They drove up into the hills of Carmel, the first time Reuven had seen it, thanks to the war. The view was so breathtaking from the summit he asked his father to stop the car. Together they stood and looked out to the city built on rolling hills. Beyond the sloping landscape lay the harbor and a startlingly blue bay. They looked to the mountains of Galilee … Mount Hermon looked regal with its crown of snow … the golden dome of the Bahai shrine shimmered in the noonday sun.
Reuven was so taken with this place he felt he never wanted to leave, but Dovid said they had a long ride to Tel Aviv.
They wound their way down the hills, and Dovid became very quiet as they passed the Oriental inn. He slowed the car and looked for a long, lingering moment, recalling those four beautiful days when he and Chavala had stayed here … a lifetime, really …
When they’d come to the Arab section at the bottom of Carmel, Dovid passed the harbor, turned and continued south. There were few vehicles on the road except for an occasional busload of Arabs and the donkey carts. Further on, they were forced to the side of the road by the sirens of a British convoy as it passed.
Back on the road again, Reuven noticed the contrast between the Jewish and Arab villages. The kibbutzim seemed green, fertile, the earth seemed to come alive as the men plowed the furrows. Passing the Arab villages, he saw the women working in rock-strewn fields (while men sat in the coffeehouses, playing backgammon or sleeping in the sun). Along the roadside women seemed to sway back and forth as they walked along, trying to balance the heavy loads they carried on their heads.
As they passed Zichron Yaakov, Fort Taggert, in the distance, seemed more foreboding, surrounded as it was by barbed wire. Now, abruptly, they saw Hadera in bloom, vast expanse of lush green with counterpoint of orange groves.
It was four o’clock in the afternoon when they arrived at the outskirts of Tel Aviv. Reuven would never forget the sight. A shimmering whiteness, it almost seemed to rise out of the blue Mediterranean. Dovid drove to his apartment on Hayarkon Street. Then he and his son walked down Allenby Road, alive with shops, honking cars and people rushing to catch buses. There was one bookstore after another. The plaza was packed with mothers and children. They strolled up to Rothschild Boulevard to the Old City, which had been a part of Jaffa. The shops in the Arab city appeared neglected, shabby … Reuven wanted to go back to Tel Aviv.
They walked through the connecting street of the two cities, through the common marketplace, where both Jews and Arabs traded, then on to the narrow alleys where the multitude of shoppers milled about the stalls.
Finally they returned to Allenby Road, walked past the Mograbi Plaza, then turned into another wide, tree-lined boulevard—Ben-Yehudah Street was alive, filled with sidewalk cafes, patronized mostly by German Jews, others by sabras, others by bohemians, political engagées … all creating a feeling of carnival. A sense of camaraderie seemed in the air. The city pulsed with vitality.
As they sat at an early dinner, Reuven noticed the tensions in his father had relaxed since they’d come to Tel Aviv.
Dovid smiled. “Would you believe, Reuven, that when we came here, right where you’re sitting, there was nothing but sand dunes? I don’t want to make you feel ancient, but you’re a year older than Tel Aviv.”
Reuven was pleased to think that he and his age were important enough to be compared to the first Jewish city in two thousand years. “We’re both sabras,” he said, and laughed.
“I never thought of it that way, but you’re right. Tomorrow, though, we’ll go to places that are even older than I am.”
The next morning they journeyed south again. Passing the harbor at Jaffa, Dovid pointed and said, “That’s where your mother and I first arrived when we came here …” and, encouraged by his son, retold all the events of that special day. As he did, Reuven could visualize his mother tearing her petticoat in strips, then knotting them together so that Chia’s basket could be lowered into the rowboat, he could almost see the chalutzim rowing out to the boat ahead of the Arabs as they screamed, “Baksheesh …”
Eventually they arrived in Jerusalem and wound their way up to Bab el Wad, and as they passed this place Dovid couldn’t help but think how different his life, and his family’s, might have been if Chavala had not so desperately needed a sack of flour on a certain day … Quickly he accelerated the motor and shifted gears as he made the ascent into the Judean hills.
On either side of the road saplings had been planted within the older forests. Somehow their ability to survive in this soil symbolized those Jews who had redeemed the eroded earth.
The ascent made, it was almost impossible not to feel the magical pull of Jerusalem. When they entered the city there was a haunting quality … even in this new city of David the stones that went into the buildings were from the same quarries that had built the Temple and Wall that now remained. They drove along King David Street, past the Yemen Moshe, the windmill gently revolving at Mishkenot Shanayim. As they passed the King David Hotel the bells from the YMCA could be heard, and added to the symphony of sounds, the muezzin called the faithful to prayer in the Old City, and all over Jerusalem on this Friday afternoon the sound of the ancient ram’s horn could be heard.
Dovid parked the car outside of Mea Shearim and they walked into the stone courtyard, where, side-by-side, stood old two-story stone dwellings, their balconies outlined with iron grillwork, their shutters opened and laid back against the walls. Bearded men with sidecurls, wide-brimmed hats and long black satin coats walked briskly along with the Yemenites in flowing caftans, Kurds in colorful silks from the ritual bath to the synagogues. The chanting of prayers, the soulful songs rose beyond the synagogue windows. It occurred to Dovid that he hadn’t been inside a shul since he’d first come to live in the Old City.
The sounds of prayer had faded, replaced by the warm smells of living, as Dovid and Reuven climbed the flight of stairs to Raizel’s apartment. Just before knocking, Dovid looked at Reuven and smiled. “You forgot to bring the halvah.”
Reuven hit himself on the forehead, “How dumb. Wait, I’ll run and get it…”
Breathless by the time he got back to the head of the stairs, he said, “I think it’s melting.”
“It’s better when the oil comes to the surface. Besides, it won’t be kosher enough for your uncle, but Aunt Raizel will be glad to accept it.”
Their knock was soon answered, and when Raizel saw Reuven, she could only say delightedly, “I knew you were coming today, your letter … but you didn’t say what time … oh, I’m so happy to see you, Reuven. Come in, come in.”
Inside the sparsely furnished living room Reuven said, a bit awkwardly, “Here, I have this for you, Aunt Raizel.”
Raizel looked at the wrapping, and knew it was halvah. She also knew Lazarus would never eat it, God only knew if it was kosher … “That’s very nice of you, Reuven. Thank you. Dovid, how are you? I’m so excited—”
“I’m fine, Raizel.”
“We have so much to talk about, but, later, later … now I’ll just look at the chickens in the oven…”
After Raizel left them Reuven asked, “What does Uncle Lazarus do for a living?”
Dovid felt like saying, As little as possible, but he answered, “He has two jobs. He’s a shammas in his shul and he also teaches at a yeshiva.”
“Oh, he’s sort of a Hebrew professor?”
“I suppose you could say that.”
Just then the door opened and Lazarus walked in with two of his four small sons trailing him. They were inches apart in height diminutive replicas of Lazarus. All that was missing was Lazarus’s black moustache and beard.
Lazarus greeted Dovid and welcomed Reuven in Yiddish. Although his Hebrew was impeccable he refused to use it in conversation …to do so would be sacrilegious. As he spoke to Dovid, Reuven looked at his father and with his hand over his mouth he asked through clenched teeth, “What did he say?”
Dovid said, also sotto voce, “That you should learn to speak Yiddish.
”
Fortunately Raizel was now back in the living room, wiping her hands on her white apron. “Good Shabbes,” she said to her husband and sons.
“And a good Shabbes to you.”
She turned to her sons. “This is your cousin, Reuven.”
In Yiddish they responded in unison, “Good Shabbes.”
Reuven said, “Shalom.” He was grateful when Aunt Raizel asked them all to be seated. Putting the shawl over her head, she stood in front of her mother’s silver candlesticks that Chavala had given her. She lit the candles, placed her hands over her face and made the Sabbath prayer.
Lazarus then said the motzi, the blessing over the bread: “Blessed art Thou, O Lord our God, King of the universe, who brings forth bread from the earth.” After saying the benediction, he cut the bread and handed a piece to each person at the table.
Soon the plates were being passed back and forth, and no one was more grateful than Reuven. Since he could not talk with his cousins, he felt distinctly uncomfortable sitting across from them, just staring.
They too were staring, all eight eyes, in disbelief. Their mother had said that this was their cousin, so they believed her. But he was very strange, without any earlocks. Uncle Dovid was clean-shaven, but at least he spoke Yiddish.
But Raizel asked her sons to take their cousin into their room and visit. Sighs of dissent in both Yiddish and Hebrew as the five boys walked down the narrow hall to a back bedroom.
When the table was cleared away the three adults sat around the dining room table. Raizel handed her husband his third glass of tea, then sat down. “Well, Dovid, you must be very proud. Chavala writes that the new baby … Joshua … looks just like you.”
These were difficult moments for Dovid. Who wanted to be reminded that he would miss time seeing his son grow up? … “Yes, of course, I’m very proud, Raizel.”
Raizel quickly changed the subject. “How is Moishe?”
“He’s very happy in the goldeneh medina.”
“And tell me about Chia.”
“Do you remember when I bought a goat so that we could bring her home from Manya’s house?” It seems like yesterday… and today Chia’s growing into a beautiful young woman.”
Raizel smiled. “Oh, she should only have a good life. I’m sure she will—”
“I hope so, Raizel … well, it’s getting late and tomorrow m taking Reuven to the Galilee to see Dvora. Thank you for a wonderful evening …”
On their way back to Dovid’s apartment, little was said between father and son. Little needed to be said. They both sensed each other’s thoughts …it had been a strained evening, and both would have been happy to see Aunt Raizel alone next time, without the intimidating presence of those holy five…
In the morning Dovid took the road from Jerusalem that led through the Valley of Rephaim, on past Rachel’s Tomb near Bethlehem and south through the hills of Judea. Finally they came to Hebron, a city second only to Jerusalem … It was here that Abraham’s wife, Sarah, died, and it was here that the patriarch bought the field of Ephron for a family burying place. They drove on past the Dead Sea until they came to the fortress of Masada, a place that Dovid wanted his son to see.
Reuven’s eyes scanned the red-brown rocks of Masada as his father told him of the courage that had become a symbol of freedom for Jews for two thousand years. It lived in the heart and sustained the spirit when Jews for centuries thought everything was lost, reminded them that no matter what the catastrophe, they were destined to survive….
His arm around his son’s shoulder, Dovid said, “I know it has been very hard on your mother, Reuven, but I am glad you asked to come with me. I am glad you feel about this land the way I do …”
Reuven felt a bond with his father as strong and powerful as the fortress that lay before them. There was no need for words…
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
IN SPITE OF ALL the struggles, the winter storms, the blistering summer heat, Dvora wouldn’t change what she had at Kfar Shalom. She and Ari had been one of twenty-five families housed in black tents bought from British army surplus. Pnina, now two, was born that first winter in the midst of a howling wind. By summer in that first year of her life Pnina was stricken with malaria, and only devoted ministration by Ari and Dvora of quinine and love pulled the child through.
Once the baby recovered Ari told Dvora he wanted her and the children to go to stay at Raizel’s for “just a little while.” When she protested, as Ghavala had once done to Dovid, he told her that the children had already been subjected to typhus and malaria, and that at last night’s meeting it was agreed that the wives and children would leave until they had cleared the swamps.
“But we’ve survived our first winter and summer and well go on surviving until we have a house…”
The next winter the influenza was at its worst. The storms became so violent that the family tents blew away, and the men were constantly having to secure the communal tent Still, they survived, and when summer came Dvora saw the first building erected on their own piece of ground—it was the barn, a beautiful sight. A new beginning…
Until the terrible day when the shots rang out. Quickly, Ari grabbed up his rifle from its rack and ran to the side of the barn, peered around and saw five Bedouins on horseback. He waited until they rode past, aimed, pulled the trigger and hit one in the shoulder.
The shots had so frightened the baby she began to cry uncontrollably. Ari dove to the ground just before another bullet crashed into the wood siding. From a crouched position he watched as another Arab came closer to the entrance, took aim and managed to wing him in the arm.
Finally they galloped off, but they’d be back. Ari knew it. Now, once and for all, the women and children had to be taken to safety….
Although Nazareth was an Arab city, it could still be a refuge for the women from Kfar Shalom. Arab religious and political nationalism was still in its latent state, and there was some cooperation between the city’s Christian Arabs and the Jews of the settlements. Actually, the Arabs of Nazareth and the Bedouins were often at odds … in contrast to the Bedouin dislike of the Jews, the villagers of Mahalul accepted the settlers, especially when they realized that the new Jewish settlements would be good for them … the Jews bought goods in the Arab shops.
It was hard for Ari to leave his children, harder still to part from Dvora.
Dvora walked out to the truck with her husband.
“How long will we be here, do you think?”
“Until we get the settlement secured.”
“That will take months.”
“Well … if it does, at least in the meantime you’re safer here.” Jews, as they both knew, were never safe.
Ari took her lovely face between his hands. “I love you and I’ll miss you.” He kissed her and without another word, walked to the truck, started the motor, and was gone.
As the truck chugged up the hill to Kfar Shalom, Ari was welcomed by the charred remains of his barn. Quickly he ran across the barren field and saw the men of the moshav still trying to put out a few last dying embers.
Too furious to speak, he could only stand and watch the black smoke rise. When he finally recovered from the initial shock he asked, “What happened?”
Isaac Levy shook his head. “They rode in at five this morning and started shooting and hollering like wild men—”
“Was mine the only building they burned?”
“Only yours.”
“Well, the next time I’ll be ready for them.”
He didn’t have long to wait. Like locusts they came riding up into the hills. This time the men were prepared. From behind a large boulder, Solomon’s eye followed his rifle and he hit one in the hand. Chaim went for the ankle. The counterattack was so unexpected that the Bedouins turned and started to ride off, but Ari’s shot rang out and hit a stallion’s right hoof. The beast shook violently, then reared, knocking the rider to the ground.
Fraternity not being a virtue among Bedouins, the ot
her three rode off without looking back.
Ari came from behind the boulder and grabbed the Bedouin around the neck.
The man immediately invoked Allah, divine mercy and love of mankind in his behalf. Also he didn’t want to die. “It wasn’t me …on my father’s name I swear. We were forced—”
“Who forced you?”
The fear in the man’s eyes was apparent. He would be killed if he told, he would be killed if he didn’t.
“You’re the one who instigated the raid—”
“No.”
“Then who?”
“Sheikh Abdullah Radar.”
Ari stood up and looked at the man cringing in the dirt. “Where’s the camp?”
“Near Metullah.”
And Ari, mostly because the man sickened him so, let him go. One didn’t kill helpless vermin.
“So what good is it, now you know?” Chaim asked.
“I’m going to use a little diplomacy.”
“You’re going to make a goodwill call?”
“No, but my brother-in-law Dovid is very good at this. I’m going to see him….”
Ari could get to Tel Aviv faster by horse, cutting across fields, galloping over hills past the Arab villages. At midnight he hitched his horse to a lamppost and ran up the stairs to Dovid’s apartment
The men embraced, then Dovid asked, “What brings you to Tel Aviv?”
Ari quickly told him.
“And you’d like me to help?”
“Yes, Dovid. I know where the camp is, I know the leader’s name.”
“That helps. But what would help more is if you had a harvest. They’d cut your throat for a few sacks of flour.”
“So what are the alternatives, Dovid?”
“To bluff… but be so believable that you convince yourself. You have to think in terms of your own life. Let me show you what I mean.”
Dovid went to his bedroom, came back to the kitchen, and without a word hurled a 1914 German grenade out the open door onto the balcony.
No Time for Tears Page 31
