The phone rang, and Miriam went to it. It was Dan Stedman calling to invite them to have dinner with him at the King David that evening.
“Oh, we’d like to, but my Aunt Gittel is up from Tel Aviv and—”
“Bring her along.”
“Just a minute.” She cupped the receiver. “It’s Dan Stedman, a friend of ours. He wants us to come to the King David for dinner tonight.”
“So go. I can stay home and take care of Jonathan.”
“No, he asked me to bring you along.”
“Well, I don’t know. I—”
“He’s a nice fellow—and unmarried,” said the rabbi.
Gittel gave him a look of annoyance and indignation.
“What do you say, Gittel? Please come.”
“All right, what can I lose?”
Miriam spoke into the instrument. “It’s all right. We can all make it. Is it some special occasion?”
“Not really, but I’ll be returning to the States soon and—”
“Oh, really? Something unexpected came up?”
“I’ll tell you all about it when I see you.”
CHAPTER
FORTY-TWO
The assistant dean of foreign students placed the fingertips of one hand very carefully against the fingertips of the other and nodded slowly as Stedman talked. Not for one minute did he believe what the other was saying, that his son was homesick and wanted to return to America. He had had experience with the parents of American students who came to see him because they were withdrawing their sons or daughters from the university. Usually, it was because the youngster had got involved and wanted to marry someone whom they considered completely unsuitable. The last time, it had been an ardent lifelong Zionist, indignant because his daughter had decided to remain in the country and join a kibbutz.
“Who can tell what is educative, Mr. Stedman,” he said soothingly. “Students come here from all over the world, but mostly from America to study at our university. Is it because we have better teachers? Not any better than America or the other advanced countries have. So what benefit do they derive by coming to school here? Not what they get in the classrooms, but what is available outside the classrooms, the life here, the people.”
As soon as he had been assured by Mike Donahue that matters had been arranged, Dan Stedman had returned to Jerusalem to arrange for Roy’s return to the States, only to find a note from him saying he had gone off for a few days to visit with friends and that he would call when he got back. Anxious to expedite matters, Dan had gone to the university to see what arrangements had to be made.
“I understand,” said Dan, “but I was primarily interested in what could be done about credits and that sort of thing.”
The dean smiled and spread his hands. “Obviously, we cannot give credit for courses in which your son has not taken the examinations, but we are very flexible in the matter of examinations. The student can take them at various times of the year. We have to have this kind of arrangement of course, because so many are called up for military duty throughout the year, faculty as well as students.”
“But he can take nothing back with him to apply toward his degree at Rutgers?”
The dean shook his head slowly.
“Then he’s wasted a year, because the educative value outside the classroom, getting to know the people and the life here, I don’t think he got that either. He had almost no friends—”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Stedman. You sound disappointed, and I suppose that reflects your son’s feelings. It is not easy for a student from an American college. I think our courses are a little harder, or at least they demand more work, but it’s not that. Even the difficulty with the language is not the principle cause of the disappointment for some of our American students. It’s that the tone is so different from what they’re used to.
“We want them to come here, partly because they bring dollars of which we are in desperate need. But also, we hope that some of them will like what they find here and remain on or come back to settle. Because we need people as well as dollars. But we cannot change the university whose primary purpose is to serve our own students, merely to please the foreign student. Our students are older than yours by an average of three years—the time they spent in the Army. And at that time of life, three years is a considerable difference. But there is also the difference resulting from the maturing experience of the Army. For them college is not a relaxation, a vacation before going on with the serious work of making a living. It is the serious work. Most of them have jobs, and as soon as classes are over, they hurry off to them. We have no fraternities here, Mr. Stedman.” He got up from his chair and came around to the front of the desk as if to remove a barrier between them.
“And yet, in a sense, everyone here belongs to a fraternity, but it is the fraternity of his Army squad. And this kind of fraternity is even more exclusive to the outsider than the most exclusive clubs in your colleges because their lives depend on it. They have no time and little inclination for friendships outside their circle. And it’s no different with the women students. They are all of marriageable age, and it is more intelligent for them to date Israelis where there is a good chance of friendship resulting in marriage than some outsider who wants companionship while he is here and who will then leave the country at the end of his study. So all this makes it hard for the American student who comes here.”
“It makes it damn close to impossible,” said Dan.
“Not altogether, Mr. Stedman. There are some who come here properly motivated. They come from strong religious or Zionist backgrounds, and just being here is enough for them, at least at first. They persevere. They acquire a good command of the language. And they win out and integrate with the life of the country. And many of them elect to stay on.”
“Well, Roy’s background is neither strongly religious nor strongly Zionist,” said Stedman. “My own sympathies are strongly with Israel, but I belong to no Zionist clubs or organizations.”
The dean nodded. “Which brings us back to where we started. How do we know what is educative? Perhaps the experience your son had in living for several months among serious, dedicated young people, even if he couldn’t participate, will have a greater influence on his future than if he had found here a duplicate of what he had back in America. Right now, he might feel only disappointment, but there may be also a feeling of grudging admiration. And when he is a little older and amusement and entertainment are not so important in his life, he may think back to this as an example worth following.”
Stedman nodded. He even managed a smile. “It sounds convincing when you say it, Doctor. I wonder how it will sound when I tell it to the boy’s mother.”
CHAPTER
FORTY-THREE
Every time Abdul shifted gears the car growled in protest and Roy dozing on the seat beside him stirred uneasily, shifted his position, and dozed off again. When they had first started out, he had pointed out that there must be something wrong with the transmission or the clutch.
“It’s been this way for a couple of years,” said Abdul. “Nothing to worry about.”
The shock absorbers were not in good condition either, and whenever the road was the least bit rough, they were bounced around unmercifully. But as Abdul remarked cheerfully, “It’s better than walking.”
“Would you like me to drive for a while?” asked Roy.
“No—maybe when I get tired. Why don’t you take a nap? When we get to my uncle’s house, we may be staying up late.”
“Oh, I’m all right. You know there’s a knock in the engine?”
“A knock? Oh, you mean that little tick you hear? It’s nothing, believe me. Mahmoud is very good with automobiles, and he keeps this one tuned like a watch. Well, maybe not like a watch, but like a good serviceable alarm clock. It is perhaps not so quiet as the cars you are used to, nor is the ride so smooth; but it always starts, and it always goes.”
“Yeah, well…. It’s pretty good on gas. I’ll
say that for it. We’ve been driving for over an hour and the needle on the tank gauge hasn’t moved.”
Abdul chuckled. “The gauge doesn’t work. The needle never moves.”
“Then how do you know when you need gas?”
“Mahmoud knows. Every now and then he fills it. Never once has he run out. He assured me we had enough gas to get to my uncle’s house.”
“Just where is your uncle’s place, Abdul?”
“North, up in the Galilee. Not far from the border,” he added lightly.
“I mean, is it in some town or—”
“Up there, in that area, there are only a few small villages. I’m sure no place you’ve ever heard of.”
“He lives in the village?”
“He has a house in the village, several houses, but he lives on his farm which is away from the village. It is to his farm that we are going.”
“You know the road all right?”
“Oh!” Abdul shrugged his shoulders expressively.
“And you’re sure I’ll be welcome? I mean, he doesn’t know I’m coming.”
“You don’t understand about Arab hospitality, Roy. I am his nephew. That means more with us than it does with you. It means I am of his family-like a son. And you are my friend. His house is like mine, and if I invite you, it is just the same as if he invited you. Do you understand?”
“I think so.” He lay back in his seat and stared up through the windshield at the bright stars in the inky sky. “And he will not mention that I am there? I mean—”
“I know what you mean, Roy. To whom would he mention it? To the police? Even if he thought they might be interested in you and that you were hiding from them, you would be perfectly safe. You are a guest, and a guest is sacred.”
“Yeah, well that’s nice to know. Maybe by the time we get back, my father will have straightened matters out at the embassy—”
“I am sure, it will all be straightened out.” He glanced at his companion and saw that his eyes were shut. “Roy?” he said softly. The only answer he got was a drowsy murmur. Abdul smiled and focused his eyes on the road. Once or twice he glanced over, but Roy slept on.
He woke up suddenly as the car came to a bone-jolting stop. He was flung against the door and then back against the seat. “Wha-what’s the matter? Are we there already?”
“We are in a ditch,” said Abdul. “And we are out of gas.”
“But—”
“It is no matter, Roy. We are practically there. As a matter of fact, we are on the edge of my uncle’s estate—but the far edge. We will go the rest of the way on foot. It’s just as well, because from here the road—road?—a couple of ruts in the ground—goes way off and then loops around. We will take a shortcut through the woods—”
“But the car—what do we do about the car?” Roy grumbled as he climbed out.
“I will have my uncle haul it in with a team of mules. It will be all right where it is for the present. Follow me.” He plunged into a thicket of bamboo.
“You know the direction?”
“Oh, sure, but keep your voice down, Roy. Some of my uncle’s people might be out and think we are trespassers.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you could call to them,” he said as he trudged along behind the shadowy figure of his friend. He was still not fully awake, and he found himself stumbling over the rocky and uneven ground.
Suddenly, from the side there came a shout of “Halt!”
Roy froze in his tracks, but Abdul began to run. “This way, Roy. Run. Run.”
A shot rang out, and he saw his friend stagger and fall.
CHAPTER
FORTY-FOUR
I’d know you anywhere,” said Dan when he was introduced to Gittel. “You look just like your niece.”
“Tcha! The idea of comparing a fresh, handsome girl like Miriam to an old woman like me.”
“On the contrary, I’m sure David is very happy to know what his wife will look like when she grows older.”
He ushered them into the Grill and was gallantly solicitous about seating the older woman where he judged she would be most comfortable. “Sit here, Gittel, there’s a little draft from the air conditioner on that side.” While they waited for the waiter to take their orders, he directed most of his conversation to her. He pointed out people he knew among the diners. “That man that just came in, he’s a tire manufacturer who’s here to build a big new factory. I was talking to him the other day in the lobby.” He waved as the man saw him and nodded. “That woman, the one near the post. She was president of Hadassah two, no, three years ago.” He caught her eye and smiled. “Oh, you know who that is coming in now, don’t you? That’s the Finance Minister. I interviewed him last year. I wonder if he’ll remember me.”
Seemingly he did, for when he saw them, he stared for a moment and then came striding toward them.
“Gittel! It’s been ages since I saw you. What are you doing in Jerusalem?”
“Hello, Boaz. How is Leah? And the girls? I’m here attending a convention.” She introduced him to the others.
“And Uri, he’s still in the Army?”
“Still in the Army.”
“How do you know him, Gittel?” asked Miriam when he left.
“Boaz?” She shrugged as if to indicate that she was not impressed by his importance. “We were in the same unit in the Haganah.” Nevertheless, she was obviously pleased that the opportunity had arisen and that the Finance Minister had remembered her and been so effusive in his greeting.
“I was going to introduce you,” said Stedman with a chuckle, “and he didn’t even remember me.”
“Boaz? He has a lot on his mind these days.”
“I suppose. Was it your son he asked after? He’s in the Army? He is a professional and planning to make a career of it?”
“Who knows about young people? They can change their minds from one week to the next. The last time I saw him, weeks ago, he was saying that he thought he might leave. He’s got himself tied up with a girl, and I suppose she has been making plans for him.”
“When are we going to meet him?” asked Miriam.
“A first cousin and we’ve been here almost three months—”
“Well, he doesn’t get off every week. And I suspect that there have been some leaves he has had that I didn’t know about. He is seeing this girl. She lives here in Jerusalem, and he wrote me that although he is getting this next week off, he will not be coming to Tel Aviv, but will come here instead. What do you think of that? His own mother he passes up to see a girl.”
“But if he’s coming here,” said Miriam, “why don’t you write him to drop in on us, if only for an hour or two? Tell him to bring the girl along. And you could come up from Tel Aviv for the Sabbath. Tell him to come for dinner—with the girl. And Dan, can you come?”
“I don’t think so, Miriam. There’s a good chance Roy and I will be gone by then, and if not, we’ll be getting ready to leave.”
“Oh, yes,” she said, “you were going to tell us all about it.”
“There isn’t much to tell. My friend at the embassy arranged it for Roy, and I thought under the circumstances it would be a good idea if I went along with him. I’ve got all the material I need, and the rest of the work—the editing and the writing—I can do back in the States just as well.”
The menus were distributed, and the waiter, a young man prematurely bald, was helpful to the point of being avuncular. “The pâté, I guarantee you’ve never tasted liver like this, madam.” They took his advice, and it was good. “Trust me, choose the steak.” And when Dan chose fish instead, the waiter shrugged his shoulders as if to say that there were always people who had no faith.
When he was not fetching for them, he hovered over them, filling their wineglasses, offering Dan a light when he put a cigarette in his mouth, picking up Gittel’s napkin when it slid off her lap. The talk flowed pleasantly, Gittel telling how it was in the old days and Dan chiming in with his memories of his earlier visits to the c
ountry.
Just after the waiter had served the coffee, the head-waiter approached their table. “Mr. Stedman? There’s a phone call for you. This way.”
“That could be Roy. Excuse me.”
“He’s a very nice man,” said Gittel at his retreating figure.
He was not gone long, and when he rejoined them, they could see that he was upset.
“Was it Roy?” asked Miriam.
“No, it wasn’t. Look, you’ll have to excuse me. I have to leave for Tel Aviv immediately, but please don’t go. Please stay and finish your dinner.” He looked from one to the other. He saw their bewilderment and their concern.
“They caught Roy trying to cross the border,” he blurted out and hurried out of the room.
CHAPTER
FORTY-FIVE
Your pajamas fit you better than your suit,” said Dan Stedman sourly. And indeed they did because unlike his seersucker, the pajamas were unwrinkled.
Donahue smiled. “Yeah, they’re some new kind of drip dry. You hang them on a clothes hanger after washing and they come out like you just took them out of the package from the store. My daughter gave them to me last time I was in the States. Drink?”
Stedman shook his head. He was silent, sitting hunched forward in his chair, his hands folded, his forearms resting on his thighs, staring down at the floor. “Sorry I got you out of bed,” he said awkwardly.
“I wasn’t asleep, just reading. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming down when I spoke to you?”
“I wasn’t planning to. I didn’t think I could. I was giving this dinner party in the Grill. Nice people—I didn’t see how I could run out on them. Nice evening, good dinner, interesting conversation—when I came back to the table, that’s what got me, the conversation. How was I going to go on talking pleasantly with Roy … there? So I excused myself and got a cab. I didn’t think to call ahead.”
“It’s all right. But you know I can’t do anything. The case is different now.”
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