“Danke!” the albino lady said.
The German didn’t quite click his heels. “Bitte!”
The American with Kitty’s bag walked on ahead. Avi stopped by a bush.
“The Tamar tree. There is a beautiful story. The Bedouin man, as he goes by on his travels, ties the leaves in a knot…” He took hold of a bunch of spikes to demonstrate. “This is his way of saying to his beloved ‘I love you.’ Later on, is coming by his very dear one. If she does nothing, she is turning him down. If she opens up the knot…” he untied the leaves again… “she is telling him she accepts already!”
Never mind the Tamar tree, Kitty thought, never mind the inscriptions and the belladonna, the flash floods and the tumbleweed, she wished she was back at the hotel sitting safely by the pool. Avi looked at his watch and guided them deeper into the canyon – there was already another group behind them – nearer the ladder.
They stood in a semi-circle at its foot. It was cool in the canyon. Up above the sun had almost reached its zenith. Kitty could see the bus driver, a smallish dot, on the cliff top. The Nigerian children went up first. They thought it great fun. Their mother followed, holding up her long cotton skirt. The girl from Australia went next, calling encouragement. The Bronx lady made a song and dance about it but started to climb, her bottom straining against her tight trousers, followed by the family from Golders Green, admonishing the children – ‘Pay attention Harvey’, ‘Marilyn, be careful Sharon’s feet!’ – the French students with many ‘mon dieu’, and the couple from New Mexico, the frail blonde followed by her husband’s red-faced bulk.
Soon they were all on the ladder. Strung out like coloured insects. At the top Zvi was helping them on to the cliff. Only Avi, Kitty, and the American with her bag, remained in the Canyon.
“Go ahead,” Avi said.
Kitty was sure that a pair of the clamps was coming away from the rock. Somebody should tell them – the tourist department or whatever it was. There’d be an accident. She could see it in the newspapers. They were always happening. ‘Holiday Catastrophe.’ ‘Three Perish in Ravine!’
“I can’t,” she said. “I just can’t.”
“It’s all right,” Avi said. “I’ll be behind.”
The last of their party was almost at the top. Even when she just looked up Kitty felt herself swaying.
“Like stairs,” Avi said. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
Kitty looked at him, doubting if he had ever been afraid of anything in his life.
The grey haired American touched Avi’s arm. “You go on ahead, I’ll follow.”
His accent was German, Kitty thought. American German.
Avi stepped on to the ladder and hopped up a few yards.
“Shema Yisrael,” Kitty said silently and put her sandal, with its slippery sole, on the first rung.
The ladder would fall. She knew it would. Break away from the cliff, to which it was so tenuously fastened, and crash into the canyon. She was surprised that it hadn’t happened before, the way it was fixed. They’d no right to expect you to climb it at all – should have warned you at the beginning of the trip – she would most definitely not have come. ‘Stout shoes’, the brochure said, ‘for walking short distances.’ Kitty didn’t have any stout shoes with her, only the sandals and her sling-backs for the evening. The French students had worn heels three inches high. She didn’t know how they managed at all; couldn’t believe that she was the only one bothered by the jump to get into the canyon, the ladder to get out of it.
Avi was making encouraging noises. Kitty seemed to have been on the ladder for hours but had only made half a dozen steps. She looked behind her to see how far she had climbed.
“Don’t look down,” the American below her said. He probably could see up her skirt but she didn’t care. About anything. She was about to die. “Just look straight ahead and concentrate on what you’re doing, on the ladder. That’s fine. Nothing can happen. Just like a staircase. That’s all it is. A staircase…”
A staircase, Kitty told herself, I’m going up a staircase. But she was not. She felt sick. Ill. “…One foot in front of the other. Like a staircase…”
His voice was soft, hypnotic.
“Come on, come on,” Avi was saying.
Kitty followed the blue and white of his sneakers which were level with her face but she did not listen to him. She hung on to the words of the American behind her with his European accent.
“…You’re doing just fine. People get scared of heights, it’s not uncommon. There’s nothing to be scared of…the scare is in your head, the ladder is quite safe, they take people up it all day…”
“Old people, fat people!” Avi said.
Kitty felt that she was both.
“…just in the mind…” The reassuring voice went on.
Kitty looked at the crags before her nose.
“Am I nearly there?” Her voice was shaking. She felt an impulse to release the metal of the ladder from the grip of her hands, to let herself fall back into the abyss. The worst part was putting her sandal up on the next rung, feeling its smooth sole slip on the slim crossbar. Her arms ached. As if they would give way when she pulled herself up following Avi’s feet. She felt she had been on the ladders for hours, for ever. A few pebbles crumbled from the rock face in front of her eyes. She froze. She could not go on. They would have to bury her in Israel, a martyr, at the Canyon of the Inscriptions. ‘British Tourist killed in Cliff fall!’ She would land amongst the belladonna.
“It’s nothing.” The voice from below did not change its soothing pitch. “A little sand. Keep going. One foot in front of the other. Nothing can happen to you…”
He just be joking.
“…wait till you tell them back home. You got kids?”
Kitty lifted the lump of lead that was her foot. “Three. Carol and Rachel and Josh. Rachel’s getting married…” She didn’t know why she was telling this to a stranger. She could feel the sun now, hot, on the back of her neck. She was in prison, doomed to see nothing but the granite through the bars of the ladder.
“Tell me about the wedding.”
“It’s ridiculous,” Kitty said. “Two hundred couples.”
“I guess you know a lot of people.”
“It’s not me,” Kitty said. Her arms were really getting tired. “It’s the other side.”
“Rest a minute. They’ll wait for us. Take your time.”
Kitty held on to the ladder with one hand and wiped her brow which was damp. She knocked her sun hat into the canyon.
“Don’t look!” The voice was soft, authoritative. “You’ll buy another hat.”
“Okay,” Avi said. He had waited for her. “Let’s go.”
She would have to get a new hat. For the wedding. For the Shabbat when Patrick would be called up, a prospective bridegroom, as was customary, in the synagogue to the reading of the Law. A straw, she supposed since it would be summertime, to go with the new dress and jacket she would buy. A pastel, she thought – something pale – she was better, now that she was older, in soft colours.
“Nice guy?”
“Patrick,” Kitty said. She could, she thought, hear voices now at the top of the cliff. “He’s Jewish.”
“Gott sei dank. It’s always good news when the kids stay in the club.”
Kitty hadn’t thought of it like that. Avi’s feet suddenly disappeared. The rungs were empty above her nose. All she could see was rock. She felt the panic return, remembered the canyon and how far it must be now below her, with its Tamar tree, its tumbleweed…
“You’re doing fine…”
She could never have got so far without the voice. She doubted if her arms could hold her for much longer, her efforts would all have been in vain.
“Come on, come on…”
“Almost there, honey!”
Kitty recognised from above her the accents of the Bronx.
“Five more steps.” The voice from below was steady. “Take it easy…take
your time.”
One… Kitty said to herself. An off-the-face hat, she thought, trying to concentrate on the wedding. Two… And they would have to start thinking in earnest about Rachel’s dress. Three… She had already rung Rika Snowman with the good news. Rika had told her it was a big year for lace. Four… She liked lace. It was delicate, and would suit Rachel with her slim figure. Her waist had been slim like that when she’d got married. Five… Sydney had been able to span it with his two hands.
“Give me your hand!” It was Zvi talking. “Don’t worry. Just give it to me. Straight ahead here. I won’t let go.”
There was a gap of about a yard between the top of the ladder and the cliff on which Zvi squatted.
“Oh my God!” Kitty thought. “I’ve still got to scramble up there. All that way, only to fall at the last moment.”
“You’ll have something to tell the three of them.” The voice from below was confident, as if there was not still the obstacle ahead to overcome. Kitty gripped Zvi’s outstretched hand for dear life. She had run out of rungs.
“Now the other hand.”
He must be crazy.
“Lean against the edge and we’ll pull you up.”
Kitty closed her eyes.
It was half scramble, half pull. She grazed her shins, she did not care. She was lying on the ground.
“Okay,” Avi said briskly. “Nobody left in the canyon?”
Kitty did not think it funny.
“Everybody in the bus please. Those of you who are coming with us to Ofira tomorrow please let me have your names.”
Kitty dusted herself off. From the safety of the cliff she looked down into the canyon, at the ladder along which the group who had followed them was strung, at the buses ahead of her, parked neatly in a row.
The grey-haired American was standing next to her.
“Maurice Morgenthau – Morning Dew!” He introduced himself and handed over her hold-all. As if nothing had happened, as if she had not scaled Everest, reached the Pole, he walked ahead of her towards the bus.
Nine
“Listen to this…” Rachel shouted from the bed to Patrick who was in the bathroom.
There had been other letters with Kitty’s postcard, as there were every day. Hettie Klopman re-addressed them, as did Josh from his mother’s empty flat.
“Dear Miss Shelton, We would like to congratulate you on your forthcoming marriage…and take this opportunity to invite you to see our beautiful bridal collection…wedding dresses, toiles, and designs for bridesmaids and attendants…ideas for head-dresses and other garnishes for the whole entourage.’ Garnishes! Or we could get married in a marquee.” Rachel picked up the lurid colour photograph which fell from an envelope on to the duvet. “It looks like something out of the Arabian Nights. ‘…draped, spun-glass satin in a variety of colour schemes…’ My Aunty Beatty had a marquee in the garden when Austin got married. We all sank into the mud!” She opened the next envelope. “This looks good! ‘A Reception Beyond your Wildest Dreams. A Banquet under Rabbinical Supervision…”
“Talking of banquets,” Patrick called, “any chance of some coffee?”
Rachel did not answer. “How does this grab you? ‘Coupe Florida, Smoked Salmon hors d’œuvres with Egg Mayonnaise, Kreplach Soup, Braised Ox-Tongue with Blintzes and Stuffed Neck, Grilled Tomatoes, Green Beans, Tangerine Sorbet…’”
“I’ll settle for a cup of coffee and one of those stale bran muffins.”
“Where was I? Oh yes, ‘Tangerine Sorbet, Roast Poussin, French Potatoes…’ What’s a French Potato? ‘…Garden Peas, Asparagus tips and Mushrooms’…”
Patrick came into the bedroom drying his hair.
“…Hot Cherries with Kirsch…”
“Seen my socks? I’m supposed to be assisting with a hernia at nine…”
“…Hot Cherries with Kirsch…”
“Stop it. You’re making me feel ill at this hour in the morning.”
“Ice Gateaux Surprise…’ I’m sure there shouldn’t be an ‘x’ on the end of gateau, or if there is it should be ‘iced gateaux’…”
“I’ve only got one,” Patrick held up a sock.
“Look under the bed. ‘Petits Fours…’”
“Rachel will you shut up!”
“Nearly finished! ‘Nougatine Baskets… Coffee…!’”
“Thank God for that!”
“‘Selected Fresh Fruit.’”
“That’s all?”
“Certainly not. Later on you get ‘Dainty Sandwiches and delicious Continental Pastries…’”
“Not to mention indigestion!”
“These menus can be varied’,” Rachel went on, “‘to suit your own particular requirements!’”
“My particular requirements at the moment…” Patrick said.
Rachel threw him a shiny leaflet. “This one’s for you.”
One arm in his jacket, Patrick’s face grew black. ‘Morning and Evening Dress Wear – Individual Service for the Discerning Man’.
“They don’t want a big wedding at all,” Kitty said to Maurice Morgenthau as they sat on a wall by the beach at Na’ama overlooking the sands, with the cross-crossing volley-balls, through which could be seen the coral reef and the deep waters of the bay.
After her experience in the Canyon of the Inscriptions, Kitty had not wanted to take any more trips. She had said so to Avi, as the bus stopped to let some of the passengers out in the main square of Eilat, where men hurried by carrying bunches of flowers to give to their wives for Shabbat. On the Sunday trip – Avi assured her – there would be no canyons to descend, no ladders to climb. After an early morning start to what was to be a whole day trip, they would drive along the fine highway which followed the track of the Israeli Army’s 9th Brigade in the race to capture Sharm-El-Sheikh from the Egyptians in 1956. “The Mediterranean you can leave,” Avi said. “The Sinai you must see. If you don’t look for only thirty seconds you miss something extraordinary…” Kitty imagined she could see tears in his eyes. “It’s your last chance.”
Kitty knew that he referred the returning of the seemingly worthless, underpopulated, undercultivated peninsula – which came close to claiming the distinction of being the most besieged territory in the world – to Egypt for a few weeks, in exchange for what Sydney had called, at the time of the Camp David agreement, ‘airy promises of peace from a shaky dictator.’
“Nothing to worry,” Avi reassured her as the bus, in the capable hands of Zvi, swerved into the drive and came to a magnificent halt outside her own hotel. He helped her down the steps. “I’ll see you on Sunday. Seven o’clock…” She would be awake, pursued by the grey ghosts of the night. “…Shabbat Shalom!”
“Shabbat Shalom,” Kitty said, reiterating the prayer for peace on the Sabbath which seemed to have so much more meaning in Israel. Theoretically the seventh day, on which God rested from the labours of creating man and his environment, began with the darkening of the Friday evening sky, but from lunchtime onwards, everything ground to a halt. With the appearance of three stars, 24 hours later, public transport would appear once more on the roads, and the cities, wakened from their Sabbath slumber, would erupt into life. The Day with its special serenity, was only one of the things that to Kitty were special about Israel which had so many faces. The past – seen from one’s car on the way to Tiberias where workmen cutting into the bank laid bare a row of Roman sarcophagi; the crunch of one’s shoe on a broke shard of ancient pottery on the Beach of Caesarea; the spines and carapaces of buses and armoured cars left where they fell, as memorials, along the road to Jerusalem. The present – from barren desert a land blooming with terraced hills and delicate orchards; hedges of rosemary, green orange groves, cypresses – like dark upward pointing candles against the blue sky – and windblown olive trees, their leaves tipped with silver. The future – in the faces of the children, into whose education so much of the country’s resources were channelled, bursting out of schools, indistinguishable in their coloured shirts
and cotton dresses, only their features proclaiming their origins in Persia or Poland, Morocco or Hungary.
In the hotel, exhausted from the perils of her morning in the canyon, Kitty asked for her key at the reception desk, glancing as usual into the bare cubby-hole beneath her number for the message – telling her that someone wanted her – that she knew would not come, and made her way to her room.
On the dressing-table, in a narrow vase, was a single red rose with a white card. Her pulse quickening, Kitty picked it up.
‘Shabbat Shalom!’
It was from the management.
On Shabbat, from sunset to sunset as her Creator had done, Kitty rested. On Sunday, she was ready at seven for the drive along the western shore of the Gulf of Eilat to Sharm-El-Sheikh – the ‘Bay of the Sheikh’ – which was, according to Avi, a series of reef-bound bays, between the Gulf of Suez and the Gulf of Aqaba, where the waters were infested by the Red Sea sharks and by barracuda.
Kitty was excited. Despite the rigours of the excursion to the Canyon of the Inscriptions and the Valley of the Moon, she was getting a taste for expeditions and waited with anticipation for the bus. The Sinai was familiar to her from school and from synagogue. A land trampled by history, and embroidered with tales of her people’s survival, freedom and relevation. On the mountain which bore its name – not a holy place but an intangible symbol – the Law had been entrusted to Moses and – as the rabbinic story had it – all Jewish souls, past, present and future were assembled, when God made the covenant with his Chosen People. Sarah had asked, chosen for what? And Kitty had told her, it wasn’t such a wonderful thing to have been chosen to ‘hold fast to the covenant’ and that often it could be extremely hard. As Tevye had said in Fiddler on the Roof: ‘I know we’re the Chosen People but can’t you sometimes choose someone else?’ Into the Sinai the Hebrews had made their painful way, as they fled from Egyptian bondage, to end up as Jews amid the figs and the grapes and the pomegranates, the ‘milk and honey’ of the Promised Land. The Sinai, its sand and its rock, conjured up for Kitty both the wanderings of her ancestors – the manifestation of the Burning Bush – and the martyrdom of Baruch Ben Zion as he defended the Mitla Pass. With her hold-all and the new sun hat which she had bought in the boutique, she waited with the rest of the group, outside the hotel, for the motorised caravan, with Azi at its helm, which would transport her through the desert.
Rose of Jericho Page 8