began picking the grapes, row by rows, I demonstrated the proper way to lift up the leaves and carefully cull the fullest bunches underneath.

  “Cradle them in your hands so they won’t fall when you cut the stem with your clippers, then lay them gently in the boxes. When the box is full, carry it to the end of the row and stack it carefully so it won’t topple over.”

  Jon worked diligently on one side of the vine while I supervised from the other. After awhile, he progressed on his own, lifting the leaves and gasping at the huge hands of grapes underneath.

  “Look at this gigantic bunch!” He beamed, wiping the juice of a stray grape from his chin.

  “You look like Adam in the Garden of Eden,” I laughed. “Only with grapes instead of an apple.”

  “Yeah, an Adam’s apple,” Jon joked, popping another purple grape into his mouth.

  His innocent joy touched my heart, and I knew I’d remember the moment forever.

  By eight a.m. the sun was too hot to pick the grapes without damaging them (never mind the chance of heatstroke for the crew), so we loaded the stacked boxes onto flatbeds and traipsed to the packing shed. Our work boots left powdery prints in the dusty road. The grapes would stay cool enough in the shade of the shed to allow for a breakfast break before loading them onto trucks for the local market.

  “I’m starved!” moaned Jon.

  “First we have to make it.” Explaining that the kerem was too far from the main dining room, I showed him the breakfast makings that the kitchen had sent out by tractor. As I knew he would, Jon beamed at the sight of the brown eggs, pita, hummus, tomatoes, cucumbers, red onions, bell peppers, black and green olives, yogurt, coffee, tea, and juice awaiting him.

  “Hey, don’t just stand there,” I teased, tossing a damp cloth in his direction. “Wipe down the tables, and set out the olives, yogurt, salt, and pepper.” Jon complied without complaint. I’d never seen him so obedient at home.

  Jon watched wide-eyed as I set the dented kettles to boil, chopped up the vegetables, beat the eggs, and grated the cheese for the omelets. By now I was a pro at controlling the unpredictable flames of the blackened propane range.

  Still, Rivka couldn’t resist hurrying me with her usual “Maher-maher! (Hurry up.) Her arthritic limp seemed worse, but I’d learned to ignore her crotchety scolding. Soon we all sat down to relish our hard-earned breakfast.

  “This Israeli breakfast sure beats cornflakes,” Jon said, practically inhaling his plate before going back for a second helping.

  For the next six days we repeated the harvest ritual— trudging out to the vineyards before dawn to pick and pack the glistening grapes until our stomachs growled for breakfast. Exhausted, we welcomed Saturday with a gratitude bordering on ecstasy. We didn’t need a synagogue to worship our single day of rest.

  “Let’s take Jon to the headwaters of the Dan,” I suggested when we were all rested. It was one of my favorite hikes, short enough not to be exhausting in the lingering heat of a late afternoon, yet full of surprises. Following a rocky path beyond the kibbutz toward a clump of trees, we came upon a spot where water suddenly bubbled up. Where the earth had been brown and parched only moments before, a carpet of emerald water lilies and tiny purple flowers now undulated in the filtered sunlight of a feathery canopy. Stunned, Jon stopped in his tracks, as breathless as I too had been at first sight.

  “Wow, it’s magical!” He gasped.

  “What’s more, the River Jordan begins at this very spot.”

  “You mean this little spring carries that much ancient history?”

  We stood in silence, absorbing the water’s burbling sound, so simple yet profound, each of us pondering the significance of our own small presence in the long chain of history that had led us to this site.

  After a few minutes, Jon began humming, “River Jordan is muddy and wide, milk and honey on the other side—hallelooo-ooo-ooo-ya!” Shadows and light played over his trademark grin.

  Yo-na-tan, I thought. God’s gift, shadows and light. That was my brother. In that moment, he looked as happy as I would ever know him. I would cherish his boyish joy in discovering a huge hand of grapes hidden on a vine or the soft body of a chameleon under his palm when, years later, he joined the march of history he loved so well.

  Jonathan in his teens

  Chapter 29

  HOPES AND FEARS

  My regular trips to the port of Haifa were becoming a rite of passage. The guard must have noticed it too as I opened my bag for inspection at its massive iron gates.

  “Whoa, Gingit, weren’t you here just a couple of weeks ago?” Seeing Naomi too, he did a double take. “Another gingit? What are you, te’umot [twins]?”

  “Oh no, we’re not even related,” Naomi deadpanned. Dumbfounded, the young soldier stared even harder before realizing the joke was on him.

  Like other soldiers, he looked barely older than we were.

  “So, where are you off to now?”

  Before we could answer, René gave him the full megillah of our story. “They’re here to greet their parents who are coming to meet us—me and this guy over there”—he motioned to Gidon—�
��before we get married. It’s a special day, don’t you agree?”

  “Mazel tov!” shouted the soldier, clapping René and Gidon on the back like old friends. “May the parents fall in love with Israel just like you’ve fallen for their daughters! God willing, they’ll settle here too so they can be close to their grandchildren.”

  His simple assumption that my family would (or should) naturally want to join the great Jewish ingathering belied the complexities of the situation. But the personal banter broke the tension between excitement and fear as we hurried toward the dock, his last bit of advice echoing in my ears.

  “Hey gingit, get married soon or you’ll end up in the army guarding this stinking gate all day like me!”

  I couldn’t imagine myself in his position, but there was a serious side to his silly warning. Only single women had to serve in the IDF. By getting married, was I avoiding military duty? But now was not the time for such worries. With three low blasts, the ferry pulled into view. I strained for a glimpse of my family’s trademark freckles and red hair (except for Mom’s, which she called dishwater brown) among the mostly dark complexions of the other passengers.

  “There they are!” shouted Naomi, pointing suddenly at the crowd.

  Squinting into the sun, all I could see were black dots.