He realized he could have been one of these young pioneers. If God or Fate or Love had dealt him a different hand. Or if Ewa Kaminsky had not taught him how to type. One of these weary souls trying to build a community here with barely the strength left at the end of the day to lift a spoon to their lips. He was never as exhausted as the members of this group, his hands were not calloused, his clothes were not in need of a launder and a stitch, there was always a fine meal waiting for him at Madame Blum’s.
Here, after supper, everyone washed their own dishes, dried them, stacked them away, sat back down at the tables. He noticed the mood immediately pick up. Conversations were louder, chairs were shifted closer, pots of tea were poured, cigarettes were rolled, pipes were lit, a couple of the women took out their knitting, another started to sing to herself, pages of a newspaper were passed around.
He watched on as Celia continued to read her letters, unconcerned about the activity going on around her. She paused only to look up in irritation if someone should block out the light from the nearest lantern. The headscarf she had worn when Lev had met her earlier had been abandoned to reveal a mass of dark curls. A young man squeezed in beside her. There was a slick-haired confidence about him that reminded Lev of the British police officers strutting around Haifa with their Webley revolvers. Celia turned away, shielded her letter from the intruder, bit down on her knuckle as she concentrated on her reading. What was she doing here, this young woman from Scotland?
Rafi stood up, held out his arms for silence. ‘Comrades,’ he shouted. It took a while for everyone to settle. ‘Comrades, comrades. We have a visitor.’
Lev felt himself flush to the attention, raised his own hand briefly in acknowledgement.
Rafi continued. ‘Lev is here from PICA. I asked them to have a look at the land down by the river. As noted in the minutes of previous meetings, there is a long-standing need for us to–’
‘You had no authority to do that,’ called out one of the pipe-smokers. He was a thin, bespectacled young man with pointed, ferret-like features, a peaked worker’s cap tilted back off his forehead. ‘No authority whatsoever.’
Rafi struck his fist on the table. ‘For God’s sake, Amos, we agreed all this. We agreed access to the river was important. Look at the wheat. It’s dying in the fields. We haven’t seen rain for weeks. Hardly a drop in months.’
‘We agreed in principle at some later date,’ Amos countered. ‘We didn’t agree to any negotiations with the Anonymous Donor and his beloved PICA.’
‘I am the kibbutz secretary. I have the authority to take the initiative. It is important PICA understands what we want.’
Amos pushed himself slowly to his feet, confidently surveyed the audience. ‘Understands what we want?’ he snarled, shaking the stem of his pipe at his listeners. ‘We can’t even work the land we have. We already have to bring in cheap Arab labourers from al-Dalhamiyya and Tiberias. That land down there is just more work. It’s just another swamp to be drained.’ Amos placed his hands on his hips, swivelled his puffed-out chest in defiance. ‘It’s not more fields we want. What we need is money for a tractor. And a thresher. And another plough to work the land we already have. Can PICA give us that?’
‘And what about the Bedouin?’ This question came from a blonde, red-cheeked man with piston-like biceps bursting out of his short-sleeved work shirt. He represented what Lev thought of as the ‘New Jew’, the kind of scythe-bearing figure he used to see back in Poland on posters advertising the joys of agriculture to the Zionist Youth. All that was missing was a twinkle of light flashing from this New Jew’s blue eyes. ‘Have you told Zayed we want his land?’
‘We don’t know if it is his land,’ Rafi said.
‘Of course it’s his land,’ said the New Jew. ‘His family have been coming here for centuries.’
Rafi sighed, his own face red now with rising irritation. ‘There is doubt regarding his ownership.’
‘What doubt? If it is not his land, then who’s is it?’
‘I’ll let our friend from PICA explain,’ Rafi said.
Lev looked around at the expectant faces. This was his moment. When he had to step forward, take control just as he had done on that cold night in Zebrzydowice on the Poland-Czechoslovakia border. He gripped the table edge, pushed himself upwards onto his feet.
‘The land under discussion…’ He was pleased to hear his voice had emerged both calm and even. He glanced at Celia but she was still engrossed in her letter reading. He pressed on. ‘The land under discussion does not appear on any map in our possession.’
‘What the hell does that mean?’ Amos asked.
Lev sucked in a breath, looked over at his questioner. He sensed something self-righteous and smug about the man, marked him as one of those Russian socialists full of noble ideals that would come to nothing. He had seen plenty of them from his office window, wearing those very same peaked worker’s caps, lining up to catch the next boat out of their Promised Land. ‘It means I don’t know who owns it,’ Lev admitted. ‘It could be this Zayed you talk about. It could be the British. It could be the French. It could be some Arab landowner sitting in a villa in Cairo. I just don’t know.’
‘Well, if it doesn’t feature on any map,’ someone called out, ‘it must be no-man’s land.’
‘No-woman’s land, comrade,’ Shoshana from the kitchen corrected to roars of laughter.
‘No-woman’s land, then. Why don’t we just take it?’
‘It’s not that simple,’ Lev said. ‘There are laws, ancient property laws that are likely to apply in the absence of any documentation. I need to make enquiries, take advice. I should also like to talk with the Bedouin. Who is this Zayed?’
‘He is the elder,’ Rafi informed him. ‘He speaks on behalf of the tribe.’
‘Can I meet with him?’
‘What will you tell him?’ New Jew called out. ‘That you’ve come to steal his land?’
‘PICA does not steal land,’ Lev countered, trying to keep his voice steady against remarks he was beginning to take personally. ‘You reside here now on land PICA bought properly and fairly.’
‘But there was no-one living on it at the time,’ New Jew said. ‘What will you do with Zayed and his family once his land has been purchased?’
‘It is not PICA’s policy to displace tenant farmers unnecessarily. Zayed and his tribe can come and go as they have always done. Once properly drained, this land is only needed for access to the river.’
‘We don’t need the land at all.’ It was Amos again, still on his feet with his poking pipe. ‘I keep saying, we can’t even drain the land we already have. We should only take what we can work with Jewish labour. That is a basic principle. If we have to bring in Arabs to work for us, we are no more than colonialists.’ Amos spat out the last word with contempt, before adding with even more bitterness: ‘And capitalists.’
‘And when Rafi here wants to start damming the river,’ New Jew continued, ‘what will happen to Zayed’s pastures then?’
‘Enough, comrades,’ Rafi said. ‘Enough. I still don’t see any reason why Lev cannot meet with the Bedouin. It is, after all, only a preliminary talk.’
‘I will need a clear mandate from the group,’ Lev added.
‘I will ask for a show of hands,’ Rafi said. ‘Against?’
Only three hands were raised.
Amos sat down defeated while New Jew shuffled in his chair, folded his thick forearms against the victors.
‘Good,’ Rafi said. ‘Now who is free to take Lev down to see Zayed?’
‘I can.’ It was the young man with the slick-backed hair who sat beside Celia. ‘I have to go there tomorrow anyway.’
‘That’s settled then,’ Rafi declared. ‘Jonny will take him. Now let’s move on to other matters. We have much to discuss.’
Who should work with the children now Ahuva was sick? Could Shoshanna kill another hen? Was there money available to buy more vegetables from the Arab farmers? Who could work on bui
lding a children’s house? What to do about the mice? Avi needed help to tar the wagon wheels. Chaim wanted to keep bees. Tools shouldn’t be left in the fields. Where could they get more books? Could Tsur keep the stray dog he found in the valley? Some of the married couples wanted their own tents. Where was last week’s newspaper? Yes, where was last week’s newspaper?
The talking went on and on until everyone was tired of it and a wind picked up, causing the lanterns to sway. The discussions subsided and one of the women started to sing, quietly at first until the melody was taken up by someone else, then another and another. Lev recognized the tune from the country of his birth. He began to hum the melody. And then there were more songs, again in Hebrew or in Russian or Yiddish, songs of der heim, of the homeland. The group drew closer, the lamps were turned down save one, there was clapping and finger-clicking, one of the members returned with a battered accordion, a few people got up, held hands, began to dance in a circle. Celia was one of them. Lev watched her carefully as she played out the familiar steps. Her eyes closed, a few paces to the side, dipping her body then pulling back, arching upwards, forcing out her breasts, throwing back her head, caught up in her own private passion, as she retraced her movements in rhythm with her partners. He heard his own voice soar to the melodies accompanying the dancers and somewhere deep within himself he felt a yearning for something he could not name. But just as the intensity of the music reached its zenith, the dancing broke up, people started to leave, still singing as they filed out of the door, their melodies spilling into a star-filled night.
He was to bed down in the dining room. He was brought a cot, a pillow and a blanket. Everyone else had gone to their tents. The last lantern was left burning at the far end of the room for when the night guard came in to make tea. Lev lay awake on his back, staring at the corrugated roof. It had been a long time since he had felt so much a part of something. He would have to go back to his time spent with Sarah and the rest of the Ten Lost Tribes. Since then, his existence in Palestine had been a lonely one. He had his relationships with Mickey, Madame Blum and Sammy but beyond that, he had no family here, no other friends, no connection to any community. The singing, the dancing, the camaraderie, it had deeply moved him. He turned restless in his cot, was about to get up to make himself some tea when he heard someone enter at the far side of the room. He looked up. The figure moved into the light of the lantern. Without thinking, he called out her name. ‘Celia.’
‘Who is that?’ she said, moving towards him, peering into the darkness.
‘Lev. From the station. From PICA.’
‘I didn’t realize you were here.’
‘It’s all right. I couldn’t sleep.’
‘I’m just going to sit by the lantern. I want to write a letter.’
‘At this time of night?’
‘It is the only time I have.’
‘I was just getting up to make tea.’
‘Stay. I will bring you some.’
Her sudden kindness surprised him. He propped himself up on his cot, watched as she worked, firing up the charcoal in the samovar, testing the temperature of the water, filling up the teapot. She poured out two cups, brought them over. He saw that she was wrapped in a blanket, her body in the bathe of the lantern casting strange shadows around the room. He felt excited by her presence as she crouched by him, passed him his cup, then again surprised when she pulled up a chair, sat by him, placed her own cup on the floor. He watched as she stretched her neck, massaged the nape with her hands, the movement causing her blanket to drop slightly to reveal a glimpse of her upper breasts. He realized she might be naked underneath.
‘So?’ she said, with a quick smile as she recovered her cup. ‘Can you solve our land problem?’
‘It could be complicated.’
‘Everything is complicated here.’
‘Land is an emotional issue in Palestine.’
She sipped at her tea, staring at him over the rim of the cup. Then she closed her eyes, blew on the liquid so the warmth rose up to massage her face and she relaxed into the feeling of the heat. She opened her eyes again. A soft, dark brown, like smooth leather freshly shone. He saw a hidden warmth in her gaze, but an insecurity resting there also.
‘Since we are talking about land,’ she said, ‘where is your land?’
‘I come from Poland. A small town. Not far from Warsaw.’
‘And what brought you here?’
‘I came with a kvutza. A group from the Young Guard. The plan was to build a settlement together. Probably something quite like this one.’
‘And now you are a land agent for PICA.’
He took a sip of tea. It was bitter and lukewarm. ‘Everything changed.’
She nodded. ‘It often does.’
‘And you?’ he asked.
‘I wanted a fresh start. But I’ve learned you can never really do that. You’re always building on what is already there. Either within yourself, or within others. And within the land itself. There is so much ancient history here.’
‘My grandfather told me the same thing. Coming here is like grafting new branches onto old vines. He said if I really wanted to start from the
‘I don’t know about America. All I know is life in this community can be extremely hard. But it can also be very beautiful.’ She rocked the base of her foot against the leg of his cot. ‘I saw the way you sang along with us. Perhaps you should try this way of life again.’
She held out her hand to take his empty cup. Instead of giving it to her, he grabbed her wrist. It was such an instinctive move, surprising himself with his own boldness. For a few moments, they both looked at where he held her.
‘Not now,’ she said, pulling her arm away. ‘I have to write.’
Nine
LETTER 10
Kfar Ha’Emek, Jordan Valley, Palestine
My dearest Charlotte
I am replying to your letter number six, which I received this morning. It took three months to get here. This delay between our correspondences confuses me in the details of what we already know and don’t know about each other when we write. I also fret as to whether letters may have gone missing. I try to keep copies of my previous letters but carbon paper is very difficult to get hold of. Please send me some with your next parcel.
I wish you were here beside me so we could chatter away into the night as we did in the old days back in Glasgow. I miss our flat in the West End, the gas lamps and the tree-lined streets, especially now as autumn approaches and the leaves turn yellow and gold. Here we have very few trees, except for some boring eucalyptus, which stay the same all year round. Those times in Glasgow seem so far away from me now, it is hard to believe the Celia who sits here in the deepest Galilean night writing this letter is the same Celia as the one you knew.
It doesn’t surprise me to learn you have now become a campaigner for the temperance movement. I can just imagine you handing out your leaflets on the trams, on the trains and at football matches. All these posters for abolition plastered everywhere. Glasgow must be awash with temperance propaganda on every hoarding and lamppost. But even if you can’t get people to vote for abolition, at least you’re getting the drink trade to take notice. We always used to say what a disgrace it was that public houses were only places for manly drunkenness and petty violence rather than somewhere women like ourselves could go for entertainment and light refreshment. I remember someone telling me back in Glasgow: ‘It’s not your capitalism or your socialism you need to be worrying about in this city. If you’re looking for “isms”, it’s alcoholism you need to be concerned about.’ I cannot help but agree with that statement. Here, we have almost no alcohol – there is no money to buy any. But sometimes the Arab farmers give us bottles of their local drink. It is called ‘arak’. It tastes like liquorice out of a Glasgow sweetshop. They don’t drink it by itself but along with their food. It is very strong. One sip makes my head swim.
Jonny and I are no longer a couple. I am sure you have already guess
ed that outcome from my last two or three letters – if in fact you received them. I think I knew in my heart we would not end up together from the moment I arrived here. On our very first day, he took me out to a ridge and showed me what we call ‘The Centre of the World’. It is a viewing point that looks east to Persia, north to Syria, south to Jerusalem and Egypt and west to Scotland. I remember how excited Jonny was to show me this place, all the hopes and plans he had for us, but I remember thinking even then that I didn’t want to be a part of it all. Oh, I know you probably consider me cruel for leading him on, to let him bring me all this way with dreams of a life together. Yet I really did try. We shared a tent for several months. But it was clear to both of us we were not becoming closer but moving apart. We talked about it so much, trying to convince ourselves of something we weren’t really feeling underneath. I think he is happier now we are apart. These kind of couplings are not really encouraged anyway. Of course, there are those who arrived here already as man and wife. And others who paired off to share a tent together and eventually had children. There are five children here now and oh, how we adore them. But there are some people who feel that to be paired off in a couple is against the principles of equality. That it is not fair a man and woman may enjoy conjugal rights while others may not. But who has time for such things anyway? We are always so exhausted. And even if you are sharing a tent, there are always other people there, behind a strung-up blanket, pretending they are asleep but still listening. It is better to be alone, don’t you think? To be a strong, independent woman.
The Land Agent Page 6