by Naomi Ragen
Daniella, who didn’t know what to make of this recent conversion, said nothing. She was relieved but skeptical. Shlomie was always developing new philosophies and enthusiasms. They seldom lasted very long, replaced by others that he advocated with equal conviction.
As for herself, she was just trying to keep her head above water. The nausea from her fourth pregnancy was making her feel tired and wretched. Taking care of three children, two of them essentially babies, was exhausting. She worried how she would manage with yet another one. Shlomie would just have to pitch in more. I have to talk to him, to make him, she thought. But every time she was determined to have it out, something stopped her. She didn’t want to be negative, not now when he’d agreed to cooperate, to move out to this new community, to start a new job. She didn’t want to be the nagging, complaining wife. She wanted to be a woman of valor, the kind Jewish lore praised as the ideal of womanhood, a woman who both knitted woolen clothes to keep her family warm while also trading goods to support and feed them. She wanted to be worthy of her new, exalted pioneer status in the Holy Land. Most of all, after what she saw as all her failures, she wanted to succeed at something. She couldn’t stand the idea of yet another downfall.
They pulled to a full stop in front of a massive iron security gate.
“Now what?”
She squinted at the gate. “They’ve posted a number to call,” she said patiently, lifting the crying baby out of his car seat and pulling out a breast heavy with milk. Gently, she pressed the infant to her breast, inhaling sharply as his eager mouth latched on to the nipple, tender from the new pregnancy. With her other hand, she took out her cell phone and dialed. “Here, Shlomie, it’s ringing.” She handed it to him.
“Hello? Hello? We’re the Goodmans, your new neighbors,” Shlomie said brightly, smiling and nodding as he listened.
The gate slowly pulled back.
“Such nice, friendly people! He said to follow the signs that point to the office. Someone is waiting there for us.”
They inched along like sightseers, charmed by the small, private homes surrounded by blooming gardens. There were playgrounds filled with small children, and large grassy communal areas. A sudden hope blossomed in her heart.
Perhaps, after all, this would work out.
A young couple who introduced themselves as Yochanon and Essie Meyers were waiting for them outside a small caravan with a hand-printed sign in Hebrew that said, OFFICE. The woman was dressed religious pioneer-style: a long, blue cotton skirt and a long-sleeved white shirt, her hair covered with an elaborate headdress of bright turquoise. No one else in the country dressed exactly like that. No one else in the world, Daniella thought with a touch of pride that she would soon be joining this unique fellowship. The young man had a warm smile beneath a bushy beard. He wore jeans and a work shirt and the colorful knitted skullcap favored by modern Orthodox Jews. His hands looked brown and work roughened, nothing like the hands of Orthodox Jews with whom she was familiar back in Pittsburgh.
“Baruchim Haba’im! Welcome! How was your trip down?”
“Very nice, very nice,” Shlomie said, extending his hand through the window and shaking the other man’s warmly, preparing for a long chat. From the back of the car, Duvie’s whining and Amalya’s demands rose.
“Oh, poor things!” Essie sympathized, bending down and looking into the car, as her husband moved away. “Such a long drive from Jerusalem. Here, let me get them something.” Ignoring Daniella’s polite protestations, she disappeared back inside the office, soon returning with ice pops.
“It’ll turn their tongues and lips blue, but they’ll be happy, I guarantee,” she said, handing one to Amalya and one to Duvie, both of whom eagerly grasped the icy treat.
The women smiled at each other with instant connection.
“When are you due?” Daniella asked Essie.
“In two months,” she answered, smiling.
“I’ve got another seven.”
“That means you’ll be pregnant through the summer,” Essie commiserated. “It’s really hot here, but we all get used to it, and the houses are air-conditioned. The upside is that it never really gets cold down here. I wouldn’t want to give birth in December in New York!” She laughed. “B’sha’ah tovah.”
“Thank you. The same to you,” Daniella blessed her. In a good hour.
“Well, I guess you’d like to get settled? Please follow us in your car,” Essie said briskly to Daniella’s relief, walking away and taking her husband with her, leaving Shlomie no one with whom to shmooze. Daniella watched them as they climbed into an old pickup that had seen better days.
Shlomie started the car, the little Fiat following behind over ever more primitive roads, until finally the paving disappeared altogether, turning into rutted layers of mud and gravel. They bumped brutally along for ten minutes until thankfully coming to a stop.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Daniella murmured under her breath as she peered through the windshield.
“What?” Shlomie asked.
“Nothing.” That’s all her husband needed, discouragement.
It looked like a trailer park, she thought, aghast, places no respectable, middle-class American would ever set foot in. She counted about fifteen caravans, spread out over the rocky, dusty earth where nothing seemed to grow.
She got out of the car, baby Yossi still at her breast, her back aching.
“It’s not as bad as it looks.” Yochanon grinned, noting Daniella’s dismay. “I remember the first time Essie saw a caravan! But inside, they’ve got everything you need—a kitchen, a bathroom, beds, water, electricity. It’s sometimes cold in winter and very hot in summer. But there’s a heater–slash–air conditioner. Electricity is expensive, but we’ve got no choice, especially if you’ve got little kids.”
“What you have to try to remember,” Essie added, “is that it’s only temporary, until you can build your house. Have you seen our members’ houses?”
“Yes, when we came in. They were lovely,” Daniella said, smiling.
“Thank you. Nothing luxurious, but it’s a good life.”
“How long … that is … when can we start…?”
“Building?” Essie smiled.
“That’s always the first thing all the women want to know.” Yochanon laughed.
Daniella’s face reddened, embarrassed that she’d been outed as a typical, materialistic American.
“In a few months, when you’re sure this is the right place for you, you can apply to the building committee for a piece of land,” Yochanon assured them.
“Come inside?” Essie invited, opening the caravan door.
Daniella followed her inside. A hot, dry blast of air and the sharp, chemical smell of desert dust and metal baking in the sun assaulted her immediately. And this was February! She didn’t even want to imagine June. She took a few cautious steps farther inside. It was surprisingly roomy, at least compared to the Absorption Center. There was a fully equipped kitchen, a small couch, and three bedrooms, already fitted with beds and cribs.
You know what? This is not so bad, she told herself, setting the baby down in the new crib, which had been thoughtfully made up with clean sheets and a baby blanket.
“Why don’t you get settled, Daniella? Essie will stay behind with you, while I take Shlomie to see the orchards and hothouses.”
She was just about to protest being left behind and to assert her intention of being a full partner to her husband in the agricultural work, when Duvie began to cry. She laid him down to change his diaper. That done, she took him and Amalya into the bathroom to wash the blue off their faces and hands. “You look like little Smurfs,” she said, holding them up to the bathroom mirror. They giggled riotously. She heard the door open and close. Yochanon and Shlomie had gone.
She sighed, taking out the sandwiches she’d prepared for the children and for herself and offering one to Essie.
“No thanks—they look delicious, though. I’m trying to keep a
lid on my weight gain.”
Daniella suddenly stumbled, assailed by a momentary dizziness. She sat down by the small kitchen table, holding Duvie in her lap.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m exhausted.”
“Why don’t I put up some water for tea and coffee?” Essie offered kindly.
“I don’t know if we have any. I haven’t gone shopping yet.…”
“If you look in your cupboards and the refrigerator, you’ll see it’s stocked for the next few days.”
After her experience in the government-run Absorption Center, Daniella was shocked to see that this was true. “That’s really so thoughtful of you. Thank you,” she said with sincere gratitude.
Essie made a dismissive gesture. “Oh, don’t thank me. We have a welcome committee who does this for every new family. We’ve all been there, where you are now, Daniella: a new country, a fairly new husband, lots of little, needy ‘blessings.’ And on top of that, to be pregnant with another ‘blessing’…” She rolled her eyes heavenward and laughed. “You’ll do the same for the next family who moves in, believe me.”
Yes, she thought. I will. She exhaled, the tightness in her chest suddenly dissipating. It was such a relief to feel wanted and needed, to feel she had found a home.
Shlomie returned, bubbling with excitement. He set his alarm clock for five thirty in the morning.
“Why so early?”
“I want to have time to pray with a minyan and get in a little learning before I start working.”
She was astounded by his newfound energy, amazed that he didn’t complain even though farming turned out to be way more complicated than either one of them had imagined. Luckily, he had a helper, an Arab from Jericho named Marwan, who was very experienced. She felt a sudden surge of pride and affection for her husband as she packed his lunch each day, slicing the still-warm rye bread delivered fresh each morning to the local grocery.
Her life took on its own rhythm. Waking with the children, tidying the small living space, cooking Shlomie a hearty, mostly organic dinner. Often, neighbors would knock on her door, bringing cakes or fruits, flowers, and vegetables from their hothouses. Or they’d casually stop by just wanting to be friendly. Everyone always kept their front doors open, she learned, and you didn’t need a formal invitation to stop by and sit down for a cup of coffee while all the kids, including your own, were outside playing with dozens of other kids. It was a very sheltered place, all outsiders carefully screened before being permitted to enter. Besides, invariably there was some adult outside supervising not only their own but everyone else’s children. If you found a hungry child, you didn’t care if it was yours, you’d feed him. If a child fell, motherly hands were never far away to pick him up and wash his wound, sending him home with a Band-Aid.
She found the atmosphere kibbutz-like in the best way. People were sincerely friendly with no guile or ulterior motives, honestly wanting to be helpful. Here, love your brother as yourself wasn’t a tired old saying; it was a way of life. The women arranged play groups so that Daniella had time to go shopping and to do the laundry. They exchanged recipes, translating local ingredients to those she was familiar with from America. They offered cleaning tips on how to rout the invasive desert dust and hard-water stains.
Most important, they kept her abreast of the weekly lectures and other cultural activities being offered for both men and women, encouraging her to get out of the house. The talks were always on some interesting or practical subject, the lecturer usually a member of the community. There was no coercion to join in. If you wanted to come, you came; if not, not. No one thought any less of you if you simply said you were too tired. Everyone in the community worked hard.
Daniella loved the interaction with the other mothers. It was wonderful to finally be part of a community in which most members were exactly on her wavelength when it came to the kind of life they were seeking. Religiously, there were many like her: Americans brought up in the liberal Orthodox day-school tradition that assumed college was your goal, and Israel your destination.
Most of the women covered their hair with cotton scarves, but a few wore wigs, and some wore nothing at all. Their clothing was eclectic. too: everything from jeans and sweatshirts to shirts with buttoned-up collars and calf- or ankle-length skirts. No one made a big deal out of it, which suited Daniella perfectly. She gladly parted with her expensive wardrobe and skull-pinching, handmade wig, happily wearing long jean skirts, light inexpensive T-shirts, and a simple headscarf she hardly felt was there.
Some native Israelis on the yishuv seemed a bit more stringent religiously, dressing in black outfits, their women in wigs and long-sleeved, dark dresses down to their ankles. But they, too, were not pushy or judgmental about their beliefs, and everyone—except for the two dozen or so kollel boys—worked in the agricultural industry whether as farmers, pickers, distributors, or exporters.
She was happy, loving the fresh morning air, the abundant blue skies, and her rugged-looking husband, whose body had become handsomely muscular and tan. They grew hothouse strawberries and lettuce and cherry tomatoes, which he brought home in abundance. And because the vegetables were grown indoors, they used no pesticides. She had never tasted anything so delicious! At the end of the year, their crop was large and top grade. They made a good profit, enough to begin paying off some of their loans for equipment and seeds and the use of the caravan.
She wrote long, detailed letters to her mother and father and Joel that were humorous and expressive, her happiness evident in every line. She was so glad she could honestly say her life was working out, and that her husband was busy providing for them.
When Gabriel was born in September, Daniella found herself surrounded by caring friends who took turns baby-sitting her children when she was in the hospital, bringing over casseroles and doing the laundry so that Shlomie didn’t have to take too much time off from work. She came home with her newborn to an ordered house and happy children, who continued to be watched over by various friends and neighbors for a few hours every day in order to give her time to recuperate.
While her mother and father came for the brit, Joel and Esther, expecting their first child, begged off. It had been a difficult pregnancy, Joel explained, and Esther’s doctor urged her to skip long plane rides. Daniella understood, but Joel’s absence marred the joy of the celebration. She missed him terribly. She was anxious to show him her new life. She trusted his judgment and would have loved his seal of approval. She also wanted him to be proud of her, the way she was of him.
The following year began with an unusually cold winter. In the evenings the caravan shook from strong winds as it was battered by icy rain. It didn’t take them long to realize that despite their air-conditioning and heating system, the caravan was just too flimsy to keep out the elements. Amalya developed bronchitis, and Yossi had ear and lung infections from the dampness. Most worrying, baby Gabriel seemed to be developing asthma.
The winter was followed by a brutally hot summer in which all the children suffered from the sweltering temperatures inside the caravan, which was often hotter than it was outside, not to mention insect stings and sunburn.
For the first time, she felt real despair. “Shlomie, how much longer can we live this way?”
“It will be all right, Daniella. God will provide. The crop was good this year. It will be even better next year. We are saving money. It won’t be long now.”
“Another year!” She shook her head adamantly. “We can’t put off building for another year, Shlomie! I can’t live in this tin box three more years with four children!”
“But, darling, what do you want me to do? We can’t take out a big mortgage while we are still paying off our other loans.”
He was right. But so was she.
Without discussing it with him, she wrote to her grandmother.
When the money was transferred to her account, she joyously told Shlomie what she had done, and that they could now begin to plan their c
omfortable new home.
His reaction left her dumbfounded.
“You wrote to her, behind my back?” he accused. She had never seen him so angry.
“What can we do? We are a young couple. We need help. Everybody here has gotten help from their parents or family to build their first home.”
“It’s never good enough for you, is it, Daniella?” he said coldly. “I planned to learn Torah my whole life, but I put that all aside because you wanted me to. I am working every day, all day. But you’ll always want more than I can give you.”
“Shlomie, it’s not like that!” she pleaded.
He ignored her. “You know how you make me feel? Like I’m not a man. Our sages tell us not to ask for handouts. To earn our bread through the sweat of our brows.”
“That wasn’t always the tune you sang,” she said levelly, looking him in the eye.
He blanched. “I turned over a new leaf. I did it for you. You were the one who insisted we do this on our own, remember?”
“I know I did! But that was before we had to house four kids in a crumbling sardine can that bakes in the summer and freezes in the winter. You know Yossi was on antibiotics all winter, and the baby is on the verge of developing asthma. It’s not right! We are their parents. We have to take care of them.”
“So, now I’m not a good father either, right?”
For some reason, it hurt her to hear him say that. For everything he was, he loved the children. “I never said that! I … I’m so proud of you!”
“But it’s not enough … never enough.”
He opened the door and went out, slamming it behind him.
