Israel

by Fred Lawrence Feldman

  Chapter 12

  Galilee, 1911

  It took Haim Kolesnikoff three days in a horse-drawn cart to reach the Arab village of Um Jumi, just east of the Jordan River and close to the Sea of Galilee. His transport ran supplies between the towns and settlements; consequently it followed a meandering route. Haim wondered if he was ever going to arrive at Um Jumi and whether the handful who were already there would think badly of him for being tardy.

  He was looking forward to good, honest, physical work, and though he was saddened not to be present for the birth, he was firmly convinced that he was doing the right thing.

  Haim felt reborn. Let the capitalists back in Tel Aviv think what they might; his money and power had been chains on his soul. Now that his wealth was out of his hands, he felt unfettered. Stripping himself of his material assets had returned his youth and strength to him. He still had his wife and soon would have a child, but his days of sitting behind a desk were over. He was going to be a pioneer again.

  Haim grinned to himself as the squeaky cart rolled northward. Yol, old friend, he reflected, it looks as if you were wrong. It appears that I’ve managed to win beautiful Rosie without having to compromise my dream.

  Slowly the terrain began to change. The evergreen oaks gave way to leathery, gnarled carob trees and then to low scrub and thorny bushes. It became colder as they approached Galilee and it rained a lot more.

  Five miles from Um Jumi they found that the Jordan had overflowed its banks. There was only swamp and blood-crimson mudbeds as far as the eye could see. The mud sucked at the cart’s wheels like something hungry. Haim had to push from behind as the brace of horses, heads lowered and hooves kicking and slipping, strained to pull the cart. Haim gave it all he had. Several times the horses abruptly found firmer footing. The cart would lurch forward several yards, leaving Haim stretched full length on his face in six inches of mud. Soon he was crusted over with it.

  It took the cart nine hours to cover the last five miles. When they finally rolled into Um Jumi beneath a pelting, icy rain that soaked Haim to his skin, the new pioneer wanted nothing more than a long sleep in a warm, dry bed.

  The cart made its way through muddy garbage-strewn streets lined with low clay huts and tattered tents. Dark Arab eyes stared out at Haim as he rode past. Now and then a mangy dog would dart between the plodding horses’ legs or a scrawny chicken would flap its wings, clucking in outrage. From some hovel came the sound of a child crying. From all the huts and tents greasy smoke curled up into the rainy sky.

  This is worse than how the lowliest serfs lived back in Russia, Haim thought. These poor fellahin—we must do something for them as soon as we can.

  When the cart reached what the driver mumbled was the Jewish portion of the village, things seemed little better. There was no garbage, but the streets were just as muddy and the clay huts just as wretched. A rickety wooden building stood on the very outskirts of the Jewish encampment. Haim glimpsed Yol leaning against the rain-shiny planking, totally unprotected from the weather. Water was dripping from the end of his nose to join the rivulets streaming down his beard.

  Silly little monkey, Haim thought fondly. He may be in charge, but he doesn’t know enough to build a roofed porch. I’ll get on it first thing.

  Yol detached himself from the building and walked over to meet the cart. He was dressed in his simple work clothes, red Arab slippers and his kaffiyeh. His revolver was nowhere in sight.

  Because of the rain, Haim told himself. Why ruin the gun by getting it rusty? Besides, those poor souls I passed seemed peaceful enough.

  The cart came to a stop. As Haim rummaged around to collect his belongings, he wondered why the rest of his comrades had not turned out to greet him. During the last leg of his journey it had been in his mind that the others would gather around him like a family welcoming a long lost member; this was to be the ultimate homecoming. At last he would be with people of his spirit if not his blood. At last he would be with kin.

  “Shalom,” Yol said, not smiling at all. “Grab your stuff and follow me. There is work waiting for you.”

  They went directly from the cart to a large, mildewed, leaky canvas tent. There for the rest of the day he oiled and sharpened rusty scythe blades. He was so tired he couldn’t see straight, and several times he cut his grimy fingers. Cold, wet and miserable, Haim wondered where all the others were and cursed himself for thinking of coming to this hellhole.

  He thought that first day at Um Jumi would never end, but at last Yol came to fetch him for dinner. The large wooden building turned out to be the communal dining hall. Haim timidly took his place upon a long bench and sat quiet and withdrawn. Water dripped down his neck and onto his plate from the leaky roof. The others talked around him. There was lamb stew, flat bread and dried fruits soaked in hot water. The dried fruits had come in on Haim’s cart and were garnering far more attention than he.

  When the meal was over Yol called a meeting to order. Haim saw that his normally easy-going friend was not enjoying his position of leadership. Yol looked supremely uncomfortable guiding the discussions, recognizing speakers and calling some of them out of order.

  Haim was asked to stand up and was introduced to the group. A scattering of scowling faces glanced at him and turned away.

  All right, Haim told himself, don’t worry. You know how meetings are. Remember Dizengoff’s endless assemblies to discuss a name for Tel Aviv.

  He sat quietly, biding his time to speak out and make a good impression. Yol suggested that Haim make his bed in the dining hall until the rains were over and a hut could be built for him. Haim offered to have Rosie bring along a tent to save everybody the work. He expected gratitude, but the others only shook their heads knowingly. Yol merely shrugged and said it was time to discuss new business.

  Haim impatiently listened as the others discussed pesticides, kitchen duties and work details out in the fields. During a lull in the conversation he raised his hand.

  Yol hesitated but finally recognized him. “What, Haim?”

  “1 had an idea coming in this afternoon,” he said loudly. “The dining hall has no porch. I know a little about building. Why don’t I put one on? It’ll keep us dry in the rainy season and give us shade in the summer.”

  “And where should the lumber for your personal project come from?”

  Haim turned. The speaker had long black hair and a beard with no mustache. His name was Isaac; Haim had used all his concentration to memorize names as he heard them.

  “There are no trees here,” Isaac said with amused contempt. “If there were, we would cherish them, not cut them down to make a porch.”

  “This spring we will begin planting seedlings to reclaim the swamps,” Yol added kindly. “Haim, perhaps you should get the hang of the way things are around here before offering comments.”

  Half an hour later the meeting ended and the halutzim filed out to their beds. Only Haim and Yol were left.

  “They hate me,” Haim blurted.

  “What did you expect?”

  “But why?” Haim shook his head in bewilderment. “What have I done to them? Why should they treat me so coldly?”

  “My friend, listen to me. All of us have slaved for years to earn this opportunity. To us this misery is a privilege. Do you understand? This is an experiment, my friend, one that the National Fund is watching very closely. The fate of other proposed settlements rests on our shoulders.”

  “This is the great experiment,” Haim scowled, nodding. “I know that. Arthur told me about it.”

  “Arthur!” Yol exclaimed. “You call him Arthur. To us he is Dr. Ruppin. These people you ask to accept you as an equal have never laid eyes on Ruppin, and yet you call the great man by his first name.”

  “Is it my fault I worked for him back in Jaffa?”

  “It is not a question of fault, Haim, but merely that you are the newcomer and you must fit in.” Yol smiled sadly. “We offer to build you a hut and you say, ‘Don’t bother, I’ll bu
y one.’”

  “One little mistake,” Haim muttered.

  “I’ll build you a porch,” Yol mimicked, chuckling. “My friend, I was waiting for you to suggest that the lumber be delivered from Tel Aviv.”

  Haim blushed. “What, then, little monkey? Help me. This is so important to me—their approval too.”

  Yol came over to Haim and put his hand on his old friend’s shoulder. “If you want to be accepted, try to see their side of things. Right now the men are suspicious of your success in Tel Aviv and jealous of your blue eyes and curly blond hair. ‘Here is a handsome bigshot among us,’ they grumble. ‘Will our wives think less of us compared to Haim Kolesnikoff?’”

  “Absurd,” Haim scoffed. “The women glared at me worse than the men.”

  “Absolutely,” Yol nodded. “The women are thinking, ‘Here’s the one who married Rosie Glaser, the rich girl.’ Don’t forget, the Glaser family is famous in Palestine. ‘Where is this rich girl?’ the women are asking each other. ‘Is she too good for us or is she waiting to come when the weather is more to her liking?’”

  “You know why she isn’t here,” Haim said reproachfully.

  “Yes, I do,” Yol agreed. “The other married couples have vowed not to have children until a permanent settlement is built. Also a couple just last week announced that they were expecting a child but that woman will work until delivery is imminent, and only then go to the clinic at Tiberias.”

  “So!” Haim snapped. “It was necessary for me to risk the lives of my wife and unborn child to prove I have the right spirit—is that what you are saying?”

  “No, my friend. What I am saying is that everything takes time. Eventually you as well as Rosie and the baby will be accepted. For now I can only give you this advice: I know that your heart is in the right place, but you have been wealthy for a long time. Maybe you’ve given up that wealth, but you still think and act like a rich man.”

  Haim looked rueful. “How’d you get to be so wise, monkey man?”

  “Leadership, responsibility, maturity—terrible things like that.” Yol made a face. “Hurry up and become a leader here the way you have everywhere else. Then I can go back to doing what I do best: getting drunk, shirking and making jokes.”

  Haim seemed not to hear him. “I thought it was going to be like one big family,” he moped.

  “It is exactly like that!” Yol laughed sardonically. “Your problem is that you know nothing of family life. You imagine it to be love and kisses all the time, but it is rivalry, jealousy, intense hatred until a crisis threatens, and then everyone pulls together.”

  “If that’s what it takes, then I pray that a crisis comes soon,” Haim said forcefully.

  “Don’t worry,” Yol chuckled. “That’s like praying for the sun to rise. Which it’s going to, and not so many hours from now. I’m going to bed, and so should you. Tomorrow is going to be a long day.”

  Left alone, Haim found that he was far too agitated to sleep. He decided to write to Rosie. The letter would go out on the returning supply cart and would likely take a month to reach Tel Aviv, but sporadic communication was better than none at all.

  “My most precious love,” Haim began his missive, “everything is wonderful here.”

  It was mid-January before Rosie received Haim’s first letter from Um Jumi. Late one morning one of the servants brought it up to her bedroom. Rosie was still in bed. Her time was drawing near and it was doctor’s orders that she stay off her feet as much as possible.

  The doctor was coming every day now. Arrangements had been made to transport her from her parents’ house in Jaffa to the new infirmary in Tel Aviv. The port city had seen the arrival of its first gasoline motor trucks, and Meir Dizengoff had seen to it that one was standing by for her, its canvas-enclosed cargo area rigged out as a makeshift ambulance.

  Rosie read Haim’s letter, carefully folded it and placed it on the nightstand. Later, when she was dressed, she would put it in her pocket, where she could touch it from time to time through the day.

  She missed Haim desperately and found herself heartened by the good news in his letter. According to Haim he and the other halutzim were transforming the agricultural settlement into a place of primitive but unspoiled beauty.

  “Like the Garden of Eden,” as Haim described it in his letter. Rosie, reclining against her feather pillows, smiled at her reflection in her vanity mirror.

  “The Garden of Eden,” she murmured, patting her huge belly. “A nice enough place for you to grow up in, yes, my son?”

  She rang the bell, for it was time to dress and go downstairs. Her mother had invited several women for luncheon. Normally Rosie found herself bored by her mother’s circle, but she had been housebound for a week and was hungry for diversion of any sort.

  Her mother’s guests began arriving at noon. Kamel showed them into the dining area one by one.

  As the meal wore on, Rosie began to suspect that her mother had laid down specific ground rules for conversation. Miriam Glaser kept the focus firmly on baby clothes and Tel Aviv society gossip in general; not once did the subject of Um Jumi or Haim come up. This was patently absurd, for the whole notion of a self-sufficient commonly owned agricultural settlement was so antithetical to the middle-class European sensibilities of Tel Aviv that the matter was literally the talk of the town. For days the newspapers had been full of Dr. Ruppin’s comments on the program. It was widely known that he was a staunch advocate of settlement.

  That the subject did not seem to exist at her mother’s table was highly amusing to Rosie. She perversely decided to raise the issue at her first opportunity. Haim’s encouraging letter had made her feel bold. She was also eager for news.

  Mrs. Wasserman, seated on her right, was the wife of one of Tel Aviv’s foremost newspaper publishers. Rosie leaned towards her, whispering, “You must be very proud of your husband’s exclusive interview with Dr. Ruppin.”

  “Rosie . . .” her mother admonished.

  “Let the girl talk, Miriam,” Mrs. Wasserman interjected. She was an overweight plain-featured woman with crooked teeth. She had always felt inferior among her friends and tended to bolster her standing by recounting her husband’s successes. “Teddy hasn’t printed half what Arthur told him,” she boasted.

  “What do you mean?” Rosie asked, not liking her

  tone.

  “Just that Arthur is very disappointed in how things at Um Jumi are going.”

  “Dr. Ruppin sounded so optimistic in the interview.”

  “Darling, he has to be optimistic,” Mrs. Wasserman explained. “He can’t let on how poorly things are going, can he? Not if he wants to hold onto his position as head of the National Fund. He’s invested quite a bit of money in the farm machinery and all that land.”

  “Please! You’re upsetting Rosie,” Miriam Glaser cut in. “My dear, don’t you pay attention,” she told her daughter. “I’m sure Mrs. Wasserman is exaggerating,” she added, but then abruptly realized that in her haste to keep her daughter calm, she was saying exactly the wrong thing to quiet the insecure Mrs. Wasserman.

  “Rosie, I know your mother thinks I’m a braggart,” the newspaper publisher’s wife said huffily. “Why I’d ever make things up I’ll let her say. But one thing I can tell you is that Dr. Ruppin is very worried about the climate at Um Jumi. Never mind the malaria—everyone outside Tel Aviv is fair prey to malaria—Arthur confided to my husband that Um Jumi also has yellow fever.”

  Rosie’s heart began to pound with awful fear. She clutched the letter in her skirt pocket. It had been written weeks and weeks ago. Was Haim even now laid up with fever? Was he calling out for her as he lay dying?

  Rosie gasped, positive that her beloved was a jaundiced corpse.

  “You see what you’ve done, you big cow?” Miriam screeched at Mrs. Wasserman from what sounded like a great distance.

  “Now, Rosie, don’t cry like that,” somebody whispered directly into her ear. She felt hands grasping her as she began to
sway off the chair, and then quite suddenly she felt herself struck by a lightning bolt of pain.

  She cried out, doubling over with such force that her forehead slammed against the edge of the table. Had she left blood on her mother’s lace tablecloth? She couldn’t tell, for she was far too overwhelmed with labor pain.

  “Oh, my God,” Miriam murmured. “Kamel,” she shouted, “send for the doctor. Rosie’s having her baby!”

  Somehow they got her upstairs to her bed. Then her mother was there, whispering reassurances. There were cool wet clothes pressed against her forehead. They stung at first. I guess I did cut my forehead on the table, Rosie thought distractedly. I hope there isn’t a scar.

  The doctor arrived. He asked about the interval between contractions, and then, disbelieving, timed them himself.

  “Forget the ambulance,” he said brusquely. “Tel Aviv is out of the question; she can’t travel. She’ll have it at home.”

  Rosie spent all that day and half the night in labor. During the first hours she called for the charcoal sketch of Haim and his friend Abe, which had been taken down from the wall and rolled up to be packed in Rosie’s trunk. She’d packed some weeks ago, to occupy herself and to feel that she was making some real progress toward joining her husband.

  Now the rolled parchment in its leather tube went beside her on the sweat-soaked sheets. During the bad periods, when her world was nothing but grunts and contractions, she gripped that tube as she would her husband’s hand had he been present.

  She began to have delusions. She imagined that she had yellow fever, that Haim had it. She imagined she was back on that sandy stretch of Jaffa beach, being assaulted by the Turkish immigration officer. Haim came racing to her rescue all over again, but then the scene shifted and it was a Bedouin marauder confronting Haim. They were all at Um Jumi and the nomad wanted the baby.

  A few minutes after dawn on January seventeenth, 1911, a boy was born to the Kolesnikoffs.