by ILIL ARBEL
“Excuse me, Dr. Wissotzky, may I join you?” said a quiet voice behind us in perfect Russian. “I have overheard your conversation.” It was the young man that I had thought was an Arab.
“You know my name?” asked Papa, perplexed. “Who are you?”
“You were right about the situation, Dr. Wissotzky. The officials pick on some refugees within every new group. For some reason they selected you, perhaps they think you have a lot of money or rich relatives who can be approached. Your papers are most likely just fine; you will have no trouble in Israel when you cross the border. To answer your question, I work for a Zionist organization that helps people like you in difficult situations, and we make sure we know everyone's name and history. It's best if you don't know my real name or the name of the organization at this point.”
“But you are a boy! How old are you – sixteen, seventeen?”
“Looking young helps, no one suspects me, and I am, actually, almost eighteen. There are others like me.”
“What shall we call you? And how can you help us?”
“My code name is Shemariahu. My plan may involve serious danger, but it's the only way. I have to get you to Kantara, where you will intercept and board the train to Tel-Aviv. We have our people there, and your papers will present no problem. Of course you can't use the normal train from Port Said, because of the permit that the local officials are denying you.”
“But won't they look for us if we don't present them with the proof of going back to Shanghai?” asked Papa.
“We regularly forge such proofs. We will send it to the officials in a week or so, and you will already be safe in Tel-Aviv.”
“So how do we go to Kantara?” asked Mama apprehensively.
“By camels, Madame Wissotzky.”
“Camels?” She stared at him, startled.
“You will join a camel caravan. A large caravan, including some Druse and Moroccan travelers. Many of them are light-skinned and have blue eyes, so you will not be noticed, as long as you wear Arab clothes. We will have to dye the little one's hair black, just in case, even though she will wear a headdress. Her hair is just too noticeable.”
Black hair! Caravans! Ali Baba! I was overjoyed.
“What danger, precisely, are we talking about?” asked Mama, sighing with resignation. I think she felt that she had experienced enough adventures for a while.
“The caravan goes through the desert, of course, and often there are clashes with robbers. Occasionally, soldiers check the caravans, which is much worse.”
“Ah, well,” said Mama, rising to the occasion. “We had our experiences with border police and survived it. As for riding camels, I loved riding horses around the estate that my father managed. It can't be too different.”
“It is entirely different,” said Shemariahu cheerfully. “Camels move and sway. That's one of the reasons they call them 'ships of the desert,' but you'll do fine, I am sure.”
“Can I keep the black hair when it's all over?” I asked, sticking to the really important matters at hand. “No one in Israel really knows that I have red hair –”
“Ida!” said Mama, scandalized by my impropriety. “A lady only colors her hair when it's absolutely necessary!”
***
The ship of the desert and I looked at each other with mutual distrust. Undeniably beautiful, sporting long eyelashes and blue and gold jewelry, she had this haughty expression and seemed to sneer at me. Also, she was rather tall. How was I to climb such a beast? There were no ladders in sight. The camel, on the other hand, probably realized that despite my jet-black hair I was not really an Arab, and she obviously didn't appreciate foreigners who didn't know how to ride properly. The owner spoke to her softly, and to my amazement, she kneeled gracefully on the ground. The owner helped Feera and me onto the comfortable rug that covered the sand-colored fur, and once we were firmly established, the camel rose back to her feet.
Mama rode her camel impressively well, and Papa and Feera didn't do too badly. At first, I had a terrible attack of seasickness from the camel's motions. She really swayed crazily, much like a ship. In addition, she had a peculiar smell, not really unpleasant but strong, and it did not help my queasy stomach. Eventually I learned to move with the rhythm rather than resist, and the nausea passed away.
I don't remember how long the trip lasted; time passed as in a dream. Sand and sky blended and the enormous distances matched the snowfields of Siberia for sheer vastness. Here and there some palm trees dotted the unchanging landscape, surrounding a water hole. Glaring, brutally hot sun. A couple of times we saw riders at a distance, but mercifully, they never approached our caravan. I only remember one moment, when, suddenly, unexpectedly, terror hit me.
“Feera,” I whispered. “Do you think they will search us in Kantara?”
“Shemariahu told me the guards only spoke to the men, never to women and children, and usually just to the caravan's chief, so they probably won't even bother Papa.” She didn't sound very convincing.
“I keep thinking about Manchuria,” I confessed. “I am terribly scared.”
“The border police and that Baba Yaga woman? Yes, I thought about them too. I keep thinking, maybe Shemariahu didn't tell us the truth. Maybe he didn't really work for a Zionist organization at all. Maybe he just lured us into the hands of some robbers. . .”
“What can they do? Do you think they shoot people here, too?”
“I don't know, Ida. I am horribly scared, too, and I feel so tired in a strange way. Sometimes I don't believe we'll ever get to Tel-Aviv.”
It was evening when we reached Kantara, a miserable little train station in the middle of the desert. Two guards, their guns casually slung over their shoulders and their smiles missing many teeth, exchanged a few friendly words with the chief, and showed him where to put up the tents for the night. No searches, no questions, they indiscriminately stamped whatever piece of paper was handed to them without so much as glancing at it, got some cigarettes from the chief, slapped him on his back, and went back to their post. I loved them.
On the ship to Port Said
With a group of refugees in Port Said
A camel caravan in Port Said
CHAPTER TEN: HOME
A tiny train, as if made for elves, brought us from Kantara directly to Tel-Aviv.
The thing I remember most was the light. The glorious light of the Israeli sun, turning everything into gold. The train station contained one hut surrounded by a small garden, its only ornament a quantity of spotlessly clean shells lining the garden paths. I had never seen such shells before; white as sea foam, to me they were pearls.
We could travel the short distance to the hotel in the primitive mode of transportation available at the station – a big wagon hitched to two horses. But Papa didn't want it. He insisted that he must take his first steps in Israel with his feet treading its earth.
And so we arrived by foot, a small caravan headed toward a tiny town. I looked at Tel-Aviv and her little white houses – and fell in love; until today, there is no city in the entire world that I love as much as my Tel-Aviv.
I had no idea, at the time, how much culture already flourished in the little settlement. Someone had started a library on one side of town. Classical music was played in makeshift halls, plans made for introducing opera. Passing the new little music academy, you could hear the children learning to play the piano, flute and violin from musicians who once played in symphony orchestras in European capitals. You could learn ballet and modern dance from a lady who had once danced with the famous Ballet Russe, and be instructed in a number of languages by immigrants who came from many lands. In one of the little houses someone wrote magnificent poems in the ancient language that was undergoing such a transformation it became new and fresh. In another, a great artist painted the blue sea and white dunes. Every evening, people gathered to discuss politics, literature, philosophy, and art in many of the modest living rooms.
Within a few days we had a sweet, clean
little apartment with whitewashed walls and floors of polished yellow tiles. As promised, Papa produced the keys, gave them to Feera and me, and we ran happily around, fitting them into doors and closets. Papa took out his dental tools and immediately was ready for business. Mama unpacked our possessions and quickly stuck a few onions in the built-in planters on the porch; this was important – the green, fresh tops were essential for serious cooking. Of course, I secretly resented the serious scrubbing she gave my hair to remove all traces of the glorious black henna rinse, but being a redhead again did not matter a great deal at that happy moment. It was so good to feel permanently rooted in one place.
When everything was neat and ready, Mama looked around her as if something was missing. “What's the matter,” asked Papa, worriedly. “One thing is an absolute necessity of life and we must get it immediately,” said Mama. “We are going out directly to buy a samovar!”
We cheered in unison and went out to the little store to purchase our new samovar. We spent some time choosing just the right one, a dignified brass affair that looked much like the old friend we left in Siberia. When we were ready to take it home twilight already filled the sky with pink and blue tints. People sat on every porch, drinking tea. Others strolled in the street. If they wanted to visit, they just stopped, came up, and had tea with their friends. No one felt the need to let anyone know in advance; it seemed the friendliest arrangement imaginable, and people, some of them total strangers, called at us again and again to join them and have some tea and cake. When we finally got home, we sat the samovar on the dining table, and there it stood majestically, humming cheerfully and musically to itself. Our home came alive.
Feera and I shared a little room overlooking the lovely back yard, where palm trees, vines, and flowers grew in messy profusion. We had white spreads on our beds, small chests of drawers by their side to serve as both nightstands and storage units, and two little wooden desks and chairs. I felt so important, having my own desk, where I would some day do my homework.
We longed to go to school, learn the language, make friends, lead a normal life. Our parents told us so much about this wonderful, famous school they wanted us to attend – the Gymnasia Herzlia, named after Theodore Herzl, the visionary Zionist. A beautiful, white, spacious building with two towers, it loomed over the tiny houses and contained all twelve grades. It was, however, very late in the year and Mama wasn't sure how strict the rules were about such matters, particularly for students with our peculiar history.
Mama held our hands and took us to the Gymnasia to register. We entered the large yard, where students of various grades were playing together during recess. In the middle of the yard we saw a tall man bent over a little boy, with a ring of screaming children surrounding them. We approached cautiously. The man straightened up, holding a coin which he apparently extracted from the boy who nearly choked himself swallowing it. The boy coughed and spluttered hysterically.
“Calm down, nothing happened, you're fine, you silly monkey,” said the man affectionately, in Russian, and patted the boy's head. “The work I have to do around here . . . Now, if you solemnly promise me to never swallow a coin again, I won't tell your mother.”
“I promise, Dr. Mossinzon,” said the boy.
“So run away and play.”
“Dr. Mossinzon,” said Mama behind his back.
The headmaster of the Gymnasia Herzlia turned. He was a dignified, tall, handsome man, and had a long black beard, cut square.
“I am Hadassa Wissotzky,” said Mama. “These are my daughters Feera and Ida, nine and eight respectively. They have missed an entire school year on the road from Siberia, and they don’t speak any Hebrew. They are anxious to go to school, and I would like to register them, though I am aware it's almost summer vacation. Would this be in order?”
Dr. Mossinzon bowed gallantly. “Madame Wissotzky, in a school where the headmaster must regularly fish diverse objects out of children's throats,” he said seriously, “anything and everything is in order. The girls are welcome to start tomorrow morning.”
Later, we happily found out that the teachers were flexible and accustomed to new students appearing any time during the year. And a large number of the students were refugees just like us.
The next day we went to school, hand in hand and rather nervous. Feera belonged in a higher grade and the separation alarmed us, our circumstances having made us unusually dependent on each other. However, the night before we made a solemn pact to succeed in the new environment, and I intended to keep to it. Bravely, I entered my classroom. The sun streamed through the tall windows, illuminating the spacious room with long shafts of light. Maps and pictures of various Zionist leaders hung on the white walls, together with colorful pictures drawn by the students. A few potted plants grew on the windowsill, and a vase of red and yellow wildflowers stood on the teacher's desk.
As the teacher introduced me to the class, in Hebrew and in Russian, I stood by the blackboard and looked at the children, sitting two by two at wooden desks. A sea of new faces, confusing, even frightening. I felt so alone; I desperately wanted Feera. The teacher pointed me to a seat next to a pretty girl who had no partner. As soon as I sat down someone said something in Hebrew and the whole class laughed and started chanting. I was ready to be horribly offended, when the girl smiled and said in perfect Russian, “Don't worry. They are laughing because my name is Ada, and they are chanting 'Ida and Ada, Ida and Ada. They think it's funny how our names match.” I laughed, relieved, and looked at her closely for the first time. Ada seemed oddly familiar. The soft ash-brown curls, blue eyes, and regular features; the little pink dress, so clean and neat, with a sparkling white collar . . . “Hulda!” I said, catching my breath. “You look just like Hulda!”
“Hulda? Who is Hulda? Surely you don't mean the settlement we have here, named Hulda?” Asked Ada.
“What? There is a settlement in Israel by the name of Hulda?”
This was too much to digest at once. I gaped at her, almost overcome by all these mysteries. “I'll tell you all about it at recess,” I said weakly.
“You have such beautiful red hair,” said Ada with sincere admiration. “I always wanted red hair. It’s so fashionable in Europe, you know.”
That settled it; I knew we were friends for life. And we still are best friends, two grandmothers, so many years later. Ada’s curls are snow-white now, and she is just as beautiful today as she had been then.
At recess, before I could explain about Hulda, Feera ran over to introduce me to a new friend. “This is Leah,” she said. “And she doesn't speak a word of Russian. Would you believe, she was born here! Her family came to Israel hundreds of years ago from Sepharad, which is Spain, so they call themselves 'Sephardim,' isn't that something. . .”
“Feera, how did you find out? You say she doesn't speak Russian!”
Feera stopped to think. “I don't know. We somehow talked, maybe my other new friend, Ora, translated. Do you know what her name means? 'Ora' is 'Light' in Hebrew. She was born here, too, but she speaks a bit of Russian with her parents.”
“My name is Yafa,” said another girl with black curls and a red ribbon. “It means 'beautiful' in Hebrew.”
Ada laughed. “That's how I learned Hebrew, too. You just talk to people, and suddenly it happens.” Ada Fichman, the daughter of a noted poet and world traveler, already spoke fluent Russian, Yiddish, German, and Hebrew, and a smattering of French and English as well. And she knew what she was talking about. In no time Feera and I felt quite comfortable and started picking up the language with the speed only children are capable of. We were so busy, so happy. We were home.
A typical apartment house in Tel-Aviv
Avraham’s dental office in Tel-Aviv
In the park at Yehuda-ha-Levi Street.
An early lending library card
Ida with a friend, dressing up
Sailing on the Yarkon River with friends
Ida and Ada as teenagers
CHAPTER
ELEVEN: SASHA’S DREAM
The lemon tree reached Israel in all its green glory, a pioneer of the famous “third wave of immigration” in everything. It arrived exactly as Sasha dreamed, to the sun, the warmth and the light. The tree had a place of honor in the new home, the best ornament in the two rooms we inhabited; it made us feel that Sasha came with us. We thought we’d keep it a little longer before transplanting it, to make sure it continued healthy and well.
After a short time, during the hot Israeli summer, the lemon tree's leaves began to yellow. Mama looked at it, pale and worried. She did all that could be done but the tree went on yellowing. So Mama brought the pot to a professional gardener; he listened to the story of the long trip from Siberia, checked the leaves and pronounced: “The change of climate killed the plant. There is nothing I can do.”
Mama walked home quietly, thoughtfully, holding the pot close to her heart. Feera and I, who accompanied her to that nursery, walked silently by her side. A second funeral procession for Sasha.
At home, Mama put the tree on the windowsill and collapsed on a chair. Papa came out of his office. Feera told him what the gardener said.
“No,” he said with determination. “I don't care what he said.”
“Avraham,” said Mama wearily. “He must be right. It is a known fact that a change of climate can kill a plant.”
“I don't care if every horticultural book or learned professor of botany said that, Hadassa. This is not a plant; this is Sasha's dream. The lemon tree must be planted in an orchard.”
