“No one puts their feet up in Massuot Yitzhak, Mister Haas.”
“I see that. And please. Vince.”
“I agree with Pinchus. You look like you need a rest. And a shave. And a laundry.”
“Kharda showed up and grabbed me out of my room. I didn’t have time.”
“Are you a gun runner like him?”
“What? No. I write for an American newspaper.”
“Did Kharda bring guns?”
“For the new kibbutz. Revadim.”
“My sister is there.”
Vince spread his hands. “That’s great. You have family.”
Quickly, keenly, he reversed himself. “I didn’t mean it to sound like that.” He lowered his eyes to the cinder path and the painted rocks that marked it.
“You assume that I lost someone.”
“Yes. Sorry.”
“I did. My mother and father.”
Vince Haas said no more. He had yet to put his hat back on.
The sun doused in the orange horizon. The dry season had begun, and the clear night twinkled early. Rivkah didn’t turn back for the house but led Vince to the trickling stream, to the quarry, the terraces she’d helped build, and a starlit view of the Valley of Brakha where the prophets had walked.
“How do you know Kharda?”
“I was with the U.S. Army when we entered Buchenwald. I met him there. Three months after that, I sailed with him on an Aliyah Bet ship from France. I didn’t see him for most of a year, went home to New York, then turned around and came back when he telegrammed me.”
“What did he say?”
“That he could tell me the story of Palestine.”
“Is that what he’s doing?”
“I think I’ve learned just as much in the last ten minutes. My boss told me if I didn’t come back, he’d fire me.”
With a shared laugh they walked the rows of a young citrus grove. Vince plucked leaves. Their boots crunched on the moon-bright ground, and she said, “Tell me about your own work.”
“It’s too peaceful out here to talk about it.” He pinched another leaf.
Rivkah walked him to the place where a year ago she’d danced around Massuot Yitzhak’s first bonfire and watched Arabs and Jews throw stones at each other. She’d worked this spot with hoe and pick to make space for the orchard’s roots. Vince sat with her on the ground; he folded in a funny way, like Malik’s camel. He didn’t look comfortable, knees up to his chin. Rivkah stayed quiet, leaving him to the dark hills and the scents of the first fruit, to the stars and rawness of the land, the things that would have kept her company tonight had Vince Haas not come.
Chapter 44
Hugo
Waiting for Vince and the girl to return, Mrs. Pappel asked, “Would you like to see my guns?”
“I would.”
They went first to the Škoda. Hugo opened the trunk to heft three sacks, in each a pair of silver Stens made in Irgun shops. Mrs. Pappel grabbed another bag containing four Lee-Enfield rifles captured in raids on the British.
Mrs. Pappel’s hiding place was ingenious. A secret door inside the closet of her schoolroom led down earthen steps to a small armory. An electric lamp and a fan stood on a workbench beside tools spread over a cloth. Twenty small arms hung on hooks: British and Dutch rifles, American pistols, ten crates of ammo stacked against a wall. Hugo stood straight in the cave, though Vince would need to crouch.
“Where did you get all these?”
“A friend.”
Back at Mrs. Pappel’s stone house, she went inside to brew tea. Hugo had barely settled into a porch chair when an immense Arab rode a camel up the quarry road. Hugo got to his feet should he need to dash for the Škoda and the pistol in the glove box.
Mrs. Pappel came out to see the new arrival. “And here is my friend.”
“Him? An Arab brings you guns?”
“Magnificent, isn’t he?”
The Arab dismounted from a camel he did not tie up. The beast harrumphed before lumbering off. The Arab bowed to Mrs. Pappel, then introduced himself to Hugo by pronouncing a long family name. He took Hugo’s hand into an enveloping grasp and said, Hugo may call him Malik.
Mrs. Pappel introduced Hugo as Kharda.
Malik asked, “Why are you called Scrap Iron?”
“Because I have turned Arab scrap into Jewish weapons.”
Malik liked this. He asked if Hugo might make him one.
“No.”
Robes shrouded the big, bearded Arab; a bronze scabbard and knife dangled about his neck. Mrs. Pappel told Malik another guest, an American, was out on a stroll with Rivkah. With familiarity, the Arab entered the house to bring out a kitchen chair so he, too, might wait for Vince and Rivkah. Unbidden, Malik recited a poem. Hugo’s thoughts wandered while the Arab intoned about the sun and barren ground; Hugo cared little for the lessons of the desert.
On the porch, Malik and Mrs. Pappel talked as familiars. Hugo sat through banter about weather and bland topics that excluded him and told him he was not liked. Neither asked Hugo about himself. Had they inquired, he would have waved his story off as Irgun secrets; had they asked about the camps, he would say that was too much to talk about. He’d killed a policeman, but the girl had paid him no attention. Vince fell over himself to accept her offer of a tour. Hugo looked to the glow of Jerusalem.
Out in the murk, Malik’s camel hooted. Vince and Rivkah arrived, chatting as they came.
Chapter 45
Vince
Vince hesitated before stepping onto the porch. A great, dark Arab sat there with Hugo and Mrs. Pappel. Rivkah pressed her hand against his back to tell him he should walk on. She hadn’t touched him before.
“Malik, I’m glad to see you.”
In a swirl of robes, the Arab stood. His head rose level with Vince’s. He offered Rivkah the seat he’d vacated. She motioned for Vince to sit instead.
“This is Vince Haas. He’s a newspaperman. From New York.”
Malik dipped his forehead as he covered his heart. “Effendi.”
Vince sat between Hugo and Mrs. Pappel. The shuffling on the small porch was accompanied by a grunt out in the night. Vince asked, “Was that a camel?”
The Arab said, “Yes.”
Rivkah asked if Vince wanted tea. He accepted and she went inside, though neither Hugo nor the Arab had tea, and she didn’t offer to them.
Standing off the porch, Malik propped one boot on the step. “I saw your car in the dusk. When you stopped at this house, I thought it might be Pinchus.”
The Arab’s voice came from deep in his chest, a laden voice that had traveled. He had little accent to his English. Malik made slow movements when he spoke, languorous as if he were always in the sun.
“Pinchus owes me money. Of course, I am an Arab and he is a Jew. One of us will always owe the other money.”
Mrs. Pappel spoke to Vince across the lip of her teacup. “Hugo tells me you saved his life.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
Hugo scooted forward in his seat. “He saved me twice. Once in Buchenwald, again on a ship. I’ve only managed to save him once.”
Hugo waggled one finger in the air to symbolize the King David.
“Did you know he’s famous? He’s read around the world. Vincent Haas.”
Off the porch, Malik ruffled, though there was no wind. “Perhaps Vincent Haas would like to hear some of my poems.”
Behind her teacup, by the light spilling through the window, Mrs. Pappel said, “Perhaps he would. Some time.”
Rivkah returned with the tea. Vince stood to accept the cup; she touched him again, to settle him back into the chair.
Malik pressed his large hands together. “You are misafir in this house. A guest. In Islam, there is no greater status.”
Hugo said, “This is a J
ewish house.”
The Arab’s weathered features did not change. He opened his hands and presented them together to Hugo like a book.
“That is why we must learn each other’s ways.” Malik shut his palms as if closing the book. “Or we will remain strangers.”
Mrs. Pappel set her teacup beside her feet. Vince couldn’t guess the Arab’s age, but the woman seemed the elder on the porch. She tugged her braided ponytail across her shoulder.
“Tell me, Mister Haas. As an American. What do you think?”
“About?”
“Let’s start small. Massuot Yitzhak.”
Vince glanced quickly at Rivkah, then away.
“Beautiful.”
Chapter 46
Hugo
Vince’s gift of saying little played well on the porch. When Rivkah came out with tea for Vince, she had no cup for Hugo. Vince was a visitor to Palestine, an observer on their lives. Hugo was a survivor, Irgun, and they knew it. These were farmers, an American, an Arab.
The talk ran long, about land and seed, blossoms and labor. Mrs. Pappel called the people of the kibbutzim “pioneers.” Hugo sniffed at this.
“That is a luxury.”
Mrs. Pappel engaged him, unafraid or unaware. “Aren’t you a pioneer, in your way?”
“No.”
“Then what are you?”
“A fighter.”
“How are we different? Aren’t we all fighting for the same thing?”
Hugo’s ire rose, he paused it in his throat. Every person in this bloc, every Jew in Palestine, had lost someone. He should respect that; they all shared the tragedy of it. But the similarity ended there, with loss. Hugo was no farmer, and they were not warriors. He chose to speak his mind, and the trees and fields be damned.
“You plant, you build. You milk cows. You plow and irrigate. That’s a day’s work for you. It’s not what I do.”
Vince said, “Hugo.”
“I fight the idea of the Jew ever again being at the mercy of others. I fight the old claims on Palestine, the British, and yes, the Arabs. I destroy things. I kill people. I’m hidden inside the revolt. I can’t use my name, and my face can get me hanged. You live in the sun. He writes poems about it. Vince writes stories about me.”
The old Arab nodded, a small gesture, hidden from the rest but not from Hugo. This Arab had done violence, understood it and, like Hugo, saw the truth that Palestine was not the green of a field or the moonlit fruit of a tree.
Mrs. Pappel folded her hands. Vince remained ever the witness. Rivkah answered.
“How can you do to others what was done to you? Was there not enough horror for you?”
“What do you know?”
“Don’t you dare ask me that.”
Vince raised both palms, for Hugo to stop. Was Vince going to defend the girl now? She didn’t seem to require it. She pressed on.
“For you, Kharda. Tell me. Has the gun become Zur Israel?” One of God’s names.
“It has.”
“Then why do you keep a newspaperman from America with you? It’s to have him watch what you do. This is how you forgive yourself. Vince won’t judge your violence. He can’t. He reports from a distance, and that distance cleanses you. The people cheer your bombs and your murders; they clap hands that have no blood on them. They know it’s wrong, what you do, but they let you be damned instead of them. You, your Irgun, your killers, you’re the kind of evil the rest of us call necessary. But you’ve forgotten what Palestine will be when you’re done.” Rivkah pointed into the night. “Come look at Massuot Yitzhak in the sun. We will remind you.”
Without hurry, Hugo stood from his seat; it may have looked like anger because Vince braced himself on the arms of his own chair. The Arab remained motionless on the edge of the porch, wrapped in the night and his robes when Hugo moved past.
He walked the short distance to the Škoda where he popped open the glove box. Making no effort to conceal the pistol, Hug carried it back to the porch, feeling all the more powerful for the fact that he should not have it. Malik shifted only slightly; his hands disappeared inside his robes where he surely carried his own weapon.
Hugo lifted the gun for them to see, aimed at no one.
“This. This is why we are not victims anymore. If you think you’re safe without it, if you believe the British will leave Palestine without us using this, you’re ignorant. And the Arabs, including your friend here. Are they going to turn the land over to us out of pity, out of friendship? Or because of this? Where are you from, girl?”
“Vienna.”
“Vienna happened to you.” He tapped the gun to his chest. “Leipzig happened to me. Are your sun and crops going to stop it from happening again here? Will your schoolhouse, your little village on a hill, your fucking teacups, stop it because we’re in Palestine? If the Jews don’t fight, we stay victims. The Germans win.”
“If we make others our victims, the Germans win.”
Hugo became aware of Vince standing near him only when he took Hugo’s arm.
“Come on.”
Vince positioned himself between Hugo and the women on the porch. Hugo groped for something to say across Vince pressing him backwards, something searing. Vince wrapped Hugo’s wrist to push the pistol down, perhaps to take the gun away. Hugo tore his hand away and kept the gun.
His momentum took him off the porch, beside the big Arab. Hugo expected a shove from Malik, a hiss, or some contempt. The Arab’s hands had come out of his robes empty. He whispered, “I’m sorry.”
Mrs. Pappel came to the edge of the porch. “Listen to me. You are welcome in this house. But the next time you bring a gun up my step, you’ll leave it with me. Good night.”
Hugo backpedaled, inclining his head to Mrs. Pappel as he headed for the car. He would not come back to a house where he was compared to the Germans.
“Vince?”
Vince didn’t step off the porch. “I think I’ll stay here tonight.”
Hugo didn’t ask if Vince had an invitation or a ride home. He had no curiosity; his desire for company was gone. In the dark, Hugo turned away.
Putting the stone house behind him, he shoved the pistol into the glovebox. Vince’s staying would break no bond between them. Hugo had said nothing that wasn’t true; Vince, in typical fashion, had said nothing.
Chapter 47
Rivkah
No one moved until Hugo’s taillights blinked out among the Judean hills.
Malik stepped onto the porch to take the open chair. Mrs. Pappel patted Rivkah’s knee. Vince watched the Jerusalem road, then turned to them with palms up.
“Sorry.”
Mrs. Pappel knitted her fingers. “Sorry for what, dear?”
“I didn’t think before I said that.”
Mrs. Pappel tapped her thumbs together. “I suspect that’s the case.”
“I’ll sleep out here, okay?”
“You can stay on the couch. It’s short and you won’t like it. You’ll freeze out here.”
Malik twirled a large finger. “The winds.”
“Tea.” Mrs. Pappel pushed herself to her feet. “Malik. Join me.”
The two left Rivkah alone with Vince. He held his stance, still without his hat on his head. Rivkah asked him to sit. She named for him the visible lights in the hills: the two newest settlements, Ein Tzurim and Revadim; further north, Nahalin; to the west, Arab Jab’a on very high ground; and glowing behind them all, Jerusalem.
The windows of Massuot Yitzhak blinked from white to buttery; the diesel generators shut down every night at 9:00 p.m. and the homes still awake switched to lanterns and candles. Inside Rivkah’s house, Mrs. Pappel laughed.
Rivkah said, “They like you.”
He seemed to waken from the landscape. “Oh.”
“Your friend Kharda.”
; “I’m not sure we’re friends at this point.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. He and I have very different views. One of those rifles he brought might wind up in my sister’s hands. The thought terrifies me. May I ask what you think?”
“The world just came out of a pretty brutal war. I don’t blame him.”
“How can you not?”
“He’s been through the worst of it. Violence is what the world has gotten used to.”
“May I change the conversation?”
Vince rubbed his unshaven chin. “Uh-oh.”
“You said I was beautiful.”
“Did I say that?”
“In a way.” In the measly light she could not read his face.
“I wasn’t trying to be forward.”
“You’re not in trouble. I was flattered, if that’s what you meant.”
“I did. I mean.” Finally, he put on his hat. “You are. If that’s okay. Look, we just met.” His fingers drummed on the arm of his chair.
“It doesn’t feel like that.”
“I’m an American.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Rivkah.” He’d not said her name before this. “I’m not Jewish.”
She laughed quietly. “You don’t have to be everything.”
The brim of his hat lowered between them; Vince was staring at her hand.
“Can I take it?”
“Yes, Vince.”
He gathered up her hand to hold it in his lap, asking wordlessly if he might keep it like this for a while. Rivkah sat back, not realizing she’d leaned forward.
Around the kibbutz, candles snuffed in windows one at a time, like sleep falling across the settlement. Mrs. Pappel came onto the porch, Malik behind her. Vince didn’t let her go but eased his grip to tell her she could pull it back if she wished. Rivkah left her fingers meshed with his.
Malik strode off the porch; Mrs. Pappel stopped at the step. Both kept their backs turned to Vince and Rivkah. Without any call, Malik’s camel shambled out of the night. The beast approached, bowed its long neck, then eased bony joints to the earth. Malik swept onto the blanket-draped saddle. With a click of his tongue, the camel stood, hoisting him into silhouette.
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