The top-floor chamber had a vaulted ceiling with peeling plaster and one small window facing the wall across the narrow courtyard. Haim collapsed onto one of the thin straw-stuffed mattresses lying on the warped floorboards and tears of exhaustion seeped from his eyes.
“Here now, you’ll get used to it,” Yol said soothingly. As tired as Haim, he was sprawled half off the mattress and did not have the strength to right himself. The white limestone dust powdering his curly beard and hair made him seem to have aged fifty years.
“Haim? You wouldn’t have maybe a bottle of schnapps in your pocket?”
“No.” He smiled. “Again you remind me of Abe. He always liked to take a drink before going to sleep.”
“Who?”
Between yawns Haim told Yol about himself. He left out yesterday’s incidents in Jaffa. If and when the time came to describe Rosie, Haim wanted to have enough energy to do the job justice.
“So, Mr. Shoemaker,” Yol teased as he stripped off his clothing and tossed it into a pile in the far corner of the room, “how do you like stonecutting?”
“I think I ruined more stone than I cut,” Haim muttered.
“Don’t worry, there’s plenty more.” Yol sighed. “You know the worst? Not the hard work but the way those Arabs kept laughing at us.”
“How did you get stuck doing this?” Haim asked.
“For the last year I have lived in Zikhron, north of Jaffa on the southern spur of Mount Carmel. They grow grapes and olives there, also a little barley and wheat. The Workers Party asked for volunteers to work the land. The old Jews who own it all depend on Arab labor to do the work. You will find that the different generations of Jews here in Palestine have very different ideas as to how things should be done. Anyway, the party pulled a few strings and off we workers went, led by our manager, a nice enough fellow by the name of Ben-Gurion. In Zikhron I followed a plow,” Yol continued. “It was a job I am even less suited for than stonecutting, I must admit.”
“Then why did you go in the first place?” Haim asked.
Yol chuckled. “To impress the party a little bit, but mostly to get on Ben-Gurion’s right side.” Despite his weariness, Yol’s voice took on an excited edge. “You see, my friend, Ben-Gurion had just returned from Galilee, where he helped form a watchman’s organization called the Hashomer to guard pioneers from Arab attacks.”
“Really? With guns and horses?”
“Absolutely.”
Haim turned on his side to face Yol. “I don’t understand why you would have to learn how to plow a field in order to join the Hashomer.”
“We must be self-sufficient in all things if we are to make this country our home. We must know how to farm and build as well as fight.” Yol shrugged. “Anyway, that is the party’s belief. The plantation owners of Zikhron Yaakov see it another way. Jewish labor would cut their profits. Arabs will work very cheaply, you see.
“Places like Zikhron and Rishon le Zion are Rothschild colonies, and the great baron has done much for land settlement in Palestine, but the Jews who got here first have grown wealthy thanks to the baron’s tzedakah and forgotten what it feels like to be poor. The party asks them what shall the thousands of newcomers do to make a living if only Arabs are allowed to work in the established colonies?” Yol shook his head in disgust. “The farmers are locked in greed and suspicion of us young Zionists. On one hand they like to think that we are not capable of hard work in a warm climate—”
“They may be right,” Haim groaned, feeling his aching body.
“No they’re not,” Yol insisted, “but there is more here than mere prejudice or even greed. The old generation scorns us for not praying every morning, for daring to go with our heads uncovered. They say we are not good Jews and so must not be trusted. When we tried to reason with them they looked down on us like we were fellahin. They called us intellectuals, and when we sang a song or danced the hora in order to relax after a hard day’s work, the old Jews locked away their daughters from us.”
“So what happened?” Haim asked. “Why did you leave Zikhron?”
“I was banished. They came for me with pitchforks.”
“Why?”
“Remember those daughters?” Haim wordlessly nodded and Yol’s grimy bearded face split into a lascivious, lip-smacking smile. “They didn’t lock them up so good after all.”
Haim sank back upon his mattress, chuckling softly as he shook his head. “Some watchman you’re going to be!”
“What can I tell you? The girls of Zikhron thought I was something special. It was all very innocent, Haim. I merely danced with the lovely daughters of the bourgeoisie. With them I was not a plowman.”
Haim rolled over onto his stomach and shut his eyes. “Good night, Yol.”
“At first, when the angry fathers began a boycott of us halutzim, it seemed quite funny,” Yol rambled on. “It was like a holiday, but soon we had nothing to eat. Something had to be done, so Ben-Gurion went to make peace with the old boys. It turned out that peace required me to take my leave of Zikhron. It was arranged for me to have a subsidy to learn stonecutting here in Jerusalem. I got rides down the coast to Jaffa, and from there I took the coach, which brings you up to date on me, my friend.” Yol glanced over at Haim, who seemed to be sound asleep. “At least I got to make an impression on Ben-Gurion. He won’t forget my face so fast.”
“That’s a certainty,” Haim grunted. “Yol, you are a clown.”
“So?” Yol settled back and closed his eyes. “If we’re to be self-sufficient in all things, we’ll need our own comedians, yes?”
“Go to sleep,” Haim said smiling in the dark.
The days passed quickly. For Haim the work in the quarry never got easy, but with the aid of leather gloves his hands grew callused and hard and his skin baked bronze beneath the bright sun. None of the Jews ever came close to matching the expertise of the Arab masons, but each man, be he a halutz or a second-generation Jerusalemite, began to take pride in the fact that he was doing his part to build the homeland.
Both men grew hard and lean from moving and cutting stone. After several weeks Haim went to buy new clothes and was shocked to see how his waist had shrunk and his chest and arms had put on meat. Even little Yol looked less like a monkey and more like an ape. The other Jews had taken to calling them David and Goliath.
It wasn’t long before they found themselves with the energy to wander the city in the evenings. Haim, playing the role of a true turn-of-the-century Marxist Zionist, belittled the importance of visiting the Western Wall. Yol forced him to go. The little man stood back grinning as Haim became oblivious to the Arabs who’d built their huts against the remains of Solomon’s Temple. Haim began to weep as he ran his fingers across the rough stonework.
“Do you believe, Yol?” Haim asked as they left the temple’s remains. “Do you believe what the rabbis say, that God has never left the Wall?”
Yol scratched at his woolly curls. “I know that our hearts have never left, and now we are back again.” He patted Haim’s shoulder. “And God is with us, yes?”
When it became clear to Haim that he would not be returning to Jaffa so quickly he began to write to Rosie twice a week. Yol was curious but did not pry, wise enough to know that Haim would confide in him when he was ready. The bearded halutz had never heard how Haim came to fight with a Turk his first day in Palestine.
One clear starlit night Haim and Yol walked along Mount Scopus. They spent the evening on blankets spread beneath the wind-rustled silver leaves of an olive grove. For a while they were quiet, content to feel their kinship with the Hebrews who had walked this ground millennia ago.
Then abruptly Haim began to talk. He told Yol about his first day in Jaffa, what had gone on between him and Rosie and how he meant to marry her. Much to his chagrin, his heartfelt confession was met with a hyena-pitched peal of laughter.
“I think I’ll hang you by your feet in a tree,” Haim growled.
Yol wiped tears of laughter from his
eyes. “If you do, you’ll never hear about Rosie and her family.”
“Just how do you know so much?”
“My friend,” Yol protested, “it’s a small country, and Erich Glaser and his children are well known. As for Rosie, she’s the one we know best of all.”
“What!” Haim exploded.
“Uh—poor choice of words, my friend,” Yol quickly said. “I meant ‘know of her great beauty.’”
“Be careful,” Haim warned, somewhat mollified. “You’re talking about my future wife.”
“Oy. Listen to me, Haim. You are not the first man to be taken with Rosie’s charms. There exists a long line of potential grooms before you. Why, I myself proposed marriage to Rosie Glaser—”
“You?”
“And got my face slapped for my brashness, I hasten to add.” Haim muttered. Yol looked sympathetic. “My friend, a goodly number of trees must be planted in Palestine before there are enough branches for you to hang by their feet all of Rosie’s suitors.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Haim was crestfallen. “Have I made a fool of myself?”
“Absolutely. However that isn’t such a terrible thing. Girls of Rosie’s sort like that in a man.”
“Tell me everything.”
“I’m glad you asked.” Yol leaned back to gaze with great contentment at the moonlight filtering through the leafy olive boughs. “What a great country Palestine is. Even in Lublin I didn’t have gossip on virtually every important Jew. Well, you know, of course, that Erich Glaser is a renowned artist.”
Haim remembered the paint splatters and smell of turpentine. “I didn’t know.”
“A great painter,” Yol repeated. “He has been successful since an early age, when he came under the patronage of Sir Moses Montefiore—”
“Of him I’ve heard.” Haim nodded, impressed. “There is a settlement northwest of the city named Yemin Moshe.”
Yol smiled. “That settlement bears Montefiore’s name because he donated so much money to get it built. Anyway, Montefiore was interested in art, and since Erich Glaser was Jewish as well as talented, it was an excellent match. In the forties Montefiore negotiated with Lord Palmerston for Jewish agricultural colonies in Palestine. By the time he met Erich Glaser, around 1870, I guess, the Alliance Israelite Universelle had been established near Jaffa.”
“What was that?” Haim demanded.
“Just a fancy name for an agricultural school.”
“Get to Rosie.”
“Patience. Glaser had some money, a wife, a pair of sons and a reputation as an important painter, thanks in part to Montefiore, who’d also instilled in his protege Zionism. Glaser’s the sort who never does anything halfway. He moved his family to Jerusalem in the 1880s. He is one of the first wave of repatriation.”
“And Rosie was born here, yes? She is a child of Zion?”
“She was born here.”
Haim thought back to his landing on the Jaffa beach, trying to remember Glaser’s other daughters, but at the time he’d had eyes only for Rosie. “Yol, she’s not the youngest daughter, is she?” If there were older girls in Glaser’s family, they would have to be married off before Rosie could take a husband.
“Don’t worry, she’s the oldest, in her early twenties,” Yol replied, reading Haim’s mind. “And Glaser isn’t the sort to hold to tradition anyway. Keep in mind that the man is an artist, and artists flaunt tradition.”
“You think so?”
“Absolutely. Why, when Glaser first arrived he went to work teaching at Professor Schatz’s Bezalel Art School. Of the Bezalel you must have heard?”
“No.”
“Ah, you’re a dunce. Fortunately, you are also tall and handsome. It is the little ugly fellows like me who must be intelligent in order to get anywhere with the girls.”
“I see where your intelligence with girls has gotten you—chased from Zikhron to Jerusalem’s rock quarries.”
“I called you a dunce. Must you make of me a liar? Maybe I’d best continue my story. At the Bezalel, of which everyone but Haim Kolesnikoff has heard, Erich Glaser began painting scenes of Palestine. His works were placed in galleries overseas, where they sold to wealthy Jews who wanted a bit of the Holy Land to hang on the walls. The earnings allowed Glaser to purchase an inn in Jaffa, which has always been the gate through which immigrants passed. Since he was an artist, I suppose Erich had the right sort of temperament to get along with the Turks and Arabs. His inn became a place where immigrants were welcome to rest and get their bearings during their first few days in Palestine. He uses his own money in addition to funds given him by the agency to pay the baksheesh for newcomers.”
“So?”
“So what?”
“What about Rosie? Tell me about Rosie.”
“You know everything you need to know about her already,” Yol laughed. “She’s pretty—”
“I think she’s beautiful.”
“That’s what I meant. Forgive me, my friend. She’s beautiful, with good spirit, and her papa has a little money as well as a fine reputation. That’s why when boys come to Eretz Yisroel, don’t know what to do with themselves and decide to take a wife, Rosie’s usually their choice.” He wrapped himself up in his blanket. “We should go to sleep.”
“Is that why you proposed to her, because you didn’t know what to do with yourself?”
“Maybe.”
Both men grew quiet. From somewhere in the grove came an owl’s plaintive call. Haim idly plucked at the tufts of grass. “Did you love her?”
“I thought I did,” Yol replied after a moment. “I loved her madly at the time, but thinking back, I suspect it was her father I really loved. You must understand how lonely I was my first few months here. I’m not like you, dear Haim, I don’t draw people and make friends so easily. I make jokes but not friends.” He sighed. “So here I was, far from my family and friends in Poland, surrounded by steely-eyed halutzim who had no time for jokes. Erich Glaser and I could talk about art and music; why, he even shared with me a bottle of French wine. Rosie is a darling, and it was easy for me to fall in love with her, for it allowed me to become another of Glaser’s children.” He sat up to face Haim, “Can you understand?”
“Yes. What did Rosie say to you when you asked for her hand in marriage?”
“The same thing she tells all her would-be husbands. She said, ‘Not in a million years.’”
“Will she say that to me?”
“Absolutely. In your case, however, ‘not in a million years’ may well translate into ‘after several months of courtship.’”
“You really believe that’s true?”
“I have a feeling you’re the man she’ll marry, and my instincts about such matters are usually correct. In my case I would have had to wait the full million years.” Yol laughed. “By then I’d be too old to join the Hashomer.”
“You really do mean to join? The more I know you, the less I see you killing your beloved Arabs—”
“Then you don’t know me,” Yol declared. “They call us David and Goliath, but I mean to be a real David, a warrior. It has been my ambition for my entire life. For a Jew to become such a thing in Europe is unheard of, but here in a new land I can be a new person, and I intend to.”
“You needn’t get so touchy.”
“Then don’t make fun of me.”
“To be a member of Hashomer is my goal as well,” Haim reminded him.
“Hmmm. That you had best discuss with Rosie, yes?” Yol drew his blanket up over his head.
It was over a year before the stonecutting job was done. During that time Haim and Yol got acquainted with other young people who had come to rebuild and repopulate Palestine. Every night there were discussion groups to exchange news, practice Hebrew vocabulary and grammar and endlessly discuss the dialectics of Zionism. In Europe such meetings were for the most part political. In Palestine they struck a social note. Romances sparked, and marriages were made. A network of comrades was gradually formed
.
Jerusalem itself seemed to welcome the influx of Jews. Haim had expected trouble with the Turks and the Arabs, but the Turks, if they paid any attention at all to the Jews, merely seemed amused, while the Arabs welcomed the construction work. Haim found himself picking up a smattering of Turkish and Arabic.
Haim kept up his correspondence with Rosie and found the time to make the journey to Jaffa to visit her every few months. Erich Glaser’s inn was a rambling one-story whitewashed structure with flat roofs of red tile. Gardens, patios and terraces added charm to the wings that had been constructed over the decades. The place invariably teemed with new immigrants. Sometimes they were packed four and five to a room, but no one complained, since they were being sheltered and fed for free.
The Glasers had a wing all to themselves. The artist’s wife was constantly flitting about the place, overseeing the Arab servants who did the cooking and housekeeping. Miriam Glaser had snow-white hair and leathery skin after years beneath the strong Mediterranean sun. Haim thought she was a few years older than her husband. She favored loose robes of Arab design.
Erich Glaser spent the mornings with his children doing agency work. Each afternoon he painted. He would disappear into his studio, a small outbuilding in a quiet corner of the main garden, and not emerge until dinner.
On his first visit to the inn Haim was surprised to find the portrait of himself and Abe framed and hung in the family living room. Erich Glaser asked if Haim had done the drawing and was disappointed at the answer. However, Haim was positive he detected a look of relief in Rosie’s dark brown eyes.
His overnight visits with the family were always cordial, but that was to be expected. The Glasers welcomed many halutzim into their home. Haim knew he would not be able to tell how the family felt about him until he returned to Jaffa for good.
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