A Promised Land?

by Alan Collins

  That night they lay beneath their opened sleeping bags and wore jumpers against the cold. Only their noses were exposed. In muffled voices they spoke of the events of the long day. Neither wanted to admit that their sore hands were evidence of the day’s labour. When Peg stroked Jacob’s face he could feel the callouses. His own were still cold and wrinkled from peeling countless potatoes. ‘‘Only another week on the kitchen roster,’’ he told her, ‘‘then I’m going to be a shepherd.’’

  Peg said, ‘‘They reckon I’m a bloody good pruner so I’ll stay on there until it’s finished.’’

  As their bodies grew warmer, they took off their clothes and embraced. They became Yakov and Pnina.

  Outside, they could hear the steady tread of the perimeter guard.

  TWELVE

  At the end of their first week, Peg and Jacob gathered up their clothing and took it to the kibbutz store. They were issued with a week’s supply of work clothes and a few better-grade items for Saturday or Shabbat use. Peg chose clothing that approximated closely to her ideal in Nurit. Jacob, with a fine respect for his socialist principles, chose shirts and trousers almost falling apart from hard wear and relentless laundering. Their status on the kibbutz had been discussed at a committee meeting, and, as no Jewish meeting ever resolved any matter unanimously, they were grateful that a majority had agreed, firstly, that they could stay on a three months’ trial, by which time they had to prove they could ‘‘fit in’’ and, secondly, that they were true to the socialist ideal of Kibbutz Jezreel.

  Because it was out of the usual run of kibbutz agenda items (cows, crops and cash), the committee had dwelt with some relish on the very peculiar situation of Peg being not Jewish, and her status as the putative mother of Joshua. The fact that Peg and Jacob were not married to each other was never an issue in itself, only as it concerned the child’s future. When it was pointed out that Joshua’s dead mother was Jewish and that according to the law of Jewish matrilineal descent, Joshua was unquestionably Jewish, the debate lapsed. Avi duly conveyed the committee’s decision to Jacob and Peg, wished them Mazel Tov, good luck and proceeded to ink in their names on the kibbutz monthly work schedule.

  They were no longer a pencil entry to be erased.

  Their day now took on a routine. They rose about six-thirty, showered in the tiny recess in their hut, dressed and raced each other to be first to pick up Joshua from his cot in the children’s house. The big woman from the East End of London slept in the children’s house. Her affection for the children, whose ages ranged from two-year-old Joshua to seven-year-olds, was tempered with a motherly discipline.

  Shirley, who had been given the Hebrew name of Sharon (secretly she preferred her English name), had Joshua dressed and fed. Jacob carried him with mounting pride to the adult dining room and put him in a high-chair between himself and Peg. There they became Aba (father) and Ima (mother) to a Joshua who was already speaking a few words of Hebrew and a few more in English with a cockney accent. It would not be long, they were assured by other parents, before the child would become their teacher.

  With the fifty or so other kibbutz members, they breakfasted on hardboiled eggs, olives, tomatoes and cucumbers with chunks of homemade bread. The refugees came to the dining hall after the kibbutz members had left for work.

  Peg and Jacob fussed and played with Joshua, who ate everything in sight. Nurit, sitting opposite them, pretended to be disinterested in the domesticity of the trio but once in a while smiled warmly at them. As those on kitchen duty commenced clearing away, she would put on her administrative face and say firmly, ‘‘Okay, chaverim, you have seen the roster. Pnina, pruning. Yakov, go with Shimon — you know him, the one doing guard duty — and take the sheep to graze. Take a lunch pack from the kitchen, too.’’ Shirley then came and collected Joshua, tucking him under her massive arm like a parcel. He did not even whimper.

  Jacob met Shimon at the kibbutz gate. A rifle was slung over the boy’s shoulder like an indispensable item of clothing. His coat pocket bulged with his lunch. They fell into step, side by side: dark-skinned Shimon from the Yemen, Yakov, a slightly built Australian from Bondi. They came to a steel-framed, open-sided barn with light rails all round. Inside were about 150 sheep with long straggly wool. Even to Jacob’s untrained eye, they were in better condition than the animals the Arab boys herded.

  Shimon opened a gate and the sheep reluctantly trotted out. He gave Jacob a stave of olive wood. In halting English he said, ‘‘Up the hill — top — green — see? You show them.’’ He took his own stick and prodded the sheep until all had left the shelter of the barn. Jacob asked Shimon what sort of sheep they were. ‘‘Bodder Lister’’ was the reply. Jacob tossed it around until it became ‘‘Border Leicester’’. Taking up positions on each flank, they drove the flock up the hillside to a grove that had once been ploughed and was now planted with tussocky grass. When the sheep settled down to graze, Shimon showed Jacob the piles of stones that bordered the field.

  ‘‘We build — you put rocks for…’’ He did not know the word for wall. He made a shape with his arms.

  As the sun got higher, they stripped to shirts and trousers. Shimon, muscles glistening with sweat, rifle still slung across his shoulder, worked with a steady rhythm to the envy of Jacob. Down in the valley, the roofs of the kibbutz buildings shone among the trees. Off to the right he could see faintly through the haze the fruit tree groves. It was comforting for him to know that those he loved were in sight while he worked. It could never have happened had he remained at the printery. From this distance, he now felt ashamed at the way he had put up with all the years of humiliation Mr Williams had heaped on him. Oh, if he could just see him now, building a beautiful stone wall with his own hands together with a black man whom Mr Williams would have scornfully labelled ‘‘a darky’’.

  They sat down at midday in the shade of an Aleppo pine, the last one left standing in the grove. Shimon unslung the gun and laid it at his feet. He looked critically at the size of the lunch Jacob had brought. He ate only a handful of olives, dry bread and a few dates. He had a soft drink bottle with water in it which he passed to Jacob.

  ‘‘I sleep now,’’ he said. ‘‘I been guard all night.’’ He stretched out on the ground. From his trouser pocket he took a bullet and handed it to Jacob. He kicked the rifle over to him. ‘‘You are guard now.’’

  Did Shimon know that Jacob had never held a rifle in his life? Even the bullet in his hand now assumed a lethal power outside the rifle. Putting the two together could make Jacob master over life and death. The very thought both frightened and exhilarated him. He picked up the old British Army Lee Enfield rifle and levelled it at a ram on the edge of the flock. As it grazed, he followed its movements through the gun-sight.

  Jacob lowered the rifle. Yes, it was the same make for which Abe Lewis had given him his old army instruction book to study. He released the safety catch and worked the bolt in and out quietly. He inspected the breech, admiring its steely, oily smoothness. As he put his hand in his pocket, feeling for his handkerchief to wipe away an imaginary fleck of dirt, he felt the bullet. Jacob’s fingers curled around its smoothness. He took it out and slid it into the rifle’s breech, worked the bolt home and released the safety catch. The ram was still nibbling away at the edge of the flock. Jacob lifted the gun to his shoulder, the stock warm against his cheek. He lined the fore and back sights up and crushed the trigger. The recoil hurled him back and he fell on top of Shimon. The flock scattered until a leader showed out, then they followed it down the hill toward the kibbutz. The ram that Jacob had sighted the rifle on was running as strongly as any other.

  Shimon was not angry. He picked up the rifle and slung it on his shoulder. He said in a resigned tone, ‘‘Now you will see — everybody come from kibbutz — Avi bring Bren gun truck — look for Arab.’’ He sat down and stared into the distance.

  Jacob was trembling. Shimon put a hand on his arm. ‘‘What you do — you shoot sheep — like in Austria
?’’

  ‘‘Australia,’’ Jacob said. ‘‘Yes,’’ he admitted, ‘‘I was mucking around and aiming at that old ram.’’

  ‘‘Ah — you not hit him — why? You not have these’’ — he pointed to the gun’s sights — ‘‘you not have them right — so — you shoot in air.’’ He burst out laughing.

  The two of them sat down and watched the spume of dust as motor-bikes and the big truck raced up the hill. When the armed motor cyclists arrived they were surprised to find Shimon and Jacob sitting under the pine tree, passing the water-bottle to each other.

  They flung rapid-fire questions in Hebrew at Shimon, who answered them while pointing and laughing at Jacob. The truck could not get right up the hill. Avi left it and panted to the top. The men went through the same performance again. Avi did not take it quite so lightly. He reprimanded Shimon then turned to Jacob.

  ‘‘Not a good start, Yakov. Guns are not for killing sheep but for our protection. Soon, we could be fighting for our lives.’’ He ordered the men back to the kibbutz, then sat down on a rock.

  ‘‘This morning, our underground army, the Haganah, blew up part of the Arab Quarter in Haifa. It is unfortunate that women and children are also the victims — theirs and ours. This raid was in retaliation for the Arabs bombing the Jewish Agency building. And so it goes, with death for both sides.’’

  He stood up and towered over Jacob. ‘‘Listen, Yakov, things are going to get worse. The United Nations is moving nearer and nearer to declaring a Jewish State in Palestine. This is March. It cannot be far off. When it does, the British will quit and Jews and Arabs will be left to fight it out, street by street, kibbutz by kibbutz. Nothing kindles patriotism like fighting over territory. We are no different to any other group, except that for us, this is the last stand for our people after the tragedy of the Holocaust.’’ He stood up, and returned the gun not to Shimon but to Jacob. Shimon understood the gesture. Jacob was expected to take his place with the defenders. Avi went down the hill to the truck. Halfway down, he stopped and called out: ‘‘Get those sheep back or you really will be in trouble!’’

  The sheep had come to a halt in the bottom of the wadi. A meagre spring in the hillside trickled water into the wadi and the sheep were drinking. As the two of them reached the sheep and were about to drive them back towards the road leading to the kibbutz, Shimon called out softly to Jacob and pointed. Jacob saw, in the middle of their flock, a tawny colored goat. They approached stealthily, not wanting to startle the sheep. Shimon picked his way through the flock until he reached the goat. He seized its trailing halter and led it out of the flock.

  ‘‘Belong Arab — boy here — he find.’’

  Jacob came over to him. He did not want to admit to Shimon that he had never seen a goat close up before. He took the halter from him; the goat, as if aware of his inexperience, made a sudden lunge for freedom and pulled Jacob off his feet. He let go of the halter and the goat headed for a clump of bushes. When it reappeared it was held firmly and unresisting by a small Arab boy who lightly beat the goat as if to show to all, including the goat, who was master.

  A rapid-fire conversation in Arabic ensued between the boy and Shimon. Jacob stood open-mouthed, unable to contribute as the two gestured toward the spring and alternately argued and laughed. Shimon took out his water-bottle and offered it to the Arab boy, who took a sip more for formality than thirst. He then picked up the halter and the goat placidly followed him up the wadi.

  Jacob looked enquiringly at Shimon. He shrugged; these Arabs were nomads, they were looking for the Spring grasses along the roadsides; the goat had got away. ‘‘Goat not know Jewish land — Arab do — who is smart, eh?’’

  They rounded up the sheep and drove them slowly down the hill to the big barn. It was only when they were counting them in through the gate that they discovered one was missing. ‘‘Will we have to tell Avi?’’ Jacob asked.

  Shimon shrugged, ‘‘Arab boy take — we have more. Spring lamb soon.’’

  Jacob was both tired and refreshed by a day full of new experiences. He could hardly wait to tell Peg; pruning trees could not possibly compare.

  When he reached the children’s house, Peg was already there. Her freckly face was now suntanned; she stirred him when she bent down to pick up Joshua, and he admired her compact body bursting from its prison of tight shorts and shirt. He almost forget to tell her of his day.

  ‘‘I met an Arab today,’’ he started, but she interrupted. ‘‘Shirley’s teaching Josh the Hebrew alphabet and I’m learning too!’’ She ordered Jacob to sit down on one of the low kindergarten chairs and plonked Joshua on his lap. ‘‘Now, you little bugger,’’ she wagged her finger at the baby, ‘‘Ready? Aleph, Bet, Gimmel, Dallet.’’ Joshua did indeed give a fairly accurate repetition of the first two letters, enough to have the two women declare him little short of a genius. Jacob and Peg carried him with bursting pride to their hut. Jacob played with him while Peg showered, then he showered and shouted through the curtain about his day as a shepherd, and the rifle and Arab boy incidents. When he turned the water off and pulled back the curtain, Peg was lying on the bed in her pants and bra with Joshua laughing and crawling all over her. He felt a momentary resentment, certain that Peg had not heard a word he had said. It passed quickly and he joined them, romping on the bed.

  In the dining hall that night, Avi stood up and asked for silence. Jacob thought, not for the first time, how much he resembled Abe Lewis in the manner in which he inspired respect. He had an air of rock-solid dependability about him. Jacob hushed Joshua as Avi began to speak.

  ‘‘Chaverim,’’ he began in Hebrew — then, perhaps in deference to the newer members of the kibbutz, ‘‘comrades. I have just heard by telephone from Kibbutz Emek that six hundred Arabs have crossed the Syrian border where they have been training. In the early hours of this morning they attacked three kibbutzim just below the Golan Heights. There has been loss of life on both sides, but what is worse, the raid has proved to our local Arab population that kibbutzim can be attacked by these guerilla bands.’’ His usually quiet, reasonable manner changed. He banged the table. ‘‘The trust we have built up with our Arab neighbours exists no longer. It is sad but true. Now we must put this kibbutz fully on the defensive.’’ The secretary of the kibbutz tugged at his sleeve and Avi bent down to her.

  ‘‘Ah yes, Geula reminds me to tell all newcomers that if they wish to leave — although God knows where it is safe today in Israel — they should feel free.’’ He looked grimly around the dining hall. Joshua gurgled in the silence. ‘‘Aha, we have one response,’’ Avi said jokingly.

  ‘‘Not without us he won’t!’’ Peg shouted. ‘‘I can tell you Yakov and Pnina and Joshua are staying right here!’’ The laughter and clapping broke the tension of Avi’s sombre news. He threw his hands in the air and smiled broadly.

  ‘‘The really bad news,’’ he said, when it was quiet again, ‘‘is that we shall have to leave our farming jobs for a while and dig shelters and slit trenches.’’

  Then Geula stood up and announced a new duty roster would be posted. The kibbutz members, instead of their usual evening’s recreation together, drifted off to their homes. Jacob and Peg took Joshua back to the children’s house, reluctantly. They hugged and kissed him then walked in silence back to their hut. Through the window, they could see another kibbutz member keeping guard. Jacob wondered how he would cope with the long dark night when it was his turn. He fell asleep with his arm thrown across Peg. By now he was nearly as deeply tanned as she was.

  He dreamed of the days he had spent in the shelter of the Bondi rocks when his body turned a golden brown in the summer sun, how the surf would pound him and throw him up on the sand and his hands would start to pucker from the hours spent in the water. Ruti’s face floated up from the waves; once more, in his dream, they made love on the grassy patch at the south end of Bondi Beach. He woke, and with feelings of guilt, moved away from the sleeping Peg. He needed to hide h
is wetness from her. He stood by the window and watched the guard’s regular progress up and down the perimeter. His pace seemed to keep time with Peg’s regular breathing. It was the reassurance he wanted. Towards dawn, he stretched out beside her.

  THIRTEEN

  Jacob joined the other anxious kibbutzniks in front of the notice-board. Peg had left soon after breakfast (‘‘Bloody hell, hard-boiled eggs again,’’ she swore) and had gone to her new rostered duty in the children’s house and the laundry.

  On a list compiled by the Security Committee, Shimon found Jacob’s name; his dark finger moved along the line. ‘‘Nort tower — you — me, all night — tru to sun up.’’ They were rostered together on the northern watch-tower from sunset to sunrise. In the secretary’s office they were issued with guns. Jacob got the Lee-Enfield and two clips of bullets; Shimon was handed a sub-machine gun of a make unknown to Jacob but he did notice the British government’s broad arrow stamp on the butt. The ammunition was in clips, stowed in cardboard cartons. Shimon lifted them on to his shoulder and dangled the machine gun with easy familiarity. Nervously Jacob slung the rifle over his shoulder in an attempt to emulate the relaxed style of his friend. He knew it didn’t look right, but perhaps Peg would not be so critical.

  For the rest of the morning they joined a gang digging slit trenches around the main buildings. Jacob was fascinated by the different languages spoken, increasingly interwoven with Hebrew words as they learned more of this ancient tongue which now had to cope with non-Biblical words like telephone, radio, aeroplane and electricity. The women enjoyed newly created words for cosmetics other than those described in such writings as ‘‘The Song of Solomon’’.

  Jacob and Shimon finished their shift by lunch time and were served a light meal. He saw Peg briefly; she looked exhausted — which was exactly what she said about Jacob.