A Promised Land?

by Alan Collins

  Joshua said apprehensively, ‘‘How am I actually getting to Bathurst? Car, train, plane or Cobb Co coach? I mean, every way of getting out of Sydney will be watched. Maybe I should be disguised like Mr Toad’s washerwoman. I suppose I could hitchhike or even walk over the Blue Mountains like Blaxland, Wentworth and Lawson. After all, I’ll have plenty of time to spare.’’

  From all around the table there came a buzz of suggestions, but above the hubbub, Laura’s voice could be heard shouting the Hebrew word for quiet: ‘‘Shechet!’’ When she had their attention she calmly announced that she had already asked Ilan to take Joshua in the back of a hired van. ‘‘Pardon the expression,’’ Laura said, ‘‘but that guy is as cunning as a shithouse rat — a born survivor and, if possible, a bigger con man than Uncle Siddy here.’’ The old man smirked at the compliment and lit a cigar.

  Before Jacob could object to both the cigar and Laura’s scheme, Joshua said excitedly, ‘‘Terrific, Laura! I can’t say Ilan’s my favourite person but I feel the same confidence in him that you do.’’ He put his arm around her. ‘‘Will you come too — just for the ride?’’ Laura shook her head. She told him, and all around the table nodded in agreement, that she was now well known to ASIO for her political agitating. ‘‘They’d come looking for me and track you down too, Joshua.’’ Yet she had nearly agreed to Ilan’s suggestion to “go along for the ride’’, beset as she was by nagging jealousy of the teenage girl whom she imagined lay in wait for her Joshua.

  Laura explained her choice to the others, who had never heard of Ilan. There were a few rumblings but the idea was voted “a real ripper’’ by Abe Lewis, who no doubt saw himself in Joshua’s shoes and revelled in the mystery and the heroics. The meeting broke up.

  Joshua closed the door of the flat behind him. He looked at the mezuzah on the doorpost, debated whether to remove it, decided against it, and went down the stairs to the street where, in the lightening dawn, Ilan’s van was parked. He threw his pack in the back and was about to climb in after it when he called to Ilan to wait a moment, rushed back up the stairs, took out his pocket knife and levered the mezuzah off. The little cylinder nestled in the palm of his hand like a metallic bug. Downstairs once more, he waved to Ilan in the driving seat then clambered into the back of the van. Two arms wrapped around him and he smelt the bush tangyness of Laura’s perfume.

  “Gotcha,’’ she laughed. “This’ll teach you to be more cautious, jumping into strange vans without first checking.’’

  They kissed and stretched out together on the floor of the van. Ilan’s voice, singing an Israeli army song, could be heard even over the roar of the engine.

  Laura prised Joshua’s fingers open. “What on earth?’’ she started — then stroking his cheek, she said softly, “Joshua, leave it with me; I’ll mind it until you come back and then … and then maybe we can put it on the doorpost of our own home.’’

  Ilan’s song came to an end. He called back to them, “I hate to break up the party, but Laura, my little dove, here is where you get out.’’ The van was in a side street off Taylor Square. Nobody but a mangy dog and a newspaper boy were there to witness the passionate parting.

  ‘‘Step on it, Joshua,’’ Ilan called impatiently as the pair embraced in the empty street. He rolled the van forward a couple of feet. Joshua tore himself away from Laura and leapt into the back. Through the open doors he waved back forlornly to her diminishing figure in a landscape of dilapidated houses and battered rubbish tins.

  Ilan started to sing again, a maudlin, tuneless song of unrequited love that had been on the pop charts when he had arrived in Australia. Joshua shouted to him to shut up, then regretted it. Ilan told him of his life on Kibbutz Jezreel where he was in charge of bringing irrigation water from the Jordan. Ilan, not known for his modesty, was also an expert on hydroponic farming and, as Joshua already knew, a small arms dealer of no small skill.

  These two young men of similar age had been babies together in the kibbutz children’s house. Ilan was the child of Aviva. It was her husband Uri who had been cut down by rifle fire together with Peg as they defended the kibbutz perimeter. Aviva still tended Peg’s lonely grave under the Aleppo pine. It was she who had ordered her only son Ilan to seek out Joshua in Australia.

  After a while, Joshua wanted to join Ilan up front. Ilan, revelling in the clandestine mission, forbade it. ‘‘Stay under cover,’’ he ordered as the van began its assault on the Blue Mountain crossing from the flats of Emu Plains. Ilan had done his two-year military service in the Israeli Army and had finished with a lieutenant’s rank and an air of authority. He did not question Joshua’s motives in avoiding the Vietnam call-up. Instead he bragged of the illicit side of army life — and the girls he had made love with.

  The van reached Blackheath just before noon. Ilan ran it under some trees on a timber track off the main road. He got down, lit a smoke, looked around, then tapped on the van door. Joshua joined him. He remembered that Mrs Rothfield, who revelled in the secrecy as much as Ilan, had given Laura a thermos and sandwiches “for my little grandson’’, as she put it.

  The two men sat in the clear mountain air and ate. Ilan lit another of his acrid Israeli cigarettes, blew out smoke and said casually, “I’ve got a gun in my jacket pocket — kept it back from that time when …’’

  “Are you nuts?’’

  “Ah, Yossie, one little pistol. Don’t worry. I’m so used to guns — in Israel it’s compulsory to carry your weapon everywhere with you. Now it’s a habit.’’ There was a rustle in the bushes. In an instant, the pistol was in Ilan’s hand. The rabbit sat up and looked straight down the pistol barrel. Ilan burst out laughing, pocketed the gun and clapped his hands. The rabbit bolted into the scrub.

  “And now to more serious matters,’’ Ilan said. “You have a girl cousin in Bathurst? Seventeen or so? A country girl — always a bit more — er, what do you say — developed, yes? Now listen Yossie, I’m not driving all these miles just for a cup of tea. She can’t possibly interest you. After all … you have Laura.’’

  “Why don’t you just shut your mouth,’’ Joshua exploded. “In the first place, I didn’t ask you to drive me, and in the second place, this girl, whoever she is, is not my real cousin. You of all people should know better. She is the daughter of my mother’s brother—you know what I’m trying to say, Ilan. Look, I don’t even know her name,’’ he finished lamely.

  Ilan smiled. “Oh boy, look what I’ve stirred up. The draft dodger’s got balls.’’ He grabbed Joshua in a playful headlock and they wrestled without serious intent. They broke apart when they heard a groaning engine. A battered timber truck lurched down the track, its driver yelling above the motor: “Git orf the bloody track, can’t yers!’’

  Back on the highway once more, Ilan estimated they should get to Bathurst by mid-afternoon. ‘‘But we’ll wait until dark, Yossie.’’ Ever the conspirator, the man of action, the secret operative, Ilan was determined to play the Scarlet Pimpernel to deliver his man. Joshua, stretched out in the van, let his mind roam over the immediate future. What sort of a person would ‘‘Grandma’’ Piper be? What would he do with himself in Bathurst? Mrs Rothfield assured him that any town that had produced Ben Chifley must be a good place. Finally, he fell asleep thinking not of Laura but of a beautiful country girl like those in the dairy advertisements, looking as fresh as a daisy no matter what.

  When he woke, the van had stopped. It was so still he could hear frogs calling. The moonlight threw a beam through the van window. It was the cold of a country night when the sun dips suddenly behind the hills.

  Ilan called back to him. ‘‘I made another stop on the way — near Lithgow — you just slept on. I wanted to delay getting to Mrs Piper’s place until nightfall.’’ He got into the back with Joshua. They talked in whispers. ‘‘The house is in Brilliant Street. We’re in the park opposite.’’

  ‘‘We can leave the van in the park and walk up,’’ Joshua said.

  ‘‘Oh it’s
‘we’ is it? OK chaver. Pick up your pack. Here begins your first test. Let’s hope your ‘uncle’ doesn’t call the cops.’’

  The two young men climbed down from the van and shivered in the night air. It was not the chill alone that set them trembling ever so slightly.

  EIGHT

  Hardly had Joshua lifted the latch on the old-fashioned iron gate than a dog rushed between them. Ilan swore in Hebrew and his hand dived for his pocket. ‘‘Cut it out, Ilan, it’s only a dog,’’ Joshua cautioned.

  ‘‘I know that.’’ Ilan laughed lamely and pushed Joshua through the gate.

  The house was bathed in moonlight streaming down from a sky breathtakingly studded by the Milky Way. It showed the two young men a freshly painted corrugated roof with deep eaves that overhung sandstone walls. No lights shone from the front windows but a thin curl of smoke from the back chimney, unhindered by even the faintest breeze, floated skywards. The dog now nipped lightly at their heels, a small warning to them not to do anything silly.

  Ilan pointed to the electricity meter; the thin black disc rotated rapidly. Joshua nodded. ‘‘Somebody home?’’ His lips framed the words.

  Ilan shrugged, ‘‘Could be just the refrigerator,’’ he whispered.

  Joshua reached up for the door knocker. ‘‘What the hell are we whispering for?’’ he said aloud. They looked up and down the deserted street then Joshua banged with the knocker. The dog jumped up on him excitedly and barked.

  From down the hall a girl’s voice floated — ‘‘Caaarming!’’

  Behind her another voice called: ‘‘It might be Ted about his tractor linkage.’’

  A porch light went on and Ilan automatically flattened himself into a window recess. Joshua grabbed his hand and pulled him back; at that instant the door opened and the girl saw the two men, hand in hand and looking utterly foolish. She surveyed them gravely for a moment, then with a huge grin she said, ‘‘Must be my lucky day! Grandma said to expect one bloke, but oh boy, now I’ve got two on our doorstep.’’

  ‘‘Is that you, Ted?’’ a man called.

  The girl asked mischievously, ‘‘Is one of you Ted?’’

  They shook their heads. ‘‘No, Dad,’’ she called back. ‘‘OK, quick, I know one of you is Joshua Kaiser — own up!’’

  The dog deserted Ilan and fawned on Joshua. The girl grinned. ‘‘Oh! So you’re the one. Bazza doesn’t make mistakes.’’ She sized up Ilan. ‘‘Who are you then, mate?’’

  Joshua freed himself from Bazza’s affections. ‘‘I’m Joshua …’’ he started, when she interrupted him.

  ‘‘Of course you are.’’ She laughed. ‘‘As if I didn’t know, what with Nana showing me your picture every second day.’’ She put her hands on her hips and struck a mock-belligerent pose. ‘‘Now tell us who you are,’’ she told Ilan, ‘‘or I’ll sool Bazza on to you.’’

  But the girl didn’t wait for an answer. She propelled them into the light of the hallway and called out to her father: ‘‘It’s the Jewish fella, Dad, only there’s two of ’em.’’

  Mr Piper strode up the hall. ‘‘Well, well. It never rains but it pours. We — that is, Mum — only bargained on one and now we’ve won the bloody double! Won’t she be surprised when she comes home.’’ He and Bazza shepherded them all into the living room. Bazza, having done his duty, flopped down before the fire. Mr Piper stood next to the dog trying to look in command of the situation. The two young men stood in front of him as though he were reviewing his troops.

  After a moment he turned to the girl. ‘‘Well, Toni, don’t just stand there like a stale bottle of lemonade. Go and make a pot of tea.’’ He added: ‘‘I called her Antoinette but I had me heart on a boy; I was gonna call him Anthony — y’ know, after the leader of the Country Party. Mum nearly killed me when she found out, she being a Labor voter from the cradle. Anyhow, ‘he’ turned out to be a girl, but I’ve still got a Toni.’’

  Toni kissed her dad and went into the kitchen. Mr Piper indicated that they should sit. Joshua did so; Ilan stood stiffly to attention. Joshua began to explain Ilan’s involvement, despite the glare he got from him. He did not mention the gun-running episode, giving emphasis to his cover mission of water conservation.

  Mr Piper showed mild interest in this but was really more concerned about Joshua’s future in Bathurst. Right from when his mother had first broached the matter of hiding Joshua (she called it ‘‘protecting’’ him from a bloody-minded government), Andy Piper had doubts. He argued that what she proposed would ‘‘bring the bloody cops around’’. ‘‘Not the locals,’’ she had responded. ‘‘Not your drinking mates, Constable Charlie Mackson and Sergeant too-big-for-his-boots Bill Fisher. We’d be fighting the Commonwealth Police. They’ve already caught two lads hiding near Gosford.’’

  Andy Piper had then tried another tack. ‘‘What about my work, Mum? What if Joshua is sprung and he’s in my workshop? What about that? They’ll lumber me too. Next thing you know the lad and me will be in adjoining cells at Long Bay.’’ All he’d got from his mother for this argument was an arm around his shoulder and an assurance that she would take care of everything.

  Perceptively, Ilan read the situation and told Mr Piper that as soon as he’d had a cup of tea, he would be heading back, giving no more detail than that.

  Toni came in with a tray. Ilan took the cup of tea from her and their hands touched. He made a kiss with his mouth. She stuck her tongue out at him. Ilan gulped his tea down, shook hands with Mr Piper and gave Joshua a friendly hug. ‘‘Shalom, Joshua,’’ he said, ‘‘Chazak b’ amatz.’’ (Peace; be strong and of good courage.) Toni saw him to the front door. Joshua thought she took a fair time to say goodbye.

  When she returned, the atmosphere seemed more relaxed. Andy Piper, Peg’s brother, who had started his working life as a plumber, was now the town’s ‘‘Mister Fixit’’ — Handy Andy, as he called himself. He had an absolute talent for mending just about anything that needed fixing, whether in the home or on a farm. Toni was very proud of him. Her mother, dissatisfied with her life in a country town, had enrolled at the University of New England. Her visits home were geared to the semester breaks and with each succeeding one she seemed more reluctant to stay with her family. Toni had taken over much of the responsibility of running the house.

  Her grandmother was forever comparing Toni to Peg. ‘‘Could have been sisters,’’ she would say, propping up pictures of them both at the same age. Nevertheless, it had taken Mrs Piper a long, long time before she could bring herself to tell Toni how her Aunty Peg had died in a land she knew only from childhood Bible stories.

  Mrs Rothfield’s early letters were ignored. To this day she still did not wish to know of Jacob’s life, but when the appealing baby pictures of Joshua began to arrive, accompanied by Mrs Rothfield’s doting explanations, she weakened. Every so often Mrs Rothfield would go to the post office to use the long distance phone and call her friend whom she had never met. As long as she had coins to feed the phone, she talked of Joshua’s doings, carefully avoiding mention of Jacob, knowing that Mrs Piper held him responsible for her daughter’s death.

  With Ilan gone, Joshua felt more in command of himself. On the trip up he had rehearsed what he would say to Mrs Piper. Mrs Rothfield had also schooled him thoroughly, particularly in his all too brief and shattered relationship with Pnina. The old woman sang Pnina’s praises, comparing her to the loyal, Biblical Ruth one minute and the militant Deborah the next. It was Jacob who hesitantly revealed to Joshua the story of his true, natural parents, each in their own way victims of the Holocaust. Joshua buried this information deep within himself. It was at the one time a great personal tragedy and a burden to carry through his growing years. It was something he could never be free of.

  He looked around the lounge room with its curious mix of well-worn solid furniture and the odd pieces of trendy modern make. The huge walnut-veneered radiogram was now nothing more than a cabinet to stand Toni’s hi-fi equipment on. The LPs were in
a functional wire rack. The girl’s influence could be seen also in the magazines scattered on a kidney-shaped coffee table.

  Joshua finished his tea and put the cup on the coffee table. He had drunk it standing up. Andy noticed this and said, ‘‘Sit down, son. I think it’s going to be a long night of talking when Mum gets home so take the weight off your feet.’’ Toni took the cups out, then came back and sat next to her father on the lounge. The three of them seemed uneasy without the focal point of Ilan to unite them. Bazza saved the occasion by going to each one in turn for a pat. Joshua was about to say something irrelevant when there was a loud rapping at the front door.

  Toni sprang up, her long auburn hair flouncing on her shoulders. ‘‘It’s Grandma, I betcha. Forgot her keys again.’’ She and Bazza ran up the passage and reappeared with Mrs Ethel Piper, widow of the fireman who stoked the train that Ben Chifley drove, mother of Peg/Pnina and Andy, grandma of Toni, latterly the confidante of Shulamit Rothfield and, finally, the putative grandmother of Joshua Kaiser, draft resister and fugitive.

  If Ethel Piper was aware of her multi-faceted persona, outwardly at any rate it did not appear burdensome.

  Joshua could see at once she was a woman of immense dignity. She did not speak until she reached the lounge room and had removed her coat, hat and gloves. She spoke directly to him in a warm, rich voice. ‘‘Welcome to my home, Joshua.’’ She held her hand out to him, a hand he could see was work-worn but with well-shaped fingernails. She and Joshua were about the same height. Joshua started with recognition — Ethel Piper’s eyes were like those in photos he had seen of Peg — the colour of grey-green opal slivers.

  The electric silence that followed her greeting was broken by Andy’s laconic ‘‘You missed the other bloke, Mum. He drove Joshua here and then shot through.’’