The Lost City

by Carrie E. Gruhn

  “You cannot help in the hospital where there will be registered nurses. Go to the hospice and I will follow as quickly as I can.”

  Momentarily an illogical anger held me still. In that moment he had disappeared into the cab and I was left alone in the midst of a strange and alien people. My anger gave way to fear and I slipped onto the sidewalk while all eyes were following the passage of the taxi which was slowly moving through the traffic. My eyes searched the street frantically for my mother and Simon, for any of our party, only to realize that they had gone. Perhaps they had not missed us or, missing us, they had continued on their way sure that Paul would care for me. I began to run swiftly, thankful that we had been engrossed in discussing a certain vista of Mount Carmel straight ahead. At least I knew that I was not going away from our destination, until I came to the first intersection.

  I stood, eyes searching the sidewalks for signs of our party. I had been accustomed to moments of fear and loneliness, but never more intense than those brief moments in the center of the beautiful city of Haifa, its glorious backdrop, Mount Carmel. It drew my eyes upward to the bluest sky I had ever seen. People jostled me in passing, but most them spoke in unfamiliar new tongues that held no meaning for me.

  Among ruins and destruction of cities which I had known, there had been a familiarity about the rubble heaps and the wreckage so that I had never experienced this sudden feeling of being lost. There was the old fear lest I attract the attention of the wrong person. I followed the impulse to hide and to put distance between myself and the dispersing crowd of Arabs. I turned to the left, walking with a swiftness and an urgency that was almost as noticeable as if I had run.

  I had forgotten the black satchel which Paul had thrust into my nerveless hand just before he lifted the hurt child. I still carried it, although unconscious of it until suddenly I felt other hands seeking to relieve me of it. Gasping, I tightened my grip and to my astonishment, as I looked down, there were the black eyes of a grinning boy. Bedouin though he was, even before he spoke, I had recognized kindliness instead of hatred in the boyish face.

  “Doctor says you might get lost. He was right. I am Moses. I will take you to the hospice. Come.”

  There was nothing else to do even if I had been able to collect my wits to think clearly. I relinquished my hold on the black bag and followed my voluble, affable guide. As if accustomed to acting as a guide he chattered incessantly, pointing out first one then another point of interest. His language was precise, but perfectly understandable; under its steady flow I relaxed and found the city both interesting and fascinating. I was glad that our way led into the streets that climbed the beautiful slopes of Mount Carmel, but my heart began to pound and my breath to knife my breast so that I was very glad when my self-appointed guide stopped before the hospice.

  “Thank you,” I gasped. Moses looked into my face with youthful, candid wisdom and a worried frown appeared.

  “You are sick,” he stated rather than asked. I could not refuse his sturdy shoulder as he offered its strength to aid my shaking legs. Together we entered the house where my anxious mother waited.

  Moses let me go when my mother’s arms took me, but he lingered as if reluctant to leave. I sank wearily and gratefully into a chair. He seemed utterly unaware of the enmity in the eyes of others who gathered near. It was the hatred and enmity that lay between his people and mine that had caused the difficulties of the last anxious half hour. His grin was so spontaneous, his guidance and help so naturally given that I could not help but feel friendly toward him.

  “Mother, this is Moses. Paul sent him to bring me here. I never would have found you without him.”

  “The doctor was right; he knew.” Moses nodded; I shared with him approval of the doctor.

  “Thank you.” Mother turned to him and smiled. “Our Tanya has been very ill. It was very good that you had such a strong shoulder to offer.”

  Moses shrugged the shoulder, lightly tossing aside his assistance, but he held out the satchel, “Here is the doctor’s medicine bag. Shall I keep it till he comes?”

  “Of course not, you have done enough. I can take care of it now.” With extreme care he placed the moist handle in my hand. “Thank you again for taking care of us, the bag and me.”

  “He might need it again.” He indicated the bag, then, “I will go now. But perhaps I will see you again.”

  “Goodbye,” I called, but his brown legs carried him swiftly through the door. His going was as unconcerned as his coming had been. He had been given a task and he had performed it. I knew that I could never dislike Moses, Arab through he was.

  “Now Tanya, tell us. We do not understand. We thought you were with Paul.”

  “I was, Mother. But there was a little girl.” I did not mention her race for strangely in giving help to her I had not taken into account racial differences. “She was hurt and Paul stopped to help her. I helped, too.” I could not keep the pride from my voice and Simon and Mother exchanged understanding glances. “After Paul bound up the wound he said that she had lost too much blood and there was a great deal of it for such a small child! So they took her to the hospital. I could not help further, so I followed you. I mean I thought I was following until Moses came and brought me here. Paul had sent him after me.”

  “But Moses—he is an Arab.” My mother voiced the thought that had been in her mind all the time; indeed, the one in the minds and reflected in the faces of the by-standers.

  “I know,” I replied. “But then, the little girl was an Arab, too. Paul helped her—Moses helped me. Does it matter, Mother mine, so long as the little girl is returned to her mother and I am here?” I astonished myself with my words. Unaccountably I, who had known so much of hate and intolerance, had given voice to a tolerant thought.

  I lapsed into thoughtful silence. I must be shallow indeed to let one small kindness from a mere boy make me forget so easily. Yet, I had been learning many lessons from Paul, not the least of which was tolerant understanding. Kindliness and thoughtfulness, too, he had taught me, for had he not been wondrously kind and thoughtful of me? Still there was some foundation for what he had done for me in the centuries-old ties. Only his personal generosity made him offer to help the child, however, and he had not hesitated to bind up her wound, although it had been inflicted accidentally by her own people while trying to hurt us. Amazingly a new thought took root within me and I spoke, proudly, “I think Paul could find the answer.”

  “The answer?” Mother was pulled. She had not followed my thoughts and had not seen the birth of the new idea. I hid my confusion by pulling myself to my feet to prove that I was rested enough to go to my room.

  It was quite late when I heard Paul’s soft knock on our door. Mother and Simon had stayed for a time with me hoping to allay my nervousness. I was glad when it grew so late that they left me alone, because I could not keep my wandering thoughts under control. I remembered some of the things Paul had told me about the insoluble tangle existing in the land. I had not liked some of the things that he had said. That they were true I could not question. Already I had felt a little of the turbulence and trouble besetting this land that we thought to claim. I forgot for a time that I had outgrown God. I shrugged aside my inconsistency and examined the claims of the Arabs in the light of Paul’s conversations. It seemed a hopeless muddle. There seemed no possible peace in this land for both peoples. Yet, might not Paul’s sort of understanding and kindliness, yes, his humility find a way?

  Remembering how his quiet yet commanding voice had calmed and held the heckling crowd, I felt my heart warm with pride and a disturbing new emotion. I could not tell whether pride or this new intoxicating heartbeat had given me the dreams which were racing through my head. I had confidence personally in Paul’s decisions. He had proved his ability to plan carefully when he had gained admittance for me. He had shown understanding from the first moments on board the ship. He had been gentle and kind, helping me to self-confidence; he had never asked anything in ret
urn. His kindness had reached out and enfolded the small wounded child without either hesitation or question. There might be others as kindly, as generous as he, but I had seen so little of kindliness and generosity. I felt safe with him, but had been immediately lost when left alone. My faith and trust had not been misplaced, for even in his going he had not left me unprotected but had sent Moses to guide me. How strange that this Bedouin boy had followed his instructions, had even seemed glad to do so! He could have been surly and careless, but I had heard an echo in the boy’s voice of my own feeling of confidence in Paul. Surely this ability to inspire confidence and belief in others could be useful here!

  Perhaps that feeling of trust came because he asked so little; only that I get well, that I learn how to help him a little; only that I lose my fears and that I grow up. I flushed again remembering now his voice had chided at such a child for a bride. Yet, he had shown no impatience at the slowness of my growing, or my learning.

  I was too unused to love, to freedom from fear and coercion to be ready for love; yet I found myself eagerly looking for signs of it in Paul’s eyes as I opened the door to his knock and was disappointed to see only weariness as he sank into a chair.

  “I am glad that you found your way all right,” he managed to say. I knew that anxiety had been nagging him, and I was glad.

  “You are tired. Perhaps I can get you some coffee and a sandwich?” I offered quickly.

  “Coffee, yes, I’d sure like some of it but no sandwich. A glass of orange juice and the coffee. But tell them to make it on the double—or I’ll be asleep before it comes.”

  I went in haste to get the coffee and the orange juice, a big pot of the hot brew and a pitcher of the orange juice. He drank it and some of the tiredness went out of him, and into his eyes came a new brightness.

  “Tanya, I think that we have accomplished something today. I believe we will be allowed to go our way unmolested. That little girl was the daughter of a sort of chief and their village is close to the commune to which we are going. I’m sorry the little one was hurt, but when I gave my blood the father seemed to think that wiped out our differences. Anyway he promised that none of his village will bother us. I like his looks and I think he will keep his promise.”

  “You gave your blood? Weren’t there others who could have done it? That is why you are so worn out! It was enough that you saved the child’s life, did you have to do that, too?” I asked querulously to again hide the pride his actions had aroused in me.

  “There wasn’t too much time to waste. I know my type; it is the same as hers or it was—she sure had to have more than the usual amount, but offhand no one else could do it. I couldn’t stand by and not finish what I had started. And besides, her brother Moses was with you.” Simply he said it, but I needed no interpreter to know his meaning. The exigency of the hours had not lessened his thoughtful care of me, and it made me humble and very sure indeed that he might be able to find the solution for all the land since apparently he had smoothed the way for our small part of it.

  I wanted to talk longer, to ask questions, but his eyes showed that he fought sleep. Nevertheless, I had learned enough to make my dreams of that evening seem less wild, more possible. I dreamed even wilder and more impossible dreams before I, too, fell asleep.

  5

  DESERT VILLAGE

  WITH A FEELING OF REGRET we turned our backs on Haifa early the following morning. I wanted to explore its clean new streets, to wander through the stores, to feast on its wholeness; but wise old Simon, Paul and the others hurried us onward. They were afraid lest a recurrence of yesterday’s trouble might come to us; but so bright had become my dreams, so great my faith in Paul that I felt a sort of smug satisfaction in the quietness and ease with which we left the city. There had been Arabs at the shiny new bus station and Arabs in the bus, yet the miles sped by and nothing happened to mar our enjoyment. The speed, at first feared by mother and me, became commonplace so that we relaxed and talked excitedly or silently looked at the flying panorama and at the passengers whose number dwindled with each stop.

  We left the huge bus at a small, bustling station to transfer to the small noisy bus that belonged to the village to be our future home. The driver of this second bus scowled and seemed anxious when he saw two Arabs alight with us. We found his nervous haste a little exasperating, even a little amusing. He had not been with us in Haifa so he had no way of knowing how wonderfully Paul had righted things for us there. The unencumbered Arabs mounted their two magnificent horses, evidently awaiting their arrival, and sped out across the desert ahead of us.

  The wastelands through which we had been passing had been reclaimed in many places. We had become used to seeing the rock-strewn hillsides suddenly give way to cultivated fields and settlements. Presently we became aware that we had been driving for several miles in unclaimed, rugged wastelands seemingly impossible of productivity. Incredulously we listened while the driver, unmindful of the roughness of the road, kept up a constant flow of talk. All the prosperous and thriving small villages spread out behind us had been literally torn from the desert like that which we were traversing.

  “It’s a wild country, all right,” Paul admitted. “I’d heard about the miraculous way these places had been built up, but I had not grasped how barren it really had been before.”

  “It’s taken lots of good hard work and planning, I can tell you,” the driver replied. “Why, whole orchards of full grown trees have been lifted and transplanted to some of the villages.”

  “That must have cost a pretty penny,” Paul said thoughtfully. “I wonder if it really paid?”

  “Most of the time it did. The big trees started paying back right away, not only in fruit but in shade for the new trees. Of course we don’t have to be in a hurry now; since the people have seen that the desert really can blossom like a rose, they are willing to await results and it’s worth it.”

  “I wonder if everyone thinks so,” Paul spoke again.

  “Well, no, not everyone,” the driver answered a little reluctantly. “There are those who miss the bright lights and the theaters. Give us time and we’ll have them, too.”

  He drove silently for awhile as if he, too, were remembering bright lights and other things. As a group of Arab children stood aside to let us pass, his face clouded.

  “I think that fewer would be dissatisfied if we didn’t have to be always fighting Arabs!”

  Paul and old Simon exchanged swift glances, then Simon spoke.

  “Maybe there won’t be so much trouble with them anymore.”

  “You think not? Just because you rode with two of them and didn’t have trouble don’t think that means it’s not coming. I’m glad we’re almost there. I don’t see how it happens they didn’t put tacks on the road or something worse.” He shook his head in perplexity.

  I waited for Paul to tell him of the truce he had effected; instead, he began asking questions about the different villages—what facilities he could expect in ours for his work.

  “There aren’t any,” was the blunt answer. “Oh, there’s a big room set aside for you, but no one has had time to equip it even if we had known how.”

  “You mean that all the tools and medicines I’ll have to work with are those I’m bringing with me?” It was the first time I had seen Paul perplexed.

  “Just about. Well, not quite all. There’s a couple of women who’ve been counting the days till you’d come—a few sundry other complaints besides,” the driver grinned and suddenly Paul began to laugh.

  “It’s a good thing I’m sentimental, then. It cost a small fortune, but I couldn’t part with the things I set up in my first office, so I packed them and shipped them. That is, I started them this way.”

  “They got here, that is, they are back at Haifa in the warehouse. Lots of storage rent piled up on them, I guess. When our truck takes things in, it usually has so much to bring out it doesn’t stop for extras.”

  “But doctor’s supplies aren’t extras!�
� Paul exploded.

  “Sure, I know. But we didn’t know what they were and besides you weren’t here.”

  “Well, I’m here now and I want those things pronto!”

  The driver shrugged but did not answer. Perhaps it was because the bus was winding up a steep hill and took undivided attention. As it came out on the crest of the hill he waved his hand proudly toward the valley.

  We all crowded forward to get our first glimpse of our new home. Obligingly, or perhaps from a sense of the dramatic, the driver held the bus still before starting down the winding road on the other side of the hill. We had seen the other green and blooming spots, but since they had been not too far apart they had seemed less like miracles than what we now saw. Dark, forbidding hillsides climbed up from the valley floor, a sharply defined setting for the green emerald almost in the exact center of the hollow. Then we began to take the bright spot apart and saw the pattern of vineyard and orchard, pasture and cultivated fields spreading like spokes from the small tight-walled, red-roofed village that formed its heart. We saw something else! In the light of what had happened in Haifa it cast a shadow over us. Across the valley, hanging precariously against the rock walls spread another village, lacking white walls and red roofs. They were black tents like black hawks bending their beady eyes on their prey.

  “How long have they been there?” Simon nodded toward the Bedouin encampment.

  “From the beginning of time, I guess,” came the dismal response.

  “Do you mean that this was their valley? I mean before you came in?” Paul queried.

  “Well, yes, it was theirs but we paid them for it. That’s what makes it so hard to have them prey on us, heckle us and keep us in hot water. After all we paid them for the land we’re using!” he continued truculently.

  “Where are their fields?” another asked.

  “Well, they have some on the other side of that hill, but not like ours.”

  “Isn’t it the same kind of land?”