Behind him was the Mediterranean, then Poland and the rest of Europe. Rafi was right. This really was the Centre of the World. And below him in the valley was the Yarmuk River, not flowing parallel to the ridge on which he stood but meandering eastwards to take in its grasp a piece of land that did not figure on any map. He could make out the Bedouin encampment dotted with black tents, flaps raised against the sun and for the capture of any breeze. He cupped his hands over his eyes. A man on horseback moved among the goats, children were playing in the dirt, a cluster of women watching over them from the shade of a tent. Part of the land had been cultivated with a few rows of vegetables. But a large section was just swamp, a couple of figures bent low with their baskets among the reeds.
Eight
T HE DINING ROOM was surprisingly quiet for a group of over thirty people. No laughter. No strident voices. Some dull-toned conversations, that was all. Mostly men, perhaps about ten women, all about the same age, in their mid-twenties, even younger. Lev sat beside Rafi, feeling very much the city boy in his long trousers and shirt, although he had given up on the tie. Those sitting close by barely acknowledged him. Not, he felt, out of any rudeness but rather a weariness that excluded the burden of conversation with a newcomer. Everyone seemed caught up in their own islands of existence. He noticed Celia over at another table, reading a letter while she ate. A few lucky others did the same with the post they had received. He spooned up the same soup he had eaten earlier except for a few beans added to fill out the broth. Bread, jam and honey on the table, this was the evening meal after a hard day’s work in the fields.
He realized he could have been one of these young pioneers. If God or Fate or Love had dealt him a different hand. Or if Ewa Kaminsky had not taught him how to type. One of these weary souls trying to build a community here with barely the strength left at the end of the day to lift a spoon to their lips. He was never as exhausted as the members of this group, his hands were not calloused, his clothes were not in need of a launder and a stitch, there was always a fine meal waiting for him at Madame Blum’s.
Here, after supper, everyone washed their own dishes, dried them, stacked them away, sat back down at the tables. He noticed the mood immediately pick up. Conversations were louder, chairs were shiftedcloser, pots of tea were poured, cigarettes were rolled, pipes were lit, a couple of the women took out their knitting, another started to sing to herself, pages of a newspaper were passed around.
He watched on as Celia continued to read her letters, unconcerned about the activity going on around her. She paused only to look up in irritation if someone should block out the light from the nearest lantern. The headscarf she had worn when Lev had met her earlier had been abandoned to reveal a mass of dark curls. A young man squeezed in beside her. There was a slick-haired confidence about him that reminded Lev of the British police officers strutting around Haifa with their Webley revolvers. Celia turned away, shielded her letter from the intruder, bit down on her knuckle as she concentrated on her reading. What was she doing here, this young woman from Scotland?
Rafi stood up, held out his arms for silence. ‘Comrades,’ he shouted. It took a while for everyone to settle. ‘Comrades, comrades. We have a visitor.’
Lev felt himself flush to the attention, raised his own hand briefly in acknowledgement.
Rafi continued. ‘Lev is here from PICA. I asked them to have a look at the land down by the river. As noted in the minutes of previous meetings, there is a long-standing need for us to–’
‘You had no authority to do that,’ called out one of the pipe-smokers. He was a thin, bespectacled young man with pointed, ferret-like features, a peaked worker’s cap tilted back off his forehead. ‘No authority
Eight
T HE DINING ROOM was surprisingly quiet for a group of over thirty people. No laughter. No strident voices. Some dull-toned conversations, that was all. Mostly men, perhaps about ten women, all about the same age, in their mid-twenties, even younger. Lev sat beside Rafi, feeling very much the city boy in his long trousers and shirt, although he had given up on the tie. Those sitting close by barely acknowledged him. Not, he felt, out of any rudeness but rather a weariness that excluded the burden of conversation with a newcomer. Everyone seemed caught up in their own islands of existence. He noticed Celia over at another table, reading a letter while she ate. A few lucky others did the same with the post they had received. He spooned up the same soup he had eaten earlier except for a few beans added to fill out the broth. Bread, jam and honey on the table, this was the evening meal after a hard day’s work in the fields.
He realized he could have been one of these young pioneers. If God or Fate or Love had dealt him a different hand. Or if Ewa Kaminsky had not taught him how to type. One of these weary souls trying to build a community here with barely the strength left at the end of the day to lift a spoon to their lips. He was never as exhausted as the members of this group, his hands were not calloused, his clothes were not in need of a launder and a stitch, there was always a fine meal waiting for him at Madame Blum’s.
Here, after supper, everyone washed their own dishes, dried them, stacked them away, sat back down at the tables. He noticed the mood immediately pick up. Conversations were louder, chairs were shiftedcloser, pots of tea were poured, cigarettes were rolled, pipes were lit, a couple of the women took out their knitting, another started to sing to herself, pages of a newspaper were passed around.
He watched on as Celia continued to read her letters, unconcerned about the activity going on around her. She paused only to look up in irritation if someone should block out the light from the nearest lantern. The headscarf she had worn when Lev had met her earlier had been abandoned to reveal a mass of dark curls. A young man squeezed in beside her. There was a slick-haired confidence about him that reminded Lev of the British police officers strutting around Haifa with their Webley revolvers. Celia turned away, shielded her letter from the intruder, bit down on her knuckle as she concentrated on her reading. What was she doing here, this young woman from Scotland?
Rafi stood up, held out his arms for silence. ‘Comrades,’ he shouted. It took a while for everyone to settle. ‘Comrades, comrades. We have a visitor.’
Lev felt himself flush to the attention, raised his own hand briefly in acknowledgement.
Rafi continued. ‘Lev is here from PICA. I asked them to have a look at the land down by the river. As noted in the minutes of previous meetings, there is a long-standing need for us to–’
‘You had no authority to do that,’ called out one of the pipe-smokers. He was a thin, bespectacled young man with pointed, ferret-like features, a peaked worker’s cap tilted back off his forehead. ‘No authority
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