by Paula Wagner
“Mordechai, go stand behind the bus stop,” I suggested. “We’ll have a better chance if the driver sees only me.”
The acrid scent of the tarmac’s creosote stung my nostrils, while the sun chiseled a hole in my skull and curled my hair like burning copper wire as I poked my head beyond the limited shade of the bus stop’s cement shell. Wavy as a mirage, something was moving toward me from a distance. If only it would stop.
After what seemed like forever, a white pickup finally pulled up before me in a cloud of dust.
“Eilat?” I ventured.
My heart sank when the driver shook his head.
“How about Beersheba?” That would at least move us forward.
“Sure. Get in.”
I thanked the driver profusely as Mordechai stumbled out of the shadows.
“Can you take my friend too?”
“No problem,” smiled the man, to my relief and disappointment.
We tossed our packs into the bed of the pickup and squeezed into the cab. Stuck in the middle, my legs straddled the gearshift.
“I’m Ze’ev—the name means wolf,” the man said by way of introduction. But I thought his blond hair and blue eyes made him look less than fierce. “Are you American?” Mordechai’s socks and sandals were a dead giveaway.
“Yes, we’re on the ulpan in Ein Hashofet,” answered Mordechai for both of us.
Wanting to dissociate myself as an American tourist, I couldn’t resist adding that I’d just made aliya.
“Mazel tov!” exclaimed Ze’ev. “My wife and I made aliya when we were young. I’m from Romania, and she came from India. We met during our military service, and now we have a three-year-old son.”
“Congratulations!” I imagined a small brown palm in Ze’ev’s large white hand.
The farther south we drove, the more barren the landscape became. Now the irrigated fields of the north gave way to cliffs and outcroppings that narrowed the desert into a V. Eilat sat at the point where the desert met the Red Sea—the same Sea of Reeds that Moses had crossed thousands of years ago in flight from the Egyptians.
As the sun dipped toward the horizon, the left side of the valley sank into shadow, while brilliant streaks of salmon and copper blazed over the cliffs on my right. By the time we reached Beersheba, darkness was fast closing in. I expected Ze’ev to drop us off somewhere soon, but instead he drove on.
“You’ll never make it to Eilat this late, guys. Everyone’s already home for the first night of Chanukah. Why don’t you come to my house so we can celebrate together? Then you can stay overnight. My wife will be thrilled to have guests.”
“Oh, we wouldn’t want to impose” protested Mordechai, politely. At least he had manners. But I wasn’t so sure his wife would share Ze’ev’s enthusiasm for unexpected guests but Ze’ev insisted. His offer amazed me. Where else would a stranger take in a couple of hapless hitchhikers? But with nowhere else to stay, we could hardly refuse.
As Ze’ev had predicted, his wife Shoshanna greeted us like honored guests at the door to their modest apartment. The dingy exterior of their cement-block building belied the warmth inside. A Persian rug covered the floor, and a painting of the Taj Mahal hung on the living room wall. From behind the folds of Shoshanna’s sari, a pale-faced boy with twinkling blue eyes and golden hair peeked out shyly.
“Come out and meet our guests, Ben,” his mother coaxed. “They’ve come to share Chanukah with us. Baruch Ha’Shem!”
Smiling, I tried to hide my surprise. How could this child and mother belong to each other?
While Mordechai and I took turns washing up in the tiny bathroom, Shoshanna set out a tomato-cucumber salad with cottage cheese, cracked green olives, hummus, and pita. Juggling several small black skillets, she whipped up individual omelets, crusty on the outside, mouthwatering and foamy on the inside. Finally she set a pot of steaming English tea wrapped in a knitted cozy in the middle of the table. The familiar scent of home made me swoon.
“A tea cozy!” I marveled. I told Shoshanna my mother was English, and suddenly I could feel her presence as if she were sitting in the chair next to me. Whereas kibbutz tea was weak and watery, this tea had the taste of home. Unable to resist each time Shoshanna offered refills, I drank mug after mug. Had I come all this way to be reminded by an Indian woman in Israel of how much I missed my mother and her English tea?
After dinner, Ze’ev sent Ben to fetch the candelabra. “Bring the menorah with eight branches, the one we use only for Chanukah.
“First we say the blessing, Baruch ata Adonai, then we light the shamash, the candle that guards all the others; then we light the first candle with the shamas,” Ze’ev explained, teaching his son, as my father had taught me and Mordechai’s father had taught him, keeping the tradition alive.
Ben’s eyes widened as Ze’ev guided his small hand toward the first candle and we sang together. Baruch ata Adonai, elohenu melech Ha’Olam . . . Blessed art though, O Lord our God, king of the universe.”
“And now I get a gift!” shouted Ben, suddenly animated. Shoshanna presented him with a plush green Gila monster.
Embarrassed that I had nothing to offer, I fished out several shiny American quarters from my backpack as Chanukah gelt (Yiddish for money). His eyes shone as he turned the unfamiliar coins over in his small hand.
When it came time for bed, Ze’ev rolled out a pair of foam mats for us in the living room.
“Together or apart?” he asked, winking.
But Mordechai looked stricken at the mere suggestion of intimacy. To my great relief, he rolled his sleeping bag out in a far corner of the living room. Curled up in my own sleeping bag that night, my irritation with him gave way to gratitude for the hospitality of this delightful family who had welcomed me into their home like a “stranger in a strange land” on the first night of Chanukah.
Wagner Family Menorah
Chapter 15
EILAT
After a breakfast of avocado toast and tea early the next morning, Mordechai and I hugged Shoshanna and Ben goodbye before Ze’ev drove us back out to the main highway. Only the rushing wind disturbed the dawn, making lopsided shadows as I stood beside my traveling albatross. The ragged edges of a Bedouin tent fluttered in the distance, and the blackclad silhouette of a woman shooing away a few goats repeated the scene I’d noticed my first day in Israel. A sense of timelessness came over me. How many generations of Bedouins had survived this thankless environment despite invasions by countless conquerors—Assyrians, Greeks, Romans, Crusaders, Turks, Brits, and now the Israelis—over the centuries?
Suddenly the sunrise banished my thoughts in the blink of its golden eye. The desert was a land of extremes—by day a white-hot griddle; by night a blackened skillet; at dawn a copper pot; at dusk a painted gourd. Its unforgiving rocks and sharp scent reminded me of my early childhood in Texas and Kansas, where the harshness of the land had made me feel strong. I imagined the Bedouin woman felt that way too. But the gloomy Northern California coast had zapped my strength under a depressing blanket of fog, and I knew without knowing that I’d have to escape to save my sanity. I needed a hot place to dry up all my tears of self-pity. Now the merciless desert was restoring the strength I’d known as a child. I could feel my life energy surging up into my bones. Or was it the rumble of a huge semitruck grinding to a halt?
“Climb into the back,” the driver shouted over the idling engine. We catapulted over the tailgate and clung to the rough wooden benches that lined the truck bed as the colossus lurched forward. A tarpaulin of canvas like a prairie schooner sheltered us from the wind and the sun, leaving an oval opening in the rear from which the road spooled out behind me like a wide-angle screenshot. Here and there, the greenhouses of an agricultural outpost broke the monotony of rock and sand, but otherwise the road wound deeper and deeper into the desert as we bumped along for hours. Just when I thought we’d reached the end of the world, the brakes hissed and the truck ground to a stop at the top of a ridge, leaving just enou
gh time to scramble out before barreling downhill like a dust devil.
Dazzled by the sun, I could barely discern a cluster of low-lying beige buildings wedged between desert cliffs and a splash of azure in an otherwise monotone landscape. Whereas copper from Solomon’s famed mines had once passed through this ancient Red Sea port, bound for Arabia and the coast of East Africa, Eilat now looked as lazy as a snoozing alley cat— one whose nap had lasted since biblical times.
But the short walk into town told a different story. Everywhere, the din and dust of construction signaled the beginnings of a modern-day port and tourist mecca. Bulldozers churned up the sandy soil; bare-chested men balancing on rickety scaffolding worked on half-finished concrete apartment blocks; the playground of a spanking-new school sported swings and a slide; while huge cranes hoisted cargo high above a new port facility. Crowds of women streamed from what looked like several factories, some in modest dresses and headscarves, others in tight-fitting halter tops and shorts, still others in billowing robes.
A brand-new city, built by and for recent immigrants, was springing up at the tip of the Red Sea where the borders of three countries met—Egypt, Jordan, and Israel. Despite the signs of development at every turn, I couldn’t imagine the transformation of this dusty desert outpost into a major tourist attraction, strategic military zone, and thriving industrial hub.
“Well, we’re finally here,” I sighed. Mordechai gave a goofy smile.
Strolling down the only paved street in town, we soon realized we weren’t the only ones on Chanukah chofesh. The few cafés were mobbed by other young hitchhikers like us. Parched, we ordered two fresh-squeezed grapefruit juices. Soon we were sharing our road stories with a pair of tipsy English girls I’ll call Sarah and Petunia.
“Why drink juice when you can have a Maccabee?” laughed Petunia, knocking back the last of her beer. Downing my juice, I ordered a bira levana (light beer). Knowing the Israeli brew was only 3% alcohol, I figured it wouldn’t pack much of a punch.
A few white-robed Arabs eyed us suspiciously but soon went back to smoking their hookahs. No one asked for ID. I turned to ask Mordechai if he wanted one, but he was suddenly nowhere in sight. Assuming he’d gone out back to the shack that served as a bathroom, I wasn’t worried. But without him, I felt the responsibility of shepherding him on this trip slide like a heavy pack from my shoulders.
Giddy from the beer, I was more than happy to join my two new friends when Sarah announced they were going to the beach. Wherever Mordechai was, he could fend for himself. Squeezing into a makeshift changing hut, we peeled off our dust-caked clothes, stretched our bikinis over our impossibly white skin, and plunged into the cool waves of the Red Sea, shivering like jellyfish.
The salty murk stung our eyes, and without goggles we couldn’t see much of the sea life below, but the swim was pure ecstasy. After drying in the hot air, we scoured the beach for coral and seashells until the cliffs around us turned ochre in the setting sun.
“We’d best get to the youth hostel right away if we want to get a room,” worried Sarah.
We pulled our dusty clothes over our sticky skin and trekked back to the main street. Still no Mordechai. Maybe he’d already gone to the hostel, as we’d planned?
But once there, a beady-eyed attendant in a grimy black jacket and skullcap barred our way. He reminded me of the grizzled guard at the Ministry of the Interior in Haifa. Looking us up and down, he spat on the ground.
“You’re too late. There’s no room left for girls, only boys.”
Embarrassment stung my already sunburned cheeks. Was barring entry to girls like me a line of work for men like him? Was there some kind of dress code at the hostel? Women in Israel seemed to wear all kinds of clothes. While some observed religious codes, plenty of others wore Western-style outfits. What to wear, when and where, was a mystery I had yet to crack in this polycultural land. Besides, was it true there was no room at the hostel for girls—or just not for girls like us? My indignation rose. Who was this man to judge us? But he wouldn’t budge.
“No room for girls!” he growled again. I was too intimidated even to ask if Mordechai might have checked in.
“Oh, forget him,” laughed Petunia, dragging us away. “We can sleep on the beach.”
“But what about those gnats?” I protested, uneasy at the thought of sleeping among swarms of insects.
Unable to decide what to do, we ambled aimlessly for a while until Sarah said she was starving. My stomach was growling too. Maybe we could figure out a plan over dinner. After another round of Maccabees on the terrace of the same café where we’d met, we shared orders of sizzling lamb kebabs, hummus, pita, hot peppers, olives, and the familiar tomato-cucumber salad. Yum! The simple presentation of each dish was tantalizing enough, but the taste was even more divine. I was falling in love with this food. But Petunia wasn’t done yet.
“Turkish coffee, anyone?” she trilled, inviting a new batch of hitchhikers to join us.
“Where are you staying tonight?”
“Well, the youth hostel is full—at least for girls like us,” she giggled.
“What about that abandoned kibbutz a few kilometers out of town?” answered one of the boys. “I hear you have to watch out for vipers, but otherwise it’s got plenty of space.”
I shuddered at the thought of venomous snakes. But by the time the group broke up, darkness had long since fallen, and I could no longer put off finding a place to sleep. Gnats or snakes—which was worse? I’d finally given up on Mordechai, so I was truly on my own now. Feeling an odd mix of relief, guilt, dread, and excitement, I shouldered my pack and let my feet do the walking in the direction of the abandoned kibbutz. The desert had turned suddenly very cold, and the wind whipped through my thin sweatshirt. Before long, the town’s few streetlights disappeared, leaving only a shadowy half-moon as my guide.
After awhile, I made out some adobe buildings, as the boy at the café had described. The half-demolished barns and bungalows looked like an abandoned settlement all right. I switched on my flashlight, scanning for dreaded vipers. Creeping carefully around a corner, I followed the sound of something dripping and soon discovered an old shower pipe protruding from the ruined wall of a ceilingless bathroom. Droplets glistened in the beam of my flashlight. To my amazement, water gushed out when I turned the shower handle, like Moses striking the rock! The temptation to wash away the salt and grime of the day was too much to resist, so with the moon as my only witness, I stripped naked and let the cool stream pound over me like a waterfall. Wet sand oozed up through the cracked ceramic tiles under my feet, but I didn’t care as long as it wasn’t a viper. Shivering but somewhat sheltered, I let the breeze dry me off. Even my dirty clothes felt cleaner after my illicit shower.
Next I had to find a sleeping spot. I crept around the side of the building and tried the handle of the first door I found. Locked. Working my way down a long corridor, I tried several more doors until at last one creaked open. But the ripe stench of snoring bodies almost made me puke. I didn’t need to see a soul to know the room was full of unwashed, probably male bodies. Obviously, I wasn’t the only Chanukah hitchhiker seeking sanctuary in an abandoned kibbutz. But what choice did I have? By now there was nowhere else to go and I was exhausted. Dousing my flashlight, I tiptoed over the sleepers until I found a free spot. Within minutes, I too was snoring.
I didn’t see Mordechai again until we had both returned (separately) to Ein Hashofet. Through the ulpan grapevine, I learned that he’d caught a bus home that very night. Had I ditched him or had he ditched me? But neither of us wanted a confrontation, so we let the question slide. I felt vaguely guilty for how annoyed I’d been with him. But the trip had taught me a valuable lesson: I could indeed travel on my own.
Eilat in the 1950’s—60s
PART II
ISRAEL—WINTER/SPRING 1964
Chapter 16
GIDON
I had just returned from Eilat when a note from Naomi appeared in my ulpan ma
ilbox, inviting me for the next Shabbat. I was especially intrigued that she wanted me to meet someone. Without phones or internet, her only way to exchange information was by pinning a note to the message board in Hazorea’s dining room with my destination on it. Anyone traveling to Ein Hashofet that day would hand deliver it like a carrier pigeon. While this system worked well, it also fed the kibbutz gossip mill. I never knew if our notes had been “prescreened.” Few secrets could survive in a communal community where personal privacy was a low priority. But I didn’t need gossip to guess that Naomi’s someone was probably a boyfriend. Sure enough, when I arrived the following Friday afternoon, she introduced me to him.
Gidon was short and wiry with wavy black hair, a long nose, and crows’ feet at his temples, which gave him a weathered look. But beneath the triangular hoods of his eyelids, his brown eyes twinkled. From his appearance, I guessed he was quite a bit older than we were, but I didn’t want to ask.
“Shabbat shalom,” I said, shaking hands.
Like most people confronted by identical twins, Gidon glanced back and forth, trying to tell us apart. It was a familiar reaction we’d seen a million times.
“Don’t worry, we’re quite different.” We laughed in unison.
“Let me show you around the kibbutz, Paula,” he offered, keen to show he knew the difference. “First let me show you the dairy where I work. It’s called a refet in Hebrew.”
“To him it’s heaven, but to me it stinks like hell,” added Naomi, rolling her eyes.