Day After Night

by Anita Diamant

  No one moved or wept or breathed a word as they waited, pressed against the forest floor. The quiet that followed the second blast continued long enough so that Yitzhak picked up his head and gestured for a couple of his men to crawl forward and join him. “It’s going to be daylight soon,” he whispered. “I want you to go up ahead and see what kind of defense the Brits have mounted around Beit Oren. The order is to get these people to safety, not to fight. If there are too many of them, we may have to wait here until tomorrow night.”

  God forbid, thought Shayndel.

  The two men ran out of sight and Yitzhak sent word back down the line: keep still.

  People found places to sit and huddled together for warmth. Some rested their foreheads on their knees. Jacob slept with his head on Esther’s lap, his legs draped over Zorah’s. Leonie and Tedi looked up nervously as the night sky showed the first dim traces of morning. Shayndel crouched, eyes wide, listening for another gunshot.

  It wasn’t long before two dark silhouettes scrambled into view. “The western slope is damn near empty,” Shayndel heard one of them say. “We have to stay as far from the road as possible, but we can enter safely on the far side of the kibbutz.”

  Kibbutz. The word echoed in her head, suddenly unfamiliar and unlike an ordinary noun like “pencil” or “soup.” More like “justice,” or even “unicorn.” Not so much a thing you could put a hand on; a kind of fairy tale or dream—a nice idea, a noble goal, perhaps. Not a real place like the one these men were talking about—just out of view.

  Yitzhak got to his feet. His men lifted children onto their shoulders, picked up suitcases, and set out at a brisk clip. Everyone felt the pressure of the coming dawn and walked quickly. Tedi caught the cold steel smell of anxiety around her. Zorah held branches back for those with bundles and babies in their arms. Leonie bit her lips as she hobbled on the outer edges of her feet. Shayndel shivered for the first time all night, suddenly aware of how cold she was.

  “Look,” someone whispered. A yellow glow, haloed in mist, blooming in the darkness, not sixty yards away.

  Shayndel tried to remind herself that this was no miracle, merely the energy pulsing through wires. Just electricity, no different from the power that had lit her days and nights in Atlit. And yet, these wires and bulbs made her ache with the need to shout and laugh out loud and sing praises and simply say the word: kibbutz.

  It was only a few dozen yards between the edge of the forest and the settlement fence, where people were waiting, holding lanterns aloft. The escapees raced across the clearing and were met with bear hugs and blankets. Leonie fell to her knees, weeping with relief. Esther covered a stranger’s face with kisses. Tedi lifted Jacob and swung him around. Zorah panted and gasped, suddenly starved for air after a night of holding her breath.

  The kibbutzniks and the Palmach rescuers cut the celebration short and led their guests over a dim gravel pathway and into a brightly lit dining hall. Mugs of hot tea were pressed into their hands. “Shalom and welcome,” they were told, again and again. “Shalom and welcome.”

  Leonie sat down beside Tedi and asked, “Have you seen Shayndel?”

  “The last I saw her, she was running through the fence. She must be here somewhere or maybe she’s already talking to the kibbutz president; you know, giving him the full report and telling him what to do,” Tedi said. “Now have some tea. You look frozen.”

  Leonie kept an eye on the door. After she drained her cup, she slipped outside and found her way back down to where they had entered the kibbutz. A man with a gun was on patrol near the fence, which showed no evidence of having been the scene of their arrival a few minutes ago.

  She stepped off the path into a stand of tall pines, feeling that she had somehow found her way back in time, into a darker, chillier hour of the night.

  “Shayndel?” she called softly. “Shayndel? Where are you? It’s me.”

  Shayndel was barely twenty feet away from her, her forehead pressed against the trunk of a young tree, mourning her brother.

  Noah had been in love with the idea of the kibbutz. He would stretch his arms over the backs of the chairs on either side of him—he had such long arms—and provoke silly arguments with his friends, just to prolong the conversation about what kibbutz life would be like. “You can pluck all the Hebrew-speaking chickens you want,” he said. “I’m going to be an architect and create a beautiful kibbutz, not merely a utilitarian one.”

  He laughed when they called him bourgeois. “We’re going to need buildings, right? And I see no reason why we shouldn’t build cottages and classrooms and, hell, even chicken coops that will be the envy of the rest of the world.”

  Why not? thought Shayndel. But why aren’t you here?

  Leonie followed the sound of muffled weeping and put her hand on Shayndel’s shoulder. “Chérie,” she said. “What’s wrong?”

  “I was never the brave one,” Shayndel whispered. “In the forest, comrades were the heroes. I was a terrible shot, and after they died I was worthless. And my brother,” Shayndel wailed. “My brother should be here.” Leonie turned her around and held her tight. “We were supposed to be here together,” Shayndel cried. “It was Noah’s dream. I tagged along after him, and he was the best, the most wonderful …”

  “You never told me about a brother,” said Leonie, stroking her hair.

  “He was so good, so smart. I’m sure you would have liked him,” Shayndel said.

  “I would have loved him,” said Leonie. “How could I not?”

  The light filtered through the pine needles around them. The dew drenched their feet. Shayndel pulled away gently and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “The worst thing is,” she started, and turned to avoid Leonie’s eyes. “I don’t even know how to say this, but we lived for this, Noah and me. We were so sure we would be happy here, but now all I feel is afraid. He would have been ashamed of me, but the truth is, I have never been so afraid in my whole life.”

  “What are you afraid of?” Leonie asked. “I’m not sure,” said Shayndel, her eyes brimming again. “And that frightens me, too.”

  Leonie nodded. “Maybe you are just afraid of what is going to happen next.”

  “What do you think is going to happen?”

  “That’s just it. I don’t know. No one knows. Even you, who dreamed about life on a kibbutz in the land of Israel, even you can’t know how it will turn out. Everything that has happened to you, to me, to everyone who came with us … it all proves that nothing is certain. That it’s all a blank page.”

  “But surely all of our work will …” Shayndel began.

  “Yes?” Leonie said.

  “No, you’re right,” Shayndel said. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything.”

  “Well, I know that you are smart enough and brave enough to face whatever will happen, here or anywhere. That may be the only thing I am sure of.” Leonie took Shayndel’s face between her hands and kissed her on the right cheek and then on the left. “The sun is coming up. Let’s go see.”

  “What are we going to see?”

  “What happens next.”

  Beit Oren

  Shayndel was grateful for the warm cup between her hands. In many ways, the kibbutz dining hall looked like the mess hall in Atlit, a bit smaller, perhaps, but the open-beamed ceiling was the same, as were the sticky tabletops, the loud scraping of chairs over bare floor. But the differences touched her deeply: these pine panels had been fitted, tongue in groove, and stained the color of honey. There were posters on the walls, too, displays of earnest pioneers wearing shorts and caps, like the ones that used to hang in her Zionist summer camp. She could almost hear the echoes of songs she had sung there, songs she imagined were sung in this room as well.

  A girl with thick braids under a blue kerchief brought over a woolen shawl and wrapped it around Shayndel’s shoulders. “My name is Nina,” she said. “Welcome to Beit Oren. Welcome to Eretz Yisrael. Are you as cold as you look?”

  “Cold and dirty. Is th
ere somewhere to take a bath?”

  The girl patted Shayndel on the back. “I don’t think you have time for that,” she said as she walked away.

  “What did she mean by that?” Leonie asked. “Aren’t we staying here tonight?”

  Shayndel had no answer for her; she was as much in the dark as everyone else. She waved at Tedi as she walked in wearing a gingham blouse and a pair of too-big trousers tied around the waist with red ribbon—clothes that made her look like a leggy twelve-year-old.

  Shayndel smiled at the transformation. “You fit right in.”

  “I think that’s the plan,” said Tedi. “The girl who gave me these clothes told me to go lend a hand in the kitchen, but when I went in there, they chased me out and told me to rest.”

  “Where is Zorah?” asked Leonie.

  “She went with Esther and Jacob. I think they took all the kids to see the nurse. Jacob was too tired even to eat, poor thing. Not me. Pass the bread and whatever else is down there.”

  Three Palmachniks carrying rifles arrived; Shayndel recognized the man with the walkie-talkie, who raised his hands and announced, “Friends, comrades. The British are sending troops here and it has been determined that you will be safer at Kibbutz Yagur. It is not far and there are buses at the ready. We will be leaving in a few minutes, so gather your belongings and come to the front gate. Quickly, now.”

  Despite some grumbling, nearly all of the Atlit arrivals got to their feet, pocketing pieces of fruit. But Leonie crossed her arms and sat back in her chair. “I am not going anywhere else today.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Shayndel said. “It’s a matter of safety.”

  “I will take my chances here, chérie. I cannot walk another step.” She took off her shoes and showed them her swollen, bloody feet.

  “We must find you a doctor,” Tedi exclaimed.

  “All I need is soap, antiseptic, and some rest. But unless someone picks me up and carries me, I am not moving.” She turned to Shayndel and said, “Don’t worry about me. I know that you want to go. Please. You must.”

  Shayndel watched the others file out the door, and part of her longed to follow them. But one look at Tedi and Leonie decided it. “I’m staying,” she said.

  Zorah walked in, still wearing her own torn and filthy clothes. Her face was white with fatigue.

  Leonie poured her a cup of tea, and Tedi buttered a slice of bread for her.

  “Do you know they actually tried to wake up the children to take them God knows where?” Zorah said, between sips. “I told them that Jacob was not going anywhere; he was so tired, he was shuddering in his sleep. Esther was beside herself.

  “How much can you expect of these children? The other mothers agreed with me,” said Zorah. “We made a little mutiny, and none of them are leaving either.”

  “You were right to insist that they stay here,” said Leonie. “I refused to go further, too.”

  “I’m staying as well,” said Tedi.

  “Me, too,” Shayndel added.

  Zorah bowed her head. The other three exchanged worried glances.

  “Zorah?” said Leonie.

  “I’m just tired,” she whispered, overwhelmed by their concern for her, and by her feelings for them. “All of you must come to my barrack—though they don’t call them barracks here; they’re ‘houses.’ There is a little shower with hot water in the room. They have fresh clothes for us, too, though I’m not sure we’re all going to turn out as well as Tedi.”

  Zorah led them to a good-sized room with six narrow beds. It was simply furnished but nothing like a barrack, with rugs on the floor and curtains at the windows, bureaus and night tables. Photographs of young people squinting into the sun were all over the walls.

  Leonie insisted that Shayndel be the first to bathe in the little tin stall. “We command our commander to obey.” Shayndel meant to hurry so the others could take their turns, but the lilac-scented soap and a bottle of real shampoo slowed her down. She lathered her hair twice, and nearly nodded off as the water washed the bubbles down the drain. It took all of her willpower to turn off the faucet.

  Leonie was next. She sank down to the tile floor and ministered to her throbbing feet. The soap stung at first, but the warm water was soothing. She tilted her chin up and let it rain over her closed eyes and parted lips, feeling like she was a thousand miles away from Atlit, a million miles from Paris, and safe.

  Zorah pulled her clothes off in a rush and started by washing her hair, thinking she would save a few moments by scrubbing her body while the shampoo rinsed off. But the soap got into her eyes and no amount of rubbing would get it out. Then the hot water ran out and suddenly her tears changed from irritation into grief. She leaned against the wall and sank slowly into a crouch, her arms folded over her head, as the icy stream stripped away the last of her defenses. Motherless, brotherless, and weary to the bone, she wept for the losses she had counted and remembered and for numberless, nameless injuries registered in her flesh.

  Tedi reached in and turned off the tap. “Come,” she said, wrapping Zorah in a towel and rubbing her arms and legs until she was warm as well as dry. “Cry as much as you like,” she soothed, as she toweled off Zorah’s hair, combed out the knots, and helped her into a soft flannel nightgown. Zorah submitted meekly, even taking Tedi’s hand as she led her to a cot near Shayndel and Leonie, who were already fast asleep.

  The four girls slept, undisturbed by the light or the quiet comings and goings of the kibbutz girls. They did not hear the roar and squeal of cars and trucks outside, or the shouts that followed. They woke up only when Nina, the girl with the braids, came to tell them that the British were at the gates, demanding that they surrender the escaped prisoners.

  “You can stay inside if you like,” she said. “If you do come outside, you must look and act like the rest of us. So if your Hebrew isn’t good, keep your mouth shut and pretend to understand. Be strong.”

  Zorah went looking for Esther and Jacob, but Shayndel, Leonie, and Tedi followed the flow of kibbutzniks headed for the entrance to Kibbutz Beit Oren. The barbwire fence and the tall wire gate were all too familiar, but the evidence of everyday life—flower beds, bicycles, clotheslines—made it clear that this was not a prison but a home.

  Shayndel took the lead, snaking her way right up to the fence beside Nina, where they could see what was going on. Four British military trucks were parked across from the entrance and the road bristled with soldiers in battle gear.

  Inside the kibbutz, men concealed weapons under their jackets. “I don’t know why we’re all standing around here,” complained one of the men as he stared through the fence, taking stock of the enemy. “There should be people around the whole perimeter. We don’t know where the Brits will try to break through.”

  The tension thickened as an official-looking staff car with its windows rolled tight arrived, followed by two open vans that added dozens of British Military Police to the regular army force already there. Inside the kibbutz, people stopped talking and stared. Those with guns glanced at one another. Shayndel crossed her arms to keep from reaching for her phantom rifle.

  Nearly everyone seemed spellbound by the arrival of the police. But a small group of men went right on chatting and smoking, barely glancing at the growing threat a few dozen yards away. There were five of them, standing under a canopy of young pine trees on a knoll that gave them a clear view of the gate. Shayndel didn’t recognize any of them from last night’s escape. She guessed they were Palmach, but didn’t want to break the silence to ask.

  When the two English officers got out of the car and started toward the kibbutz, the men finished their cigarettes and headed down to meet them.

  Shayndel was close enough to hear a little of their conversation. Her English was not good, but the British were clearly making demands. She made out the words “surrender” and something about the death of a constable.

  Unlike the Englishmen, who stood at attention, the Palmachniks listened with their a
rms crossed or on their hips. They stepped back to confer briefly and a chuckle rose from their huddle. Four of them ambled back to their perch on the hill while one man delivered a short message to the En glishmen.

  “What did he say?” Shayndel asked Nina.

  “I couldn’t hear, but I suspect he told the limeys to go screw themselves.”

  “I thought I heard one of them say something about a death. We heard shots last night,” Shayndel said.

  “It was just before you got here. One of their trucks pulled up in the dark and a gun went off, so our guys thought it was the beginning of a siege and fired. One of theirs died. None of ours, thank God.”

  The British soldiers had started arranging themselves in a row, their rifles across their chests, facing the kibbutz. They were so close that Shayndel could see their expressions clearly. Some of them scowled, others winced, but a few looked through the fence, curious about the people inside.

  Tedi started to wave. “Yoo-hoo!” she called and blew a kiss.

  Shayndel pulled her arm down. “What are you doing?”

  “No, that’s a good idea,” said Nina, who had joined them. “The English may be pigs, but they usually follow the rules of the game, and shooting women—especially pretty ones—is decidedly against the rules. Come on,” she said to Leonie. “You wave, too.”

  A few more girls joined in and when they saw some of the soldiers blush and look away, they cheered and laughed, lightening the mood on both sides.

  Tedi stopped waving and touched the barbwire in front of her. She turned to Leonie and said, “Do you remember that woman in Atlit who screamed and went mad when she saw the fence? This stuff is so frightening, but here it is here for our protection. To keep us safe, like thorns on a rose.”

  “Thorns on a rose?” Leonie said. “I did not know you were a poet.”

  “Not me, I’m the down-to-earth one. My sister is the one who …” Tedi stopped. It was the first time she had invoked Rachel’s memory out loud.

  Leonie moved Tedi’s finger away from the spike, and said, “You certainly have the nose of a poet.”