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whatsoever.’
    Rafi struck his fist on the table. ‘For God’s sake, Amos, we agreed all this. We agreed access to the river was important. Look at the wheat. It’s dying in the fields. We haven’t seen rain for weeks. Hardly a drop in months.’
    ‘We agreed in principle
at some later date
,’ Amos countered. ‘We didn’t agree to any negotiations with the Anonymous Donor and his beloved PICA.’
    ‘I am the
kibbutz
secretary. I have the authority to take the initiative. It is important PICA understands what we want.’
    Amos pushed himself slowly to his feet, confidently surveyed the audience. ‘Understands what we want?’ he snarled, shaking the stem of hispipe at his listeners. ‘We can’t even work the land we have. We already have to bring in cheap Arab labourers from al-Dalhamiyya and Tiberias. That land down there is just more work. It’s just another swamp to be drained.’ Amos placed his hands on his hips, swivelled his puffed-out chest in defiance. ‘It’s not more fields we want. What we need is money for a tractor. And a thresher. And another plough to work the land we already have. Can PICA give us that?’
    ‘And what about the Bedouin?’ This question came from a blonde, red-cheeked man with piston-like biceps bursting out of his short-sleeved work shirt. He represented what Lev thought of as the ‘New Jew’, the kind of scythe-bearing figure he used to see back in Poland on posters advertising the joys of agriculture to the Zionist Youth. All that was missing was a twinkle of light flashing from this New Jew’s blue eyes. ‘Have you told Zayed we want his land?’
    ‘We don’t know if it is his land,’ Rafi said.
    ‘Of course it’s his land,’ said the New Jew. ‘His family have been coming here for centuries.’
    Rafi sighed, his own face red now with rising irritation. ‘There is doubt regarding his ownership.’
    ‘What doubt? If it is not his land, then who’s is it?’
    ‘I’ll let our friend from PICA explain,’ Rafi said.
    Lev looked around at the expectant faces. This was his moment. When he had to step forward, take control just as he had done on that cold night in Zebrzydowice on the Poland-Czechoslovakia border. He gripped the table edge, pushed himself upwards onto his feet.
    ‘The land under discussion…’ He was pleased to hear his voice had emerged both calm and even. He glanced at Celia but she was still engrossed in her letter reading. He pressed on. ‘The land under discussion does not appear on any map in our possession.’
    ‘What the hell does that mean?’ Amos asked.
    Lev sucked in a breath, looked over at his questioner. He sensed something self-righteous and smug about the man, marked him as one of those Russian socialists full of noble ideals that would come to nothing. He had seen plenty of them from his office window, wearing those verysame peaked worker’s caps, lining up to catch the next boat out of their Promised Land. ‘It means I don’t know who owns it,’ Lev admitted. ‘It could be this Zayed you talk about. It could be the British. It could be the French. It could be some Arab landowner sitting in a villa in Cairo. I just don’t know.’
    ‘Well, if it doesn’t feature on any map,’ someone called out, ‘it must be no-man’s land.’
    ‘No-woman’s land, comrade,’ Shoshana from the kitchen corrected to roars of laughter.
    ‘No-woman’s land, then. Why don’t we just take it?’
    ‘It’s not that simple,’ Lev said. ‘There are laws, ancient property laws that are likely to apply in the absence of any documentation. I need to make enquiries, take advice. I should also like to talk with the Bedouin. Who is this Zayed?’
    ‘He is the elder,’ Rafi informed him. ‘He speaks on behalf of the tribe.’
    ‘Can I meet with him?’
    ‘What will you tell him?’ New Jew called out. ‘That you’ve come to steal his land?’
    ‘PICA does not steal land,’ Lev countered, trying to keep his voice steady against