by Judith Gould
Underfoot, the stone-flagged floor was softened by several small Oriental prayer rugs that added a note of luxury, and at the far end of the room a massive ebonized Victorian dresser topped with a matching ornately carved mirror stood against the outside wall. To either side of it were bookcases packed with volumes; where possible, books had been slid horizontally atop the neat vertical rows. She crouched in front of one of the bookcases, rippling an index finger along the book spines on the shelf. She read off the titles to herself; Self-Emancipation, by Judah Pinsker; Der Judenstaat, by Theodor Herzl; and Old New-Land, also by Herzl. There was a tatty, ancient copy of the Old Testament, several dictionaries, and political tomes in Hebrew, German, Russian, and English.
A round table stood in the centre of the room, surrounded by six Victorian parlour chairs, the seats and backs of which had recently been upholstered in blue-and-white-checkered cotton. She circled the table slowly, reaching out and fingering the roughly cast bronze menorah which stood as its centrepiece. It felt cool and smooth.
She noted with special delight that art was not lacking. On one wall, two watercolours of flower samples hung one above the other, and over each bookcase was a large framed engraving of Jerusalem. On table surfaces and on shelves and displayed inside a glass-fronted cabinet which matched the Victorian dresser were carefully mounted shards of ancient pottery and little figurines from antiquity, which she guessed had been unearthed nearby.
A second door led to a very small bedroom, hardly bigger than the brass bedstead and painted cupboard which dominated it. The first thing that caught her eye was a framed photograph of herself on the small nightstand beside the bed.
She felt a glow of warmth as she walked over and picked it up. It had been clipped from a magazine. In it she stared into the camera, lips pouting, one hand drawing mink lapels close to her throat. She recognized it instantly as one of the standard publicity shots the studio used to send out to the press.
Suddenly she knew what she had to do. She slid the picture out of the frame and pulled open the top drawer of the bedside cabinet. Taking out a pen, she angled a personal message across the bottom: For my father, with all my love, his daughter, Tamara.
She blew on the ink to speed its drying. There. For now, at least, that was a little better.
She slid the picture back into the frame, replaced it on the bedside cabinet, and headed back out. At the foot of the bed she tripped on a prayer rug. Straightening it, she felt the floor give a little under her feet. Frowning, she squatted on her haunches and flipped the rug aside. Set into the floor was a heavy wooden trapdoor with a recessed handle. She was about to grasp it when a little voice inside her piped up: You've no business prying. Haven't you poked around enough in someone else's life?
She debated for mere moments.
With a shriek of its hinges, the trapdoor flipped aside, hitting the stone floor with a bang. Tamara leaned over the hole. The door had been deceptively small for such a huge . . . She gasped and drew back in horror. Inge had been right: spies never did find anything good. A veritable arsenal was deposited in there—dark, malevolently gleaming guns, oiled rifles, several machine guns, a box of bayonets, two crates of dynamite.
She slammed the trapdoor shut and slapped the rug back down over it. Lurching backward, she gnawed at her nails. There were more than enough explosives down there to blow her to kingdom come, of that she was certain.
Shakily she walked back out to the living room, opened the door, and stared out at the lush green fields. People were bent over the crops, like gleaners in a Millet landscape, and far in the distance, on a rise, she saw a shadowy sentinel standing guard, the butt of a rifle resting on a hip.
She sat down on the stoop to wait. Despite the blast of ovenlike heat, she felt chilled and rubbed her arms briskly. She tried to occupy her mind with more pleasant thoughts, and mulled over what she had learned about him.
He was neat, and very clean. The house was pristine. He read more for knowledge than pleasure; she'd seen no novels or escapist fare. He spent very little time at the house. However, even if he could visit it only sporadically, it obviously meant a lot to him. It was not a house, it was a home. The mezzuzah, menorah, and Jewish literature suggested that his religion and heritage meant everything to him.
Yet despite the homeliness, there was the underlying atmosphere of a fortress: the windows were small, the front door heavy. Even the neatness had a military precision about it. And the arsenal . . .
Was such a cache of arms really necessary?
She hoped she didn't have to find out for herself.
Tamara heard the truck before she saw it. She lifted her head and her eyes scanned the fields. Then she saw it, half-hidden by the lush crops. It appeared to float atop the greenery.
She leapt up from the stoop and watched it turn in the dirt track that crisscrossed the fields and led to the house. Moments later, it headed straight toward her. Playfully she ducked into the house and hid behind the door. Peering out, she watched the truck grow bigger and bigger until it swelled to full size. Brakes squealed as it rumbled to a stop. The crunch of the hand-brake rang out loud and clear.
She held her breath, barely able to contain her excitement. Then the door on the driver's side jerked open and her father ducked out. He was about to climb down when she stepped out from behind the door. He caught sight of her and froze, his good foot casually poised on the running board, one hand resting on the door for support. His mouth broke into a smile of pure joy.
'I always knew this place was very special,' he called out. 'But I did not realize it was such an attraction that it would become a tourist stop like Jerusalem or Bethlehem!'
'Father!' she cried softly. 'Oh, Father!'
Then he swung himself down and she flew forward into his arms, her face pressing against his chest, her tears of joy mingling with the salty-smelling shirt that clung wetly to his hard-packed muscles.
Chapter 25
It was a time of self-discovery, a time of strengthening and affirming the faith that Tamara felt had always lain dormant within her. From the moment she had set foot in Ein Shmona, she found herself immersed in the Jewish experience. For the first time in her life, she began to understand what it meant to be a Jew, and it struck a deep emotional chord within her. Everywhere she turned, she found herself face-to-face with more and more evidence of the faith which was her heritage, but which was as foreign to her as Buddhism or archaeology or physics—but, she had to admit, much more fascinating than any of those subjects could ever be. The agricultural pioneers of Ein Shmona did not only farm the land, she found, but also lived a utopian ideal which blended politics, day-to-day living and religion into a unique life that was both physically comfortable and spiritually rewarding. She found herself being constantly surprised and impressed.
Schmarya was seated across the table from her in the community dining hall. Despite his urging her to eat, she was too excited to have much of an appetite. To please him, she took a few bites of her chicken and then pushed the rest of the food around on her plate. Her eyes scanned the other casually dressed diners, and she listened to the exotic musical sounds of mingling languages, trying to absorb it all. Hebrew, Yiddish, Russian, German, and Polish all competed with the music coming over the radio. It was like sitting in a large, simply furnished restaurant which served delicious, hearty home-cooked specialties and drew an international clientele of diners. But unlike any restaurant she had ever frequented, there was an air of informal good cheer and undisguised camaraderie such as she had never known. The camaraderie on the movie sets was closest to it.
'I like it here,' she said, looking around. 'Is everyone always this friendly?'
Schmarya glanced about also. 'Oh, now and then we have arguments and feuds, but generally, yes.' He motioned reproachfully with his fork. 'You are not eating.'
Dutifully she took another bite of chicken. 'Is the food always this good?'
'Always.' He smiled. 'It should be getting even better
in six months or so.'
'Oh?' She sipped her wine. 'Why's that?'
'A few months ago a German family escaping Nazi persecution emigrated here and joined our kibbutz.'
She set her glass down. 'And the wife's a great cook,' she guessed, laughing.
'No, the husband, actually. It so happens that Herr Zimmermann is a chef of world renown. He used to be head chef at the Hotel Kempinski in Berlin. Germany's loss will be our gain.'
'But I don't understand.' She took another sip of her wine. 'You said they're already here. Why isn't he cooking? Why does he have to wait six months? Is he ill?'
'No, no.' Schmarya laughed. 'It is the way we do things here on the kibbutz. All newcomers must first work in the fields. You see, they have to earn the privilege of changing to a job of their choosing.'
Tamara stared at him. 'You mean . . . he's not allowed to work at his trade?'
'No one is, until after they have toiled in the fields for a specified period of time. It is that way with everyone who comes here.'
'But what if their skills are exceptional? Surely you make exceptions in certain cases?'
He shook his head. 'I'm afraid not.' Seeing her incredulous look, he added softly, 'Can you think of a single more important skill than growing food?'
'In other words,' she said, 'even if I wanted to join the kibbutz, you'd toss me a hoe and send me straight out into the fields?'
'At the risk of ruining your pretty, manicured fingernails, yes.' He smiled. 'Though you would not have to hoe right away. The first job is clearing rocks and stones out of the fields.'
'But isn't that being a little tough on people?'
He shrugged. 'It is a tough country. To survive in it, we must also be tough, each one of us willing to pull his fair share and work for the common good. You see, the kibbutz is not a democracy. That form of government would never work here. So we practise socialism, though ours is tempered with justice, equality, and liberty. However much we love liberty, the freedom of the individual is secondary to the needs of the commune as a whole. Since the fields are our livelihood, they necessarily take first priority.'
'Well, I can tell you one thing,' Tamara declared. 'If I were Herr Zimmermann, I'd probably be glad to plough and harvest instead of slaving over a hot stove! Speaking of which, I noticed your house doesn't have a kitchen.'
'That is because I do not need one. We all dine here, in the communal dining hall. It is much more economical than having individual kitchens.'
'I see. But to backtrack, I have a question. What happens if, say, the Zimmermanns don't like it here?'
'Then they have no obligation whatsoever to stay. They are free to leave, and may do so if and when they choose.'
'Do many people who move here end up leaving?'
'Some. There have been those who find the life too regimented for their individual tastes, but for the most part, the people who move here enjoy it. The work is hard, but the rewards are satisfying. Perhaps not as far as personal gain is concerned, but for the community as a whole. It is as though each one of us works for something greater, a more noble ideal than just ourselves.'
She narrowed her eyes. 'Isn't that like communism?'
'Yes, in a way. But in a communist country people do not enjoy freedom and justice. We do. Our socialism is only for the common good, and as long as a person's interests are so inclined, his every need is provided for. The education of children, legal costs, medical care . . . everything is borne by the kibbutz. Even food. No one has to do without. You might say we have a cradle-to-the-grave responsibility to each other. And don't forget, anyone is free to leave here at any time.'
She was impressed. 'It's amazing. And you thought all this up?'
'Good heavens, no,' he laughed. 'It is hardly an original idea. We are merely carrying on where others left off. There have been agricultural settlements like this one for over fifty years already. But what distinguishes us from them is that ours is the first community in the desert. The rest are in the north, where the land is richer. Most of them are in the Galilee.'
Tamara was fascinated, and couldn't hear enough. From the pride in his voice, she could tell that she had hit upon his favourite subject. Even after leaving the dining hall, they talked about the kibbutz long into the night.
'If you like, I will arrange for you to have a tour of the kibbutz and all its facilities.'
'I would like that.'
'Unfortunately, I must be gone for most of the day tomorrow, but I know that Dani will be happy to show you around.'
'D-Dani ben Yaacov?' She could not keep the fluster out of her voice.
'Yes. Do you not like him? He is very bright. Also he is fearless and inventive. I depend on him for many things. You might say he is my right-hand man. Believe me, you could not be in better hands. You can trust him with your life.'
Yes, she thought soberly, but can I trust him with my emotions?
Chapter 26
Tamara slept well that night. She awoke early the next morning refreshed and filled with a sense of well-being. Her father had left already, but he'd thoughtfully left a bowl full of cool, sparkling clear water for her to wash with.
She dressed casually and ate a particularly hearty breakfast in the dining hall. Her appetite had returned with a vengeance, and she had to force herself to curb it. She nursed two cups of unsweetened black coffee while she waited for Dani.
When he arrived, he was all business. She was both relieved and annoyed to discover that she had no reason to fear his intentions. He was so well-prepared, had so many facts and figures at his fingertips, and deported himself in such a professional manner that she guessed he was an old hand at this.
They started the tour in the very centre of the settlement and worked their way outward. Ein Shmona, she came to discover, did not have to rely on outside sources for anything other than the water which flowed in four thick pipes from its source somewhere in the nearby mountains. The place was a city in microcosm. Dani showed her the infirmary, the general store, the school, the electric generating plant, and even several private homes. When she balked at entering a house whose residents were out working, he laughed. 'We have no crime here,' he told her, 'and front doors are always unlocked. We have no need for locks and keys. I hope it will always stay that way.'
Tamara turned to Dani. 'Do you think there will ever be a Jewish State? I know my father hopes so, but . . .'
'It will happen.' He spoke with confidence and his eyes flashed with fervour. 'In the words of Theodor Herzl, "If you wish, it will not be only a dream." I believe that in my heart, and so do many others.'
'You sound so confident.'
'You should hear David Ben-Gurion on the subject! He is worse than your father and me combined!' Abruptly he changed the subject. 'Would you like to have a look at our plan for the future?'
'I'd love to!'
He took her to the temple. In the back of it was what had originally been intended as a large storeroom. 'We're running out of space,' Dani explained apologetically as he turned on the overhead light, 'so we use this as our planning office.'
She expected to see rough plans marked on paper; blueprints at the most. What greeted her eyes was a ten-by-twelve-foot table that took up most of the room. Artfully recreated on its top was a detailed papier-mâché relief map of the immediate area, including the nearby mountains. It was a colourful scale model of a town, each building faithfully reproduced in miniature, like some extremely lucky boy's layout for his electric trains. What amazed her was the size and scope of the community in front of her. It comprised some five or six hundred buildings, some of which looked like four-storey apartment blocks with little balconies. And whereas the centre of the town was still laid out circularly, as it was now, the future plan was to spread out around it in a grid, so that the perimeter of the town was in an L, belted by a four-lane road. It was all there in miniature: parking lots, residential areas, an industrial hub, a swimming pool, a park, even a distant small airfield.
He looked at her levelly. 'Why not?'
'It's . . . it's just . . .' She gestured agitatedly. 'I mean, it's just so big. So . . . ambitious!'
'And why should it not be? If we continue to grow at the rate we have been, even what you see before you will be too small in twenty years' time. In the last five years alone, our population has more than tripled.'
'Will it be self-sustaining? Agriculturally? Even that big?'
He nodded. 'The fields will be pushed outward, to surround it all. At the moment, we have three thousand acres of flatland to work with, purchased through the Jewish Foundation Fund and the National Fund. We use only twenty-two of them now. We have been trying to negotiate the purchase of more, but the Arabs no longer want to sell us more land. In the beginning, it was easy to buy large acreage cheaply. As a rule, the Arabs have traditionally preferred hilltop villages or, like al-Najaf nearby, an oasis. They were eager to sell plains, swamps, and especially desert land to Jews, since no one else was interested. Then, after the swamps were drained, the plains planted and tended to, and the desert irrigated, the
Arabs began to become jealous, yes?' He paused and shook his head mournfully. 'I fear it has made for much animosity.'
She remembered the cache of weapons hidden in her father's house. 'Is there much violence?'
He flapped his hand back and forth. 'It comes and goes in waves, but the potential is always there. We must never forget that. In a moment of weakness, we could all easily be annihilated.'
It was a sobering thought.
'Now,' he said, leading her to the door, 'I want you to see the general store . . .'
He turned off the light and they left the way they had come in, through the synagogue.
Her initial thrill and delight were rapidly turning to fear. It seemed so peaceful here, so quiet. But underneath it all was the ever-present threat of violence. Yet despite it, the people who lived here did so by choice. She didn't think she could, not if she had to be ever-alert to the signs of danger. Not if she had to look constantly over her shoulder.
