A Promised Land?

by Alan Collins

  ‘‘Nu Jacob, how goes it?’’ She took in Peg with a knowing glance. ‘‘And this young lady — your friend, nicht wahr? (Is it not so?).’’ Jacob introduced Peg and Mitzi Strauss asked mischieviously, ‘‘You don’t see any more Ruti?’’

  Before he could reply, she snapped her fingers and a pretty girl in black-and-white waitress’s uniform came to the table. Mitzi told her to take their order. ‘‘And they are by me special friends so, you will bring to me the bill.’’ Then she was gone, back behind the hissing urns.

  ‘‘What a bloody cheeky old cow,’’ Peg said in a fury, ‘‘I don’t need her charity.’’ She was half out of the booth, but Jacob gently eased her down. She glared at Jacob over the rim of her glasses. ‘‘Ruti — I remember her,’’ she said. ‘‘She’s the one that went to uni. The one I met outside that meeting of — what do you call them — Zionists?’’ Jacob nodded. He tried to stop her by reading out the menu. But Peg didn’t stop. ‘‘Do you still see her, Jack? Put that bloody menu down and give me an answer. Not that I care a tuppenny damn,’’ she added.

  The waitress returned with two iced coffees and a slice of Black Forest cake for each of them. A tiny crumb fell on Jacob’s shoulder. The girl smiled sweetly at him while she took her napkin and dusted it off.

  Peg said, ‘‘Well, if you aren’t a regular Errol Flynn. Girls falling all over you!’’ She hoed into the Black Forest, her lips contoured with cream. ‘‘You’d better come clean, Jack. Tell Aunty Peg the whole story now, won’t you?’’ She wiped her mouth with a napkin and sat back waiting.

  Jacob wondered just how much to tell Peg. He searched around in the bottom of the parfait glass for the ice-cream while he searched his mind for an answer. Although Peg was not Jewish, Jacob felt sure she would understand the problems that beset his relationship with Ruth. After all, they were problems of human dimensions, and, as he had experienced before with Peg, she had shown an innate ability to understand. He told her of his inward fear of Ruth’s (real or imagined) intellectual abilities, equating academic prowess with intelligence. Peg disposed of this by telling Jacob in no uncertain times that in his own way he was as snobby as Ruth appeared to him in hers.

  ‘‘Don’t think you’re not as good as them, Jack,’’ she said. ‘‘I remember there was a young doctor chasing me round the ward and I tell you, outside his medicine he was a dead loss as a mate. I used to sort him out by asking him if he could fix a blocked up dunny. When he said no, I told him, Well, my young brother the plumber can, so there.’’

  Jacob fell silent. Peg looked at him across the table. She ruffled his hair. ‘‘Go on, Jack,’’ she whispered, ‘‘there’s more bothering you, isn’t there?’’

  ‘‘Peg, I love Ruth and I’ve asked her to go with me to live in Palestine and she’s said yes — at least I think so — but now I’m not so sure that I’ve done the right thing.’’

  Peg said exasperatedly, ‘‘For God’s sake Jack, what do you mean? You’re not sure if you love her or you’re not sure if she’s the one to go off with?’’

  Jacob tried to explain his doubts about Ruth fitting into a kibbutz way of life with its emphasis on sharing of possessions and equality of responsibilities. When he and Ruth had been to Zionist youth meetings where the duties of kibbutz living were explained, on a number of occasions Ruth had asked questions which made him doubt her ability to stick out the rigours of a pioneering kibbutz. He had no doubts for himself, although he often questioned his own motives. Was he interested in this way of life because it removed from him the burden of decision-making? He buried the answer deep within him, not to be revealed to Ruth or Peg.

  Peg said, ‘‘Sorry I lost my temper, Jack. But you are a bit of a fence-sitter aren’t you. I’m different. I’m one of those who believes that he — or she — who hesitates is lost. Now if you were to ask me — crikey, I’d have my bags packed before you could say knife!’’ She smiled impishly at him.

  The pretty waitress managed to clear the table while ogling Jacob. Peg said to her tartly, ‘‘Don’t forget to give the bill to the boss, will you?’’

  Jacob was oblivious of this interplay between the girls. Peg’s last remark to him was exploding in his head. ‘‘Bag-pack-knife”: the words chased one another around like moths looking for a place to settle. He glanced at Peg’s mouth to see if these words had actually been uttered. At that moment it was receiving attention from a make-up compact, repairing the damage caused by Black Forest cake and iced coffee. Peg lowered the compact and made a little kissing mouth followed by a delicious wink.

  To add to his discomfort, Jacob felt the stirring of an erection. Peggy had this effect on him. He was aware of it even when he held her hand — a flush, a prickling of his skin quite out of control. It was a sensation utterly different to his feelings when he was with Ruth — they were calmer, more inhibited, but, he told himself, no less loving.

  Jacob took a deep breath, put his hands on the table to see how steady he could hold them, and said, ‘‘Did you really mean what you said?’’

  ‘‘What? About the bill? Well, she offered didn’t she?’’

  ‘‘Cripes, you do make it hard for a bloke.’’ And then he burst out laughing at what he’d said. Before she could speak, he went on in a rush, ‘‘I mean — about, you know, well, packing your bags and coming with me.’’ He leaned across the table and took her hands in his. ‘‘Are you fair dinkum, Peg?’’

  She kissed him. A cheeky kiss, full of fun and the joy of living. ‘‘Will you take that for an answer, my little four-be-two? Listen, Jack, I’ve finished my midwifery, I can deliver babies anywhere. If you fall out of a tree I can bandage you up.’’ She said proudly: ‘‘I’m a double-certificated nursing sister, Jack Kaiser. What have you got to say to that?’’

  ‘‘Well, I’m a qualified typographer — pretty useless compared to you.’’

  She slapped his hand playfully. ‘‘There you go again, putting yourself down. Come on, Jack remember the party slogan: ‘From each according to his needs — or trade’. Now I don’t know a darn thing about — what d’y’ call them — kibbutzes.’’

  ‘‘Kibbutzim. That’s the plural. Gosh, Peg, you’ve got a lot to learn. And so have I for that matter. Where are you staying now? When can we get together? I’ll teach you all I know. I’ll get the books and we’ll go to lectures and everything. Let’s get out of here! Let’s start now! Gosh, my head’s spinning!’’ He almost dragged Peg out of the booth. When they got to the counter, Mitzi Strauss said, ‘‘A thank-you is all I ask. Is that too much?’’ Jacob thanked her over his shoulder, pulled open the heavy door and hauled Peg through after him. The sun had already set behind the city buildings. They were dressed in light clothes but Jacob felt as though he was on fire. He wondered if he transmitted his own heat to Peg as he held her hand tightly.

  ‘‘Which way to your place?’’ he asked her.

  ‘‘Why not yours?’’

  ‘‘My landlady, Mrs Rothfield, she might not —’’

  ‘‘Might not like gentile girls in the house?’’

  Jacob thought about it. ‘‘You know, Peg, I think I might have misjudged her. Yeah, you come back with me and we’ll see what happens.’’ They walked hand-in-hand to the Elizabeth Street tram, sitting close together until they reached the stop halfway down Bondi Road. By now Peg was beginning to hang back. Jacob, with a new-found assurance, talked rapidly to her about what a decent old sort Mrs Rothfield really was and how she had once lived in Palestine herself when young. Up the stairs they went, still holding hands, past the cooking smells of the flat below, up to the second floor and on to a small landing. While Jacob fumbled for his key, Peg pointed to the mezuzah on the door frame. ‘‘I’ve seen one of those before,’’ she said. ‘‘You had one in tissue paper in your trouser pocket the night we got…’’

  Jacob opened the door. ‘‘Mrs Rothfield, are you home? It’s me, Jacob — Yakov.’’

  ‘‘So who else do I know has a key to my flat? Ss
sh, I’m listening to Mrs ’arris and Mrs ’iggs. Oy, are they pair of yachners — you know what I mean, Yakov? Gossip, gossip all day long.’’

  Jacob guided Peg down the hallway into the darkened lounge room where Mrs Rothfield sat, her eyes fastened on the little light behind the radio dial. At that moment, the signature tune of the comedy indicated the end of the segment. She switched on a table lamp beside her.

  ‘‘Gevalt, Yakov, you didn’t tell me we had a visitor. Look at me. I’m still in my pinny.’’ She stood up, took the pinny off and pulled down her jumper. ‘‘So, who have we here? A young lady? Excuse me, young lady, if Yakov was not such a nudnik, he would introduce us. I am Mrs Rothfield, I’m sure you already know. And you are, please?’’

  Peg came forward, her hand outstretched. ‘‘Peg — Peggy Piper. I’ve heard a lot about you from Jack. You must be like a mum to him after all this time.’’ Mrs Rothfield shook Peg’s hand, then sank back into the armchair. She turned the volume down on the old wireless until it was no more than an electric hum. As though the light from the table lamp was not enough for an adequate examination, she turned the pendant light on. It was directly over Peg’s head, bathing her in a pinkish halo.

  ‘‘A pretty girl,’’ she murmured in Yiddish, ‘‘a bit with the schmaltz but a face I like.’’

  ‘‘Excuse me?’’ Peg said.

  ‘‘Ach, no, excuse me, I was talking to myself. Now, Piper is not a name I know from around here. So where are you from?’’

  Jacob thought, ‘‘You cunning old fox, you know darn well she’s not Jewish. First she speaks Yiddish in front of her, then…’’

  ‘‘Bathurst. You know, over the Blue Mountains. On the Western Plains. Where Ben Chifley comes from.’’

  ‘‘You know Chifley, the great socialist?’’

  ‘‘Labor,’’ Jacob corrected her.

  ‘‘No, no,’’ Peg said, ‘‘that’s right. My dad always said he was a socialist.’’

  ‘‘Such a smart girl, this one. Yakov, bring for her a chair by me. Now, Peg — Peggy? Whatever! What brings you here with my Yakov? I must tell you, in all these years, you are the first, so must be something important, eh?’’

  Jacob cleared his throat.

  Peg cut in. ‘‘Jack has asked me to go to Palestine with him. What do you think of that, Mrs Rothfield?’’ She went over to Jacob and put her arm through his.

  Mrs Rothfield shook her head in disbelief. To herself she said, And how many others has he asked? Out loud, she said, ‘‘You’re not Jewish — that I can see for myself. But I remember’’ — she pointed to the picture on the mantelpiece — ‘‘not all of us from Poland were Jewish either. Some were from the Socialist Party. They knew that kibbutz life was the true socialist way of living. That was the common bond.’’

  Jacob and Peggy stood close together in Mrs Rothfield’s shabby lounge-room. The pink light formed a tight circle around them. Had Mrs Rothfield joined them in that uniting light, Jacob thought that his life would be complete. It was the nearest he had felt to being a family since that day so many years ago when his mother, his father and his little brother, Solly, had been together in the house in Bellevue Hill. And this brought him up short. Ruth now lived in that house. Ruth — had he betrayed her? Immediately Jacob was beset with fear and doubt. His hand sought and found Peg’s and held it so tightly he heard her sharp intake of breath. Mrs Rothfield looked up at the sound. She heaved herself out of the chair and broke Jacob’s grip, forcing her body between the pair.

  ‘‘On a kibbutz, the men also make the tea,’’ she said. ‘‘Now, into the kitchen, Yakov.’’ She pushed him out of the little circle of light, took Peg’s hand and led her to the photo on the mantelpiece. Jacob left unwillingly; from the kitchen he could hear the animation in Mrs Rothfield’s voice and the giggles and gasps from Peg. It reassured him. Unaccustomed as the feeling was, Jacob was enjoying it. He wished it would never leave him.

  nine

  At the end of the year, Peg went home to Bathurst. Jacob wanted to go with her but she would not hear of it. ‘‘You don’t want to sit around stuffing yourself with roast pork and turkey, do you,’’ she told rather than asked Jacob. She tried to paint an unflattering picture of her family at Christmas dinner but only succeeded in heightening Jacob’s curiosity. But Peg was quite firm. She did not want Jacob with her. (It was a long time before she told him that she was scared that some of her family might poke fun at him because he was a Jew, or worse, ridicule their plan to go to Palestine.)

  Now it was mid-January, 1948. Peg threw a copy of that day’s newspaper on the small table in her little bedsitter in Bondi. She had given up living in at the hospital so that she and Jacob could study together. Jacob pretended not to notice her action so she read it out to him:

  ‘‘DEATH TOLL RISES AS JEWS AND ARABS CLASH

  A massive explosion near the Wailing Wall shook Jerusalem. Casualties are not yet known but are expected to be extensive. A reprisal raid against the Arabs by the Jewish defence force, the Haganah, has escalated the fighting since the United Nations decided to partition Palestine to allow for the establishment of a Jewish homeland.’’

  She rolled up the paper and playfully hit Jacob over the head with it. ‘‘Getting a bit serious, wouldn’t you say?’’ she said mockingly. ‘‘Dunno about you, chaver, but my brother taught me how to shoot with his .22 rabbit gun.’’ She made a rifle with the rolled-up paper. Jacob knocked it away angrily. ‘‘It won’t be like that for us, Peg. We are going to be kibbutzniks on a farm. You won’t be anywhere near where there’s shooting going on.’’

  Peg said, ‘‘What about that picture in Mrs Rothfield’s flat with the bloke on the horse standing guard?’’

  ‘‘Oh, that’s nearly forty years ago. Things have changed.’’

  ‘‘Okay, chaver, back to the books.’’

  Peg loved to throw in the odd Jewish word here and there. She had taken enthusiastically to the studies. She was not terribly interested in the ideology of Zionism. ‘‘All that stuff,’’ as she put it, ‘‘doesn’t make the crops grow.’’ She started calling Jacob ‘‘Yakov’’, especially in the small hours of the night as they snuggled in each other’s arms. ‘‘Why can’t I have a Jewish name too?’’ she asked.

  Jacob could think of no good reason why not. ‘‘Peggy, Peg — why not ‘Pnina’? It means ‘pearl’, or ‘like coral’. Do you like that?’’ But she had fallen sound asleep in the time it took for him to think of it.

  Jacob was surprised to discover that Peg had saved quite a lot of money from her wages. It came out when the question of the boat fares arose. They needed nearly £100 each for a single passage on a Greek ship that went from Sydney to Piraeus. From there they would take a small boat to Haifa — providing the British let them land. Jacob could not raise the entire fare, but the shipping company wanted the full fares paid the following week if they were to sail in mid-February. Mrs Rothfield, always attuned to his mood swings, wheedled the problem out of him. The next day she gave him a wad of bank notes. She was unaccustomedly sad as she stuffed it into his coat pocket. “Go in good health, the pair of you,’’ she snuffled through her tears. ‘‘Through you, Shulamit and Yosef Rothfield will have a new life.’’

  A week before the boat was due to sail, Jacob sat in the cabin of Abe’s truck. It was parked in front of the house. Abe had the form guide on his knee, a stub of pencil behind his ear. It was a typical humid Sydney day; Jacob felt the sweat trickling down his neck. It robbed him of the natural warmth he wanted to show to Abe, to thank him for his rough kindness and support when he had confronted Ruth and her mother with the news of his decision to go with Peg Piper to Palestine. Stories had reached the two women with remarkable speed, coloured and emphasised by the highly unusual circumstance of a Jewish boy emigrating to a Jewish ‘‘homeland’’ with a Christian girl. This was what was said — even though they had no evidence of Peg’s Christianity, or whether she was religious at all. The only piece of dogma she
ever quoted was the Marxist saying ‘‘Religion is the opiate of the masses’’.

  Ruth and her mother showed what seemed to Jacob a rehearsed unanimity. Its object was to release Jacob from his earlier naive and enthusiastic invitation to Ruth, while expressing their doubt as to the suitability of Peggy to cope with Zionism, Judaism and what could develop into full-scale war. As the discussion continued, one thing was becoming mercifully clear to Jacob — Ruth was not at all distressed at the turn of events and Mrs Kahn was obviously quite relieved. Jacob said defensively, ‘‘Peg’s a country girl, she’s not one for all the theories.’’ He took a mild shot at Ruth. ‘‘All those ‘isms’ don’t make the land more fertile, do they Ruth?’’

  She looked at him as though through fresh eyes. If she was about to say something cutting, she suppressed it. Abe had been silent up till now, but the very power of his presence had softened the meeting. As Jacob rose to go, Ruth, blinking furiously, took his hand and pressed it.

  ‘‘Do be careful, dear Jacob,’’ she said in a low voice. ‘‘We have shared a lot, you and I.’’ Mrs Kahn did not speak. She put her arms around him in the lighest of embraces and then propelled him slowly toward Abe. As he went through the door, he heard her thin accented voice: ‘‘We love you, Jacob. Come back to us.’’

  Even with both windows down and the old gunnery hatch in the roof wide open, it was still muggy in the truck cabin. Abe pointed to the hatch. ‘‘We used to mount a Bren gun up there. When the Stukas swept down, we’d try to shoot the buggers. Fat chance though.’’ He stuck the form guide on the bulldog clip and reached down under the truck seat.