"TEL-AVIV", A Novel By

Avraham Wissotzky

In addition to his firsthand experience, which lends so much reality to the story, Dr. Wissotzky was a marvelous storyteller. He was a dentist, and even before he started writing professionally, he was known among his friends for the wonderful tales he could tell to children, and the plays he wrote and produced for amateur theatricals. I must have inherited my love of folklore, myths, and fairytales from him, since he had inexhaustible supplies of them and was always ready to share. Then, in Israel, he started writing his novels. It is a tragedy that he died so young – he was only in his late fifties when he passed away; who knows what other wonderful books he could have written.

 I am very happy to be able to bring his stories back where they belong, available not only to the descendants of the pioneers, but to anyone who appreciates a good story.

DEDICATION

By Avraham Wissotzky, 1947

By her son’s crib the young mother sang about the ancient Wall, under which was hidden, among dust and ruins, the glorious past of the nation. The baby listened attentively. Afterwards he heard the song in his dream, and while sleeping sang it, his voice unheard. Days passed, the storms and blizzards raged around the home. The child already murmured the words of the song, uncomprehending. But the hour came – and he understood. With a faint heart the mother answered his first questions. She could see: in the child’s soul blazed the fire of anger and grief. A large, heavy tear hung in the black eyes. For a long time it hung gleaming and unbroken on the long lash – and then fell.

Into the Nation’s sea of grief. Onto the feet of the ancient Wall.

TEL-AVIV

A novel about the Third Aliyah

Part One

 

Chapter One

 

Joining the eighth group of pioneers, Avigdor Gunn left his hometown to make Aliyah to Eretz-Israel. The five of them set out together, and not far from the Romanian border they were held up on suspicion. Two Red Army guards walked them to the border police – to be shot, most likely. These were the days of terror.

One of the soldiers, a German with white eyelashes, blinked incessantly in the sun. Furious, seemingly because of this blinking, he kept swearing viciously in broken Russian; the other one just smiled, the left corner of his mouth twitching. He had a stripe on his sleeve, signifying some supervisory rank. Distinguishing his nationality was not easy, but soon all became clear. The German received a hundred rubles in Romanov money and a box of matches, and sent the pioneers on their way. His friend participated in this business free of charge. He accompanied them further, stopped a peasant driving a wagon, and commanded him to take the prisoners. He climbed after them on the wagon, his expression threatening, gun in hand, and an ammunition box tucked in his sleeve. In this style he escorted them to the border, and that night crossed the ice-covered Dniester with his own prisoners. Through this innovative waterway he too made Aliyah to Eretz-Israel, the land he longed for, this soldier of the Red Army…

Guards on the Russian side saw them and started shooting. The Romanian side returned the shots. Under the cover of deep darkness, the pioneers scrambled madly over the ice, not knowing where to go. Somebody sighed. Somewhere the ice broke. They ran on, never looking back. Regrouping on a forest clearing at the Romanian shore they realized that there were still five of them, same as when they left! The Red Army man was missing. Arriving three days later to a Bessarabian village, they found out that he was killed during the shooting. This was the first blood on their way to Eretz-Israel.

For months they struggled in Romania; the Zionist organizations did nothing to mobilize them. Finally they were brought to Turkey and taken to a remote Jewish settlement. There they waited for weeks. Apparently some trivial document did not arrive, a special permit to enter Eretz-Israel that was not as yet finalized. They could not understand this – why should Zionist pioneers need a permit to enter Eretz-Israel!

Hunger was added to that. In the settlement they were fed inadequately and with only vegetarian food. Many of them grew so thin, and longed so much for meat, that they went to the nearest wood to hunt. The Turkish forest was much like the Ukrainian forest, secretive, full of echoes, and green. Many creatures that could provide meat prowled the forest, but their legs were fast and their wings even faster… and the pioneers, even when chasing them barefoot, could not catch them. Soon they discovered a creature slow enough even for such hunters, but for a long time they found it too repulsive – a large black turtle, possessing four paws and a small gray head, and hiding during danger under it’s black carapace. A Jew who had grown up in a religiously observant home would be particularly disgusted with creatures who hid their paws and tail, but soon enough their hunger got the better of them. Isaac, Avigdor’s friend, brought a turtle to the barracks! He discovered in some loose-leaf calendar that turtle soup was considered an incomparable delicacy. Isaac boiled water and approached his task with exaggerated composure, in presence of his friends, though most of them refused to look, revolted.

Avigdor felt extremely depressed. He had already noted the pioneers’ low morale, caused by sorrow, doubts, and hunger. The raging arguments about lofty subjects had gradually disappeared, replaced by bickering and fights over trivial matters. More than once Avigdor thought, on hearing these petty disputes, “Indeed, I see that a dish of meat strongly influences the human spirit!”

At first, Avigdor thought that Isaac was only idly joking, and would certainly not eat the turtle. But here the water was boiling, the turtle thrown on its back with its feet in the air, and everyone walking away, whistling with disgust. Isaac took a rag and approached the turtle…

Avigdor stepped over to him, his face drained of color. “This is carrion! Desist!” and walked away. Isaac looked after him, laughing. Only those who concurred with his views stayed. Turtles cannot scream. Just a sound of s-s-s and that was the end. The horny carapace was easily removed and the turtle looked as innocent as a chick. Isaac removed the turtle’s intestines, washed it, and salted the flesh well. They asked him, “Why are you salting it?”

“What kind of a question is this? This is the religious custom of Israel!” Answered Isaac.

“Turtle meat?”

“Turtle meat! For an hour it will be placed in salt, as my mother used to do.”

This was a day of humor during their dark imprisonment. Until late at night, jokes regarding Isaac’s pious salting of the turtle did not cease. But possibly because of this salting many accepted the turtle meat. The next day three turtles lost their lives for the sake of the rich soup.

Isaac said to Avigdor, “You react like a provincial Jew. Why is the turtle inferior to a chicken? The turtle is quiet? It has no voice? But what the devil do I need its voice for?”

Avigdor looked at him, and Isaac said apologetically, “The chick has red blood… it struggles… the turtle leaves this world without unnecessary tragedy; it sinks into the boiling abyss without screaming and without hysterics. I always liked turtles.”

“In Eretz-Israel, too?”

“And why not?”

Strangely, from this day on their relationship cooled somewhat, but when their ship finally arrived, all was forgotten. Without regret they left the station where they lingered and were tormented for so many days. As a joyful crowd they marched to the port, shouldering their rucksacks and carrying the rest of their meager belongings.

Isaac’s only possession was an old blanket, the sole survivor of his property after months of wandering. Avigdor carried a small chest, taken from home. In it survived a few objects that would not wear out on the long road: Grandfather’s Siddur, photographs, and a black lock of hair wrapped in cigarette paper, carefully concealed so no one would know.

The ship was small, filthy. Six hundred souls filled every hole, leaving not enough space even for mice. The five of them remained together on deck, holding on to their old village friendship. They found a place near the ship’s steam whistle, arranged their bundles, and prepared for the night. The day turned to dusk. Happiness stirred and enveloped them; they imagined that this was the last step toward Eretz-Israel, and their original mood was restored. All their hopes, despaired of during the months of wandering, returned stronger and even more delightful. Happiness shone in their eyes and they laid hands affectionately on each other’s shoulders as in the first days.

The sky was high and the stars seemed to shiver, as if the wind blue at them. But there was no wind. The sea was quiet, dark, and the veil of smoke, floating over the ship, was blacker than the night.

The deck was so densely crowded and the passengers so tightly packed that the Romanian sailors had to step gingerly among them. In a far corner near the ship’s prow, the girls sat in an isolated group, like an independent kingdom. Before going to sleep they sang old songs, sung hundreds of times and yet still arousing. Isaac, of course, attached himself to the girls, and his masculine voice, perhaps bass, perhaps baritone, smashed the girls’ voices as a ship blows apart the sleepy water of the sea. Girls, particularly when singing, attracted ruddy-cheeked Isaac. The black hair lock, hidden in the old Siddur, guarded Avigdor like a talisman. Perhaps the girls were more interested in him because he distanced himself from them.

Menasheh, round-faced and short-haired, sat near Avigdor. He was a quiet, taciturn young man, about twenty years old. Even after his yearlong wandering his thoughts lingered with his parents, his relatives, and the many thousands of brothers and sisters still living in the Diaspora. His friends knew his weakness and often mocked him, so he felt comfortable with Avigdor, who never mocked. Menasheh, when excited, would smooth his spiky hair, raise his eyebrows, and gaze at the distance, as if seeing the object he was discussing. Any hour of the day he could tell what was taking place at home.

“My sister Dvora just brought fine flour from the store, for Shabbat; it’s Thursday!”

“What else?” Two of his village friends asked together.

“What else?” He laughed affectionately. “Mama is knitting a sock… she has no time to look – she just dropped a stitch… without looking she scolds, ‘Go back and return the flour to the shopkeeper! It’s as black as soil!’”

Menasheh’s story was funny. He was laughing and all his listeners laughed with him. Only Avigdor wouldn’t laugh. He leaned on an iron post, also gazing at some object in the dark distance of the sea. All were thoughtful, imagining themselves at home, envisioning their mothers.

Isaac returned. Singing, stepping among the sleepers, exchanging words. One said, “Hey, slow down! This is not a turtle!”

“Too bad!” He answered. “The turtle was better than such a rear end!”

“For all I know you might attempt to gobble up a rear end,” answered his adversary, and turned over.

“Quick, quick, hide it. I eat pork, too…” he slumped among his friends, groaning like an old man, and grumbled, “I am tired of sitting with them,” he motioned with his head toward the girls. “They huddle together and sulk! Who could take an interest in a thousand girls all at once!”

Everyone listened to the fading song. Once more it blazed with bright sparks – and then went out. Sea and stars. And on the ship huddled a tiny remnant of the village, where the will of the nation was preserved and strengthened.

Isaac settled near Avigdor. This was their way since childhood. Not only the village tied them together, but also the gymnasium in Nemirov, a joined desk, a shared room, and traveling home together for the holidays. They were the only gymnasium students in the village. The other boys alienated them, and even at that point they felt it a little. Nevertheless the two friends were extremely unlike each other. The turtle… yes, the turtle could have borne witness to how dissimilar they were.

It was announced that they would reach Greece the next day. Avigdor felt a special interest in it. The ancient names of Heroic Greece – Athens, Acropolis – excited him. Isaac knew it. Munching on a piece of bread with garlic, he furtively observed his friend.

“We will stay in Greece for three full days,” said Isaac, “we could explore the entire country.”

They soon found out that none of them would be permitted on shore, since they were Bolshevik Russians. They grumbled bitterly. Were they Russians? Were they Bolsheviks? How long would this idiocy go on?

“Simple – they are Anti-Semites! They pretend they cannot tell the difference between a pioneer emigrating to Eretz-Israel and a Bolshevik! We spit on their Greece! We will survive without her; from antiquity she was the nest of our wickedest oppressors!” Thus shouted one of the five, the excitable Benny, and raising his fist he threatened Greece, invisible and wrapped in night mists. For a long while the group did not fall asleep. They were intoxicated with the darkness of the night, the quiet abyss under them, the starry void above them, and the nearness of the ancient, longed-for homeland. For hours they discussed it in Russian, Yiddish, and Hebrew, the language of the homeland.

Benny sat by Avigdor and laid his hand on his shoulder. Avigdor turned his face to his friend and for a long while they gazed closely into each other’s eyes. Only very young people can look like that. “We will arrive, we will get there, Avigdor!” They kept quiet for a long while, thinking about all they had endured and about their future, devoted to ascent, poetry, joy.

Near them rose a fierce discussion: Weizman or Usishkin? Long discourses, like full speeches, Herzl, Pinsker, ancient Israelite heroes were all mentioned. The night intoxicated the young brains.

“Listen, Avigdor, what are they saying?” Said Shmaria, grabbing Avigdor’s sleeve; his participation in the argument was apparently required. “Listen to what they say about Weizman!”

Avigdor listened, and said, “We Jews always behave like that; we judge our officials.” Thoughtfully he added, “Brute force is alien to our people. We will leave the force to them: they need it, since they live by the sword. As for us – we need justice. And that is Weizman.”

Someone roared, “Jabotinsky will demand and three legions will arise! Enough of begging for mercy and moralizing! We need brut force, so finally they will show us some respect.” From a distance a voice was heard, familiar to everyone on the ship, the voice of Avraham Zamir, “Usishkin – is pride. Usishkin – is a Maccabean!”

Isaac listened to all the opinions. When everyone grew tired and quieted down, he said with a slight stutter, meant to increase the impact, “And… wh-why did all these great people k-keep us so long the barracks? Wh-why were we so hungry?”

“Turtles! Turtles!” They shouted around him. Isaac added with a tragic voice, “Our clothes and shoes are worn out, we look like beggars. Is it nice to show ourselves like that to the girls in Eretz-Israel?”

“Don’t be sad, Isaac, the girls in Eretz-Israel are intelligent, they understand such matters. Just get a haircut, you look like a priest.” Menasheh passed his hand over his bristles. “Best do it with a shaving machine!”

Everyone dispersed and lied down, and the kingdom of sleep took over. The ship moved as if on a plowed field. The lanterns swayed gently. The ship’s ropes creaked. Only two went on talking quietly by the lantern – Avigdor and Benny. Their eyes gleamed; they saw the green fields of the land, where the night sea was carrying them.

 

* * *

 

The captain returned from the shore, beckoned with his finger to a blue-eyed young man who spoke French, and through him delivered a message to the passengers. “You should know, “ he said, “that in your Palestine there is much slaughter going on between Arabs and Jews.”

“Slaughter?!”

“Yes, thousands of fatalities.”

 

Chapter Two

 

Sepulchral silence instantly prevailed. The horrific statement shocked and depressed everyone. As they started recovering, a few thoughts sprang, a few words were said, disjointed, pointless. The words coalesced into a furious din. A thin stream of women’s sobs was added to it. No way out! The sea surrounded them, the Greek policemen stood by the stairs. The pioneers scampered over the deck, distraught, crying, threatening. The first decision was born: speed!

Isaac and another man approached the captain and demanded that he must give the command to raise the anchor and sail immediately. The captain refused, of course, and the pioneers redirected their rage toward him. “We must force this anti-Semite to pull up the anchor!” Various suggestions were made: telegrams to Weizman, Balfur, Wilson. Hunger strike. Mutiny.

Avigdor said, “The ship is being loaded, the work is ongoing now. How can she sail?” He spoke calmly and did not raise his voice, but everyone became quiet. He suddenly noticed that and was embarrassed. Nevertheless he added, “We must act intelligently. We ought to learn how to become soldiers.”

“Yes-yes-yes!” Everyone cried. Isaac stood near his friend, looking at him, smiling, a sharp word ready on his tongue.

Suddenly a young man nicknamed Daglan (Flag Bearer in Hebrew) stepped forward from the crowd. His appearance suggested military style: a tip-curled moustache, an exceedingly shabby soldier’s hat that was slanted to the side in a special way, and patched, though fashionably cut pants. Indeed he had served as a flag bearer on the German front and received two Georgian medals for spying. He held an American newspaper, and handing it to Avigdor, said: “Read! They will draft us in Palestine immediately, anyway.”

This was a way out! They would train as soldiers, excellent soldiers the likes of which no eye had ever beheld – good enough for Eretz-Israel! Even those who could not speak Russian repeated two Russian words, “Martial Law!”

Daglan walked to an open area by the kitchens. Everyone made way for him. Avigdor, Benny, Menasheh and Shmaria followed him. Isaac strolled slowly behind them, deep in thought. Daglan stopped. Avigdor straightened up, hands on hips, like during gymnastics at Nemirov.

“So? Like this?” He asked Daglan, whispering, and stood in a row with his friends. Daglan winked as a sign of agreement. Isaac stood aside, his hands in his pockets, pursing his lips. Suddenly Daglan stared at him, grabbed his shoulders and placed him in line. Isaac did not object. Slowly he straightened his broad shoulders, pulled his hands out of his pockets, shook his hair, smiled at the bright, blinding sunlight, and pronounced: “Well?” Then, following the old habit, he stood by Avigdor, pushing Benny aside.

The lines rearranged themselves. Daglan hesitated, as if waiting for something. Everyone waited impatiently for his orders; they started whispering, but he was still looking around, wrinkling his eyebrows. Suddenly a strange change came over him. He shook himself, as if some tremor passed through his hands, his legs, his entire body, and for a moment he froze. He seemed taller, the tilted hat became straight and he raised his left eyebrow. All the men in the lines straightened with him, and even those who stood aside in groups, out of line, did the same. Daglan cried in a new voice, “Attention! Any of you who served as officers or sergeants, three steps forward!”

He did not err. Three men stepped forward and clicked their heels. The captain observed them silently from his platform.

 

***

 

From then on time passed unnoticed. The exercises lasted well into the night. They woke up at dawn, jumped to their feet, and returned to work. Already they could march in step, four in a row, and at night the guards changed every two hours. A medical student taught the girls how to roll bandages for the wounded. Two Hebrew speaking young men translated the orders into Hebrew. Busy with their work, they hardly noticed when the ship left the port, and when they sailed further into the sea they worked even more industriously, oblivious to the passing days.

And suddenly the last night was upon them! They arranged an elaborate ceremony, how they would meet the Zionist official, how they would step on the beach, how they would enter Tel-Aviv. The sky brightened. The night dived into the angry sea. The distant coast of Eretz-Israel became visible. The order was heard. Everyone jumped up and hastily prepared to go ashore. Their hands shook and they could not tie their bundles properly. They spoke in whispers, avoiding looking at each other. 

Yellow, uninterrupted sands became visible on the left side. The distant buildings spread over them, looking like letters written on a crinkled, ancient papyrus.

“Tel-Aviv?” They asked impatiently.

 “Tel-Aviv!”

To the right, the port of  Jaffa stood out. A mountain, a tower built over it, shore houses. Suddenly the sun rose over the mountain. The sea filled with azure blue and blood red. Jaffa gazed at them like an enigmatic riddle. The pioneers stood in a crowded line, gazing at the approaching land.

Daglan had no binoculars; he looked through his hand, shading his eyes. His legs were wrapped in new leggings and his waste girded with a new belt fitted with a shiny buckle. “A boat!” he cried with his commander’s voice, clenching his teeth until bruises marked his cheeks.

A tall, thin man, red-faced and with a long, red neck, climbed the ship’s stairs. No, how could a man do that! To pass these rows, standing as if frozen, to pass Daglan, stretched like a string, and not pay attention!

He followed the captain to his cabin. After a few minutes he left, hitting the threshold with his heel. Momentarily he grinned, and glanced behind him and in the direction of the pioneers with one cold, light gray eye. The captain announced that because of the bloodshed the pioneers were not allowed on shore.

The Hebrew newspapers wrote, “The Nation of Israel will never forget this joint deed of England and the Jewish Governor. Six hundred pioneers rejected from the longed-for shore, thrown back into the sea to please terrorists and murderers. This is one of the cruelest things ever done to the Nation of Israel.”

 

***

Eretz-Israel gradually disappeared from sight, but the pioneers still stood, staring at the distant horizon and crying without shame, like children. Some clenched their fists against Heaven, the sea, the captain.

“How could that have happened?” Shmaria asked suddenly while everyone around listened, surprised. “We are more than six hundred people, and this one man came and we obeyed him!” He looked around him, amazed. “Why didn’t we go on shore? What could they have done to us?”

Daglan winked. “They have machine guns! Six hundred bullets at once.”

“Even so,” some voices were heard around them. “Even with the machine guns!” Daglan shrugged. “That’s another matter.” He stopped being the commander, and even removed his leggings and the belt with the shiny buckle.

“Oh, you, Daglan! Martial Law!” The entire deck sighed with a heavy heart.  “Martial Law!”

They started settling in the old places, quarreling about them, bickering. Avigdor put down his box, sat on it and bent his head down. Isaac folded his blanket meticulously and murmured, “So they showed us Eretz-Israel!”

“I beg  you, Isaac, stop!” Said Avigdor, and turned his face away. Menasheh stared with wide-open eyes into the distance. “At home they think we are in Eretz-Israel already and working in the green fields.” Everyone looked at him and waited to hear what else he would say, but he said nothing else.

 

***

 

The next day the captain announced that he had nothing to feed them with. He was not permitted to prepare provisions. Most likely he lied, since he could have stopped in Beirut to get food. But the ship rushed to return the non-paying passengers to Turkey.

The pioneers already finished the bread, the rusks and any other food they had. They started bartering. A small watch, a ring, a sheet – all were given to the sailors for a slice of bread. But soon they ran out of items to trade.

Isaac, hungry and bitter, roamed the ship. Every so often he approached the passing officers and talked to them, but they stopped answering him. On the third day Isaac discovered packages of onions at the ship’s lower storage area. Everyone grabbed some. They grounded the onions like radishes, ate it with salt, drank hot water with it. Soon they were hit by attacks of dizziness and vomiting. Finally the onions repelled them and they would not even touch them. Only Isaac continued to suck on a large onion.

Everyone weakened. Their eyes sank in their sockets and their lips dried and cracked. Following a natural instinct they slept; some hallucinated. Daglan covered his face with his hat and slept. Every so often he emitted a strange snoring sound, as if chocking. Menasheh removed the hat from his face. Daglan opened fiery eyes, raised his head, and asked hoarsely, “Already?”

Before being answered, he fell back on his hard bedding, his face green as wilting grass and his eyes turned up so only the white could be seen. His friends were scared and rushed to help him, but what help could they give? They ran to the cook, giving him, this time, the belt with the shiny buckle, and brought back a small glass of brandy. Everything was quiet around Daglan. The medical student kneeled next to him and rubbed his heart. Avigdor fanned his face with a handkerchief. Avigdor himself was no less pale than Daglan, except for his lips. They were as red as blood since he bit them violently. Two girls stood by and cried, hugging each other.

The brandy made Daglan’s face flush and his eyes opened. “Lie down, lie down!” They yelled at him. He looked around with a shy, guilty smile.

 “What, what is he saying?” Daglan whispered something in Avigdor’s ear.

“A bullet remained in his chest after the war,” answered Avigdor with a strained voice, and fell flat on his face. He could no longer hold on. “Drink a little water,” Shmaria said to him. “Like so. Now lie down and go to sleep. Sleeping is good for you. We are almost there. One of the sailors said we will arrive tonight. Back to our lair!”

The other three friends stood around him silently, looking at his feverish eyes. Isaac could no longer control himself and said loudly, “Now, my fine gang of clowns, you will all turn into turtle-eaters!”

Avigdor lied for many hours, his face turned toward heaven. Black dots crawled around the cerulean blue, glittered, merged, and the sky darkened. His eyelids felt as heavy as lead and made him shut his eyes. Sleep was as heavy and as hard as the long journey. People, faces, words. Eretz -Israel. But Eretz-Israel is located the house of his father, Shimeon Gunn, right in the living room. The room is dark, it is difficult to see Eretz-Israel. And here is Rosa’le, his little sister, whispering in terror and pointing at it with her finger. She stands with her back at him, and diagonal lightning, like a rain of fire, separates them. Before her, on the windowsill, stand two little candles and she is lighting them. He woke up. His heart felt like a captured bird. Hurray, how good it is! Sky and stars! But she was not there…

But who is she? Who did she light the candles for? And suddenly the shore of Eretz-Israel passed before his mind’s eye, the way he saw it under the first rays of the sun. A sigh escaped him, “Eretz-Israel!”

 

 

 

 

Chapter Three

 

Three months passed before the Eighth Group reached Eretz-Israel.

After the May Massacre of 1921 the Pioneer House in Jaffa emptied out. The pioneers’ spilled blood stained the walls. It was decided to house the pioneers in tents, on Tel-Aviv’s beach. They pitched the large settlement of tents in a long row, at the spot where Allenby Street currently meets the sea.

The five obtained a tent for themselves and a sixth person joined them – Daglan.

The Eighth Group came to Tel-Aviv in the morning, and immediately went to bathe in the sea. They washed their laundry and waited on the beach, naked, until the clothes dried. The pioneers turned into perfect Israelis. They removed their shabby hats and went about bareheaded, with only hairless Menasheh finding it uncomfortable, and Daglan, without his military hat, seemingly no longer Daglan. They took off their jackets, rolled up their sleeves, loosened their shirt collars… right away they looked tidier and cleaner. 

They ate lunch at the Pioneers’ Kitchen. Here, too, the village gang sat together, and Avigdor felt much the same as during the vacation days at his parents’ home. Everything ready for him – lunch, bed, tent, Tel-Aviv… He felt no desire to talk with his friends; their conversation bothered him. On his own, he wandered the streets of Tel-Aviv, still tiny in those days, cautiously carrying a secret, silent joy for the first time after the difficult journey. Reaching a large, white building, he recognized it immediately – Gymnasia Herzlia. Standing by the gate, he saw that the place was deserted, as it was vacation time. He lingered, thoughtful, reminiscing. Momentarily he regretted that his school years were over, but then he imagined a green field, with himself in it, following a plow. His heart danced with joy and he shut his eyes and stretched like a young cat. Soon he would set out to work in the fields – in a Hebrew field in Eretz-Israel!

He moved on. Everywhere he met acquaintances from the Eighth Group, all of them with bright eyes and glowing faces. Approaching an avenue of green trees he recognized it as well – Rothschild Boulevard. Exactly as he saw it in the pictures, long ago, so long ago… and here he was sitting on a bench under the shadow of a tree. His heart whispered, “Your own! Your own! When you were there, in Nemirov, they prepared it all for you. Now you will prepare for others.”

On the sidewalk across he noticed a pioneer from another group approach a faucet, put his mouth under it and start drinking. Avigdor followed him to the faucet and started quenching his own thirst. A window opened and an old woman peeked out. Avigdor, startled and embarrassed, wet his shirt and guiltily asked her pardon.

“Never mind!” the old woman laughed, looking at his damp shirt.

How kind is this old woman! Honestly, I got myself as wet as a fool, he thought. He went back to the bench, facing the sun to dry his shirt over his heart. The old woman was no longer at her window, but he kept looking at it. He longed to be in a family home, with a father, a son like himself, a sister like Rosa’le. Such a long time since he was surrounded by a family circle!

A girl appeared in the window. She glanced at him and disappeared. Immediately the sound of a piano wafted out. On the first tones he was startled and rose, but immediately sat back and surrendered to the music, his soul soaring with it, far away.

The music stopped. On the bench under the tree sat the pioneer Avigdor Gunn, leaning back and covering his face with his hands.

At the other side of the bench sat a man, and it was unclear when he approached it. He was dressed like a pioneer, but did not look like one. He seemed young, but barely visible wrinkles already surrounded his eyes.

“She plays well,” said the man.

“Plays?” Asked Avigdor, and shook himself. “Yes, yes, very well. It’s been quite a while since I have heard music.”

Isaac and two Eighth Group girls were seen at a distance. They recognized Avigdor and started calling him. Reluctantly, Avigdor stood up. He wanted to spend a little more time with this man.

“Shalom!” The man answered Avigdor and looked deeply into his eyes, as if reading his thoughts. “So long!” He added and offered his hand.

 

***

 

Isaac’s face was flushed red from the heat, and he wiped the perspiration off it with his sleeve. “It’s horrible,” he said to Avigdor. “Who could possibly work in such a hot country!” He looked sharply at his friend. “You are strange today!”

“His face glows like a Hanukah candle,” said blond Malka. “Have you confessed your love, Avigdor?” She glanced at him casually, lifting a flaxen left eyebrow.

“Someone played so well in this house,” said Avigdor thoughtfully.

“Who? Who?” Isaac was interested.

“A girl, in that house.”

“Aha! What did I say?” Malka said triumphantly.

“Oh oh… interesting. This house, you say? One should remember,” said Isaac.

The other girl, Zipora, fidgeted impatiently and said angrily, “Let’s go! No point in standing in the sun!”

“Let’s go, Zipora,” Avigdor touched her hand and went on with her. He pitied the girl, since he understood her deep feelings for Isaac, who did not spare, and sometimes mocked her. Why did he draw attention to this house? Why did he have to hurt her? He turned to Zipora. “Well, Zipora, what do you think of Tel-Aviv?”

Zipora did not answer immediately. Like him she was listening to Isaac’s bantering with Malka behind them. Avigdor felt Malka staring at his back, and it irritated him.

It was not the first time. Her special walk, her laughing blue eyes, her way of standing so close to a man that he could feel the movement of her dress – all this he strongly disapproved of and tried to keep away from her. She knew it – and was angry.

Avigdor could not resist and turned to look at them. The blue eyes blazed with the sparkles he knew so well. She pretended to be amused. “A-vig-dor! How funny you are today!”

His previous mood faded. He went on, angry with them, with himself, with Malka who had laid her hand on his shoulder.

 

 

The camp slept. Avigdor left the tent and lied on the sand. It was a dark night, stiflingly hot. The sea lazily rolled a shiny white wave onto the shore. From afar, Tel-Aviv appeared cheerful, playing with lights. Voices carried over. At this distance it seemed that a festive crowd gathered there, playing music, singing, and the stars looked from above, winking with their dark lashes. Avigdor gazed and reflected. Even on this first day he noticed the Arabs’ burning glances and the British officials looking on with hostility and contempt. He had heard about the murder of two pioneers the day before, near the gates of Tel-Aviv.

He had not enough time to absorb and understand all these things, but they worried him, nudged him away from his poetic reflections regarding the new life in his homeland. Suddenly he imagined that the quiet sea gave rise to enemy forces. Attacking Tel-Aviv… Unaware, he turned his face away. The sea rolled a high wave unconcernedly – as if to reach the sky. The tents sprawled in an immense white camp in the dark night and in their silence he seemed to note a big, obstinate force that would rise and go to the dark fields surrounding Tel-Aviv, filling them with happy sounds and banishing their ominous silence. He did not notice Benny approaching him.

“Ouch, how you scared me!”

“I can’t sleep,” said Benny and stretched comfortably near Avigdor. “This sky! It seems to be higher than anywhere else in the world. And you, how about it, Avigdor?”

Avigdor did not answer immediately. Benny, as if knowing his answer in advance, added, “And here Isaac is not content! He feels the heat, you see. And the people do not please him!”

“And you?” Asked Avigdor. Benny, lying on his back, pointed to a distant star with his finger.

“I,” he said slowly, “I am comfortable here. At home. But… you know what? All the time I feel that this is not it yet…”

“This is not what?”

“How to explain? Not Eretz-Israel yet! It’s far away from here – somewhere else – perhaps in Jerusalem. Funny, isn’t it?” He sat up. Avigdor sat up as well. “Not funny at all.” He reflected a little and added, “No, not funny, Benny.” Quietly, as if listening to the whispers of his heart, he started singing the old half-forgotten song, his mother’s song about the old Wall over Zion. “From these stones the nation’s tears are flowing…”

“Go on!” Benny cried impatiently. “Sing!”

“I don’t remember.”

Both became silent, thoughtful. Suddenly a new voice filled the emptiness. The voice came from above, over the murmurs of the sea. It trembled momentarily over their heads and then was carried into the dark distance.

“It’s the Muezzin calling the Muslims to prayer,” whispered Avigdor. They sat silently, listening to the strange, mysterious voice. It faded until completely gone, vanishing into the silence of the night.

“Avigdor,” Benny whispered, “Do you know what the Arabs call the Jews? ‘Children of the Dead!’ Do you hear?”

“A gruesome nickname,” Avigdor answered.

“A Sephardic Jew told me today,” said Benny. “But never mind! They will learn what kind of ‘children of the dead’ we are.”

 

 

When Avigdor woke up, the sea was gray and wrinkled. The gulls floated over it, peering into the water as if into a mirror. Sleeping near Avigdor, Benny’s face also looked as gray as a corpse’s. The sand and sky were also gray. Deep in the sky shone a small sliver of the moon.

It had rained, thought Avigdor, but suddenly remembered that the rainy season in this country was still very far. He smiled, stretched, stroked the cool sand, and started thinking about the day ahead.

First, his father’s order to visit the Municipal Committee. Many years ago, at the conception of the idea of building Tel-Aviv, his father sent money to Eretz-Israel to buy a plot. When Avigdor left his parents’ home to go to Eretz-Israel, his father asked him to verify the location of the plot and build a fence around it. “You will fence the plot yourself. It will be the starting point of your work in Eretz-Israel!”

This thought drew other thoughts. He relaxed for fifteen minutes. Looking around him again, he hardly recognized the place, no longer gray. The sun rose over Jaffa, the sky turned blue, the sea stirred and the camp woke up.

The sea, cool and caressing, sprawled nearby. Laughing and screaming the young men burst into it, chasing and overtaking each other as if there was not enough space for everyone.

After drinking their tea and preparing to go about their individual business, they saw an old man of middle height approaching the tents, treading heavily into the sand with his left leg and waving his arms as if they were wings. He approached the young men and began looking at their faces with concentration. His eyes were half closed, smiling but sharp. He murmured to himself, “How nimble they are! Speedy!”

“Nimble, right?” Answered Isaac, passing by. The old man grabbed his hand. “Stay a minute! You won’t exchange a few words with me?”
”Well?” Asked Isaac, shaking his wet mane. The old man asked, “Here I am looking and searching, perhaps I could find someone from my village?”

“I would be interested to know which is your village?”

“My village?” The old man answered with a question and the smile vanished from his face. “Have you heard that there is such a village in the world by the name of Sorokino?”

“Sorokino!” A few voices cried. A crowd surrounded the old man. All of the five Sorokino natives stood there already, headed by a very excited Menasheh.

“Children,” said the old man, grasping with his two hands all the hands that were stretched out to him – dear sons, who are you, then? Tell me quickly. Twenty years since the day I left Sorokino, and all of you, forgive me, still in diapers. Who are you?” He turned toward Menasheh. “No, don’t say a word. I want to recognize you myself. You look to me… yes, yes! You belong to Chaim Kugel’s house!”

“Chaim’s son!” Said Menasheh, his voice trembling.

“Chaim Kugel’s!” The old man cried happily. “The third house! We studied in one Cheder (school).” He held Menasheh, as if afraid he would disappear, while investigating the others. “And you, snub-nose? Surely, Noah Noodle’s son?”

“His son,” answered Benny, his eyes moist, and shook the hand of the old man with great affection. “And who would you be, sir?”

 

“Who am I? I am Moshe Tabachnik. You never heard about me? Probably they have forgotten Moshe Tabachnik in Sorokino, ah-ha-ha, they forgot!”

“No, they did not forget,” Avigdor answered. “My father mentioned you often, sir, and also ordered me to find you in Eretz-Israel.”

The old man blinked at him for a minute. “Your father? I don’t recognize, for some reason… who is your father?”

“My father – Shimeon Gunn! Said Avigdor with a trace of pride.

The old man clapped his hands. “God! Shimeon Gunn! The son  of Shimeon Gunn himself!” Raising his hands to heaven, he asked, “In the whole world, is there a better man than Shimeon Gunn? Is there such a generous man, always doing charity, supporter of the poor and helper of widows and orphans?” He turned to Avigdor. “His son! The son of Shimeon Gunn – come over here and let me look at you… you are more like your mother Rivka – a heart of gold. Shimeon resembles a paritz (land owner) but it is only his looks, not his heart… he is as kind as an angel of God.” Suddenly, as if remembering and afraid to miss someone, he said “My sons, the sons of my friends, my comrades, all of you! Sons of my native village! You are not strangers. Let’s go to my place, to old Moshe Tabachnik’s. I have a little house some distance from here, in Neve-Zedek.”

“I will come to you, today,” said Menasheh.

Malka was visible at a distance. She was calling Isaac.

“Of course, we will all come to your house. So long!” said Isaac.

The old man looked around for a place to sit. Menasheh brought out a blanket and spread it on the sand. The four of them sat together and talked until the sun started beating over their heads. Then the old man got up and said to Avigdor, “I will go with you to the Municipal Committee. You have to know the lingo spoken by our bureaucrats.”

On the way the old man took Avigdor’s arm and said, “Your father gave me a great deal of help. When I decided to travel to Eretz-Israel I searched for a buyer for my little house in Sorokino. It was my only property. At that time, immigration had begun to America, Argentina, and other countries – the Devil knows where else! To what place would a Jew not travel? No one wanted to even look at my house. So what do you suppose? Where did help come from? Your father, may God lengthen his days and years, came and bought my crooked little shack. And your father needed this house as much as I need this sick old leg.” Avigdor smiled. He was happy to have met this man.

“Why don’t you say anything, Avigdor? It seems you are just like your father; talks little, and when he says something, a golden dinar! Ah, Shimeon Gunn, Shimeon Gunn! How my soul longs to see him! When did you leave Sorokino?”

“About a year ago.” Avigdor sighed.

“Yes, a year has passed, so you don’t know anything…” Tabachnik suddenly stopped talking and bit his lips.

“I know everything,” said Avigdor.

“You know? How did you find out?”

“I do know. When I stayed in Romania, a Russian man told me that everyone in Sorokino was murdered, except those who managed to escape.”

“And your family?”

“In Kiev. Our priest hid them.”

“And your home, and all your property?”

“I don’t know,” Avigdor said thoughtfully. His eyes dimmed and a furrow of sadness appeared on his forehead. “The only facts I know is that my family escaped to Kiev, and they are stranded somewhere in Podol. Father sent me a message that with the first opportunity they will cross the Dniester.”

“And then – surely they will come here?”

“Of course.”

“At last! How many years, how many years did the man aspire to come here! And don’t you worry, Avigdor; the thugs may have robbed all of your father’s property during the pogrom, but he is smarter than all the Russian gangsters, trust me. Shimeon Gunn will not come here empty handed!”

 

***

 

The official listened to Avigdor in silence. In vain did Tabachnik try to make officialdom pay attention to him. The official muttered through smoke-stained, clenched teeth, “So, you want to know where is your father’s lot?”

“Yes, yes, his father’s lot, Shimeon Gunn,” answered Tabachnik. The official looked disdainfully at Avigdor’s clothes and asked, “You mean to build a house?”

“No,” Avigdor blushed, embarrassed.

“So why then do you need to know where this sand lot is located?”

“Yes, but my father…”

The official scowled impatiently. “Yes, yes, your father! When he wants to build, we will dig for the documents for half a day. I don’t have time for this now. Surely you don’t have an official authorization?”

“No,” Avigdor looked at Tabachnik, surprised.

“Ah-ha, what did I tell you?” Said Tabachnik, his eyes full of laughter. He nudged Avigdor with his shoulder, stood in his place, and said, “Listen, sir, to what I have to say to you… Avigdor, you wait for me by the door for a minute.”

Avigdor left slowly. It all seemed strange, unexpected.

 

***

 

Tabachnik dragged his painful leg wearily. “Your father’s plot is not near.” He spoke as if talking to himself. “They could not find a better place for Shimeon Gunn! But let’s be thankful for that, too! I’ll tell you the truth, I was worried… but that’s another story. People are predators everywhere, even in Paradise, I suspect… Look, Avigdor, go in this direction, then turn right. You will find number 48. Don’t forget, number 48. And I should go back – I am exhausted. I will accompany you to this corner. Never mind!” The old man spoke while walking. “Soon you will be an official like this fool, maybe higher. I told him so.”

“What, how so?” Avigdor wondered. “How will I become an official?”

“Ah, you are still a baby. Tomorrow, or the day after, Usishkin is arriving from Jerusalem. I will take you to him.”

“Why?”

“Why? Why ask? You are Shimeon Gunn’s son, praise God.  Do you think Usishkin has forgotten Shimeon Gunn? How often did he meet him at the congresses?”

Avigdor understood and turned red. His nostrils quivered. “Ah, no! I don’t need all of this at all!”

“And what? You will go to work with a shovel?” Tabachnik stopped and asked excitedly.

“Yes,” answered Avigdor. The old man looked at him, grinning. “Well, we’ll live and see. Now I am going. Later on come to me at Neve-Zedek.”

 

***

 

Tel-Aviv’s edge. An endless plain made of sand. Avigdor had never seen such sands. This was the way the geography books described the undulating sands of the Sahara Desert. He walked among the dunes and saw only sands, glittering in the sun. Deep silence surrounded him, allowing him to hear the whispers of the grains of sand whenever the light sea breeze blew on them.

Avigdor had not been alone for quite some time. More than once he felt oppressed during the many months in the barracks-like surroundings, always among comrades. Now, in this silence, alone with his soul, his feelings and thoughts seemed to be bared. He felt a sharp, intoxicating joy triggered by Eretz-Israel’s whispering sands. Suddenly he remembered the notes of an old forgotten song. Did such a song ever exist? Did he really hear it? Or perhaps the feelings awakened by the sands resembled a song?

The plain of sand sprawled like a carpet of fire under the sun. His shoes burned on his feet. But how good the heat felt, the blinding glitter of the scorched sand! He raised his eyes to the sky, and there, too, a blue plain blazed with fire. He imagined himself a turtle, covered with a yellow carapace below and a blue carapace above. Grinning, he started singing something evoking the sun, the sky, and the sands of Eretz-Israel.

Numbered stakes were stuck here and there in the sand. He must have gone astray of Tabachnik’s directions, because the nearest stake did not bear the number 48, but 89.

Never mind, he thought. Directions are not always essential. Not for everything. 

Wherever he looked – dunes, dunes, piled up for hundreds of years by the sea breezes. On one distant hill he suddenly noticed a tree. Against the background of yellow sand it appeared so green, as if freshly painted. Big, old tree, giving a heavy shadow. Under the tree was stuck stake number 48. Avigdor’s rejoiced. “My father’s land!” He said to himself and collapsed among the large, bare roots. Instantly he felt surrounded by beloved figures. Father, his soul mate, with his kind smile; Rosa’le his little sister. Above all, Mother, stretching her hands toward him, crying, sobbing… on the side, a beloved girl, not daring to come closer, to step onto their land… “Come, my love,” his heart beat. He pressed himself to the earth, his face, his chest, extending his arms as if hugging it…

For a long time he lied like that and did not sense the excitement his presence had caused. Two old, warty chameleons hurried up the tree to escape him. On the tree trunk, their skin changed color to resemble the bark, and from there they observed the stranger suspiciously. A black beetle rolled last year’s dry flower on the sand. She rolled her burden with her back legs, her head close to the earth. Her walk inscribed an intricate drawing resembling a gold chain. The drawing was interrupted; the beetle, alarmed, hid in the sand and from her hiding place stared at the large animal crouching on the earth. Then she continued rolling her treasure. Over the tree a wide-beaked feathered hunter hovered, mesmerized by what took place under the tree.

The sea breeze dried Avigdor’s damp shirt and he lied on the earth that was so dear to him. Finally he arose, got up, and looked at the area surrounding the hill. It seemed as if the sky lied over the sand at the horizon. It was actually the sea, bluer than the sky. It played, the white curls rolling over it. A while sail gleamed at the  distance. All of a sudden he discovered the sea was in all its beauty, breathing such fresh coolness!

Avigdor turned his head to the other side – and flinched at the miracle that was revealed to him. A sea was there, too – but silent, motionless, rising to the heart of the sky. At first he did not understand, then realized – mountains! These were the Mountains of Judea! Spread as a blue curtain, they undulated slowly, and behind the curtain slept the entire history of this ancient land.

Avigdor no longer sat, but stood erect, his eyes wide open and shining. He was no longer twenty, but two thousand years old. He saw everything, remembered everything, and understood everything.

 

***

 

Nearby, over the yellow sands, were Jaffa’s green orchards and vegetable gardens. Flat-roofed Arab houses were visible, throaty cries were heard from the distance, and occasionally small images of people wrapped in wide capes and wearing red fezzes  appeared. This was the same terrible world of the desert, of revenge, of murder.

Something rolled from there on the sand. Avigdor looked – a dog. The dog ran in a strange fashion, running and sidling, as if pulled in one direction, and every so often listened to the ground. He ran straight toward Avigdor, without noticing him. A nightmare engulfed Avigdor. He used to see such dogs in his childhood dreams, prominent donkey-like ears, patchy skin, wet nose, grinning…

The dog suddenly saw him, raised a face with a runny eye, snorted, coughed and grinned. Avigdor was terrified, and as in his dream, bent to pick up a stone. The dog ran away, sidling, escaping from him.

Avigdor felt drawn to the city, to people.

 

***

 

The next day all of them came to the Sorokino lot. They came joyfully, cheerfully, cracking jokes. Slowly they became gloomy, each one reliving his own experience. Softy they started talking about their families, to plan for the future. One day all five families would gather under this tree, then all of Sorokino, then all the Jews of the world! The eyes gleamed, the voices strengthened, decisions were made… then, right there on the Sorokino lot they started to write letters home.

“God knows if this letter ever reaches you!” Menasheh was ending his letter. “But as for me – I feel good here!” He finished the letter and raised his round, childish, sad eyes to the clear, high sky.

Isaac finished his letter quickly. He did not like to write much. He lied on his back and looked at the thick foliage of the sturdy tree. “They say,” he said slowly, “that these trees are ancient, a thousand years or more.” Everyone looked at the tree. Daglan looked away. He did not write; he had no one to write to. He commented, “How do you cultivate this lot? The sand will cover it.” 

 

Chapter Four

 

The Arabs extracted stones on the slopes of the Mountains of Judea. They were entirely surrounded by mountains, frozen humps of a fossilized sea. In the valley below, two steel railroad lines glittered under the sun. Freight cars stood there, small as toys, and men in white shirts moved busily around them, loading the cars with stones. The Sorokino group worked there. At lunch, Avigdor climbed up to the Arabs. His friends stayed below, in the shade of the freight cars.

A young Arab, wearing a long robe and with a pointy cap on his head, was drilling a hole in the rock with a long pick, for gunpowder.

Avigdor approached him, and thinking that the Arab was smiling at him, answered with a smile. But the Arab turned his head away. His blue lips were parted, his pale face frozen, his clenched teeth white in a death-grin, but in his eyes burned a mad passion. He worked with a mere remnant of his strength, his nostrils widened. He breathed heavily, but nevertheless raised the heavy pick higher and higher with wild determination, and lifting himself in a bizarre way, struck it into the smoking hole.

            This was not normal work, but something like a seizure. It seemed that any minute the Arab would fall to the ground. But he did not fall, and with horrible obstinacy raised the pick still higher, stretching and turning blue. Suddenly he let out a strange sigh and dropped the pick. He staggered in his place, removed and put his cap back on again, undid his belt and redid it. He gasped like a fish thrown on the sand. After resting a minute, still pale, he poured water from a tin into the hole he was drilling in the rock, spat on both hands and grasped the pick again.

            At first he worked with a moderate pace, but little by little his eyes blazed and he accelerated the knocking of his pick obsessively. In the same fashion, these hands could certainly stick a dagger into the side of a friendly man. Many Arabs around him worked in the same way. It was an unpleasant sight and Avigdor left.

            Mountains, mountains all around! Bare, gray, barren. Covered, here and there, with prickly bushes, scorched moss. In the distance over the mountains undulated a blue canopy, silvery fogs floated silently, echoes were carried by the wind like a soft sigh, like a whispered secret.

            Somewhere on these mountains stood Jerusalem. The ancient light that had burned when nothing else was, when everything could be…

            From the height of a tall rock Avigdor gazed at the misty distant.

            The Arab completed his work. He stuck a doze of dynamite into the drilled hole, lit the fuse, and everyone started running in all directions, screaming Barud! (hailstones) Barud! Beware!

Avigdor dived behind a nearby rock, head down toward to valley, where in the distance stood an almost black, small flock of goats.

The mountain moaned deeply. Avigdor felt the tremble of the old mountain’s heart. A whisper passed among the mountains, as if they hinted something to one another… a sharp black splinter was plucked from the high rock, all the Arabs jumped from their hiding places, followed it with their eyes and started debating where it fell.

 

***

            An old Arab tended his flock on the other side of the mountain, where the stone fell. He sat in the shade of an aged fig tree and the goats scattered around the valley, searching for living roots of last year’s grasses among the dead thistles.

            Among them was an old black goat, her udders covered in a bag of rough wool. A young kid followed her, jumping this way and the other. The mother kneeled, wishing to nurse her son, but the rough wool scratched the kid’s tender lips.

            The stone crashed the kid and only his legs could be seen under it. The black goat ran around the stone, bleating piteously. Above them already hovered, like a black cross – the vulture.

 

***

           

From the broken heart of the nation originated the first Hebrew city in the world – Tel-Aviv. On the yellow sands, by the azure blue sea, she sprouted and grew, a symbol of everlasting spring, an emblem of the eternity of Israel.

            The broken gray stones of the Mountains of Judea were brought to the city street, which was already dug out. The stones were crushed, the gravel mixed with cement and sand, and the street paved with a smooth, straight layer.

            Early in the morning five Jews, natives of the region of the Russian Caucasus, came to work: two gray-bearded old men and three youths, wearing shabby cherkeskas (a coat-like garment) with decorative imitation of ammunition pockets on their chests. Among themselves they spoke Tartar. They arrived earlier than the other workers, all young men from Russia, who kept the rules of the labor union and started working at precisely eight o’clock – and so had to work the large, difficult stones. The Caucasians, coming early, gained the light, thin stones, which could be broken with a small mallet. They sat together, surrounded themselves with a ramp of stones, and started working immediately.

            The young Russians arrived noisily, boisterously, as was their way. They wore no hats and rolled up their sleeves. They did not begin working immediately, since the clock did not ring the hour of eight o’clock.

            “Bolsheviks!” Grumbled a thin, tall, upright old Caucasian. Among the Russians was a handsome, tall young man, with high, arched eyebrows over clear blue eyes; his name was Ilia. He approached the Caucasians with a question. “How is it with you? A commune?” He spoke Hebrew. Yitzhak Babayev, a young Caucasian, answered in Russian, “We don’t understand Hebrew.”

            Ilia repeated his question in Russian. Yitzhak sat with the hammer raised in his hands, and the rest of the Caucasians did the same – except the second old may who had a nose like a bird’s beak. He went on with his work, his papakha (tall fur hat) quivering, the fold of his cherkeska moving rhythmically.

            “There is no commune,” said Yitzhak angrily and hit a stone with his hammer. Then, with a softer voice, he asked, “Have you been to Tiflis? Have you ever seen the store of Babayev Brothers and Sons?”

            “On Main Street, a big, red house?”

            “Ah, maladietz!” (Brave and strong) Yitzhak Jumped up happily. “A big house, red – right! Three floors! The Babayev Brothers and Sons… r-right!” He waved his hand over his ramp, “So this is now the Babayev Brothers and Sons store!”

            Ilia listened quietly, thinking of something remote, faraway. His friends grinned, then laughed aloud. The Caucasians were irritated. Yitzhak said, “What’s to laugh about? The Bolsheviks destroyed it!” The tall old man looked furiously at the laughing men. “They are themselves Bolsheviks!”

            The Caucasians sat with their hammers lowered. Only the beaked old man did not budge and continued working. He probably worked like that his entire life, striving to increase the wealth of the store in Tiflis.

            Ilia reacted to the old man’s cry. He looked at the Caucasians thoughtfully, as if he saw something behind their ramp.

            “Ho, friends, to work!”

            The town clock rang eight o’clock

.

***

 

Small waves of broken stones lied before each man. A sensation of weakness took over all of them. It seemed the waves did not grow, but sank into the sand. The larger stones, by contrast, seemed to grow, and these Lilliputians could never break them with their minuscule hammers. Only the little old man’s eyes did not seek anyone’s help, and a tall wave of thin, white gravel was already piled by his side.

            The sun raised its own flaming hammer in the sky. The sea breeze played somewhere over the sea. Sweat dampened their eyebrows and dripped into their eyes.

            The overseer ushered the new laborers –  the entire Sorokino group and one shabby young man, Sephardic, most likely from Syria; he distributed hammers and left. Isaac looked scornfully at the laborers, the small hammers, and at himself as well. Ilia scrutinized them quickly, evaluated everyone, and lingered by Avigdor for a second. But Avigdor was gazing at something far away, on the distant sands. Menasheh followed his eyes and understood his friend’s thoughts. “Well, it is to your plot that they are paving the street!”

            “True! To our land!” Benny was overjoyed. He was so thrilled that he started clapping his hands with glee, slapped Avigdor’s back and wanted to do the same to Isaac, but instead jumped aside and sprawled on the ground, laughing.

            The labor was organized as work for hire, paid for by the cubic meter. The Sorokino group worked on a communal basis. It happened automatically, without prior negotiations. Simply, the bread bundles were placed in a line, two of the men started serving the thin stones by throwing them, and four others began breaking them with their hammers.

            The Sorokino “store” bordered the Tiflisian. Among them sat the Sephardic man, dressed unseasonably in a black coat and a red fez. He huddled next to the Russian young men and told Benny, who was nearest to him, “I will work with you.”

            The Caucasians looked at the new workers with hostility. Not enough wage-earning work existed in the city, and they assumed, earlier, that they alone would break all the stones.

            The thin stones were almost finished, and the time came to take up the large hammer. At first it was held by Isaac, the strongest of the group, but Avigdor snatched it from his hand. “Me!”

            “By all means!” Isaac agreed, and sat down with his friends.

            Avigdor struck powerfully, too quickly, his knees shaking when lifting the hammer. Ilia looked on for a while, then went over to Avigdor. Yitzhak Babayev said to him, “Help him, please, he is just a boy!”

            Avigdor did not deign to relinquish the hammer immediately to Ilia, who stood by, explaining to him.

“Don’t strike so hard. The hammer is extremely heavy, and its weight will serve to crack the stone. And don’t lift it so high, it is heavy. Here, like so!”

Avigdor blushed and breathed heavily. He grasped the hammer again. Ilia looked at him and said, “You are tired, let someone from your group replace you.”

Isaac grinned when he saw Avigdor pushing Benny away. “Leave him alone, let him work, just as he pleases!”

“Ai, he is a fool, this boy!” Shouted Yitzhak Babayev.

Being thought of as incompetent displeased Avigdor. He tried again with all his might. A few unemployed, curious pioneers gathered around him, making him nervous. He felt intoxicated by the wide, daring swings, and the sound of breaking stones.

  He kept it up until noon. Then they all gathered for lunch in the shadow of the nearest house. Avigdor barely ate his share, bread with tomatoes. He longed to rest, to lie down. Isaac noticed and smiled.

The Caucasians chatted on, except for old, desiccated Babayev with the pointy nose who ate his bread with intention and took sips of water constantly, without uttering a sound. He mused with the same obstinacy that he put into his work. Having said grace after his meal, he got up and returned to his place and started pounding leisurely with his small hammer. The rest of the Babayevs followed him. Ilia and his friends sang; the lunch break was not yet over. The Sorokino group had guests – Malka and Zipora.

“We didn’t know you went to work,” trilled Malka in her high voice. “Why didn’t you tell us?” She spoke without taking her eyes off Ilia.

In the meantime the overseer arrived and Malka clung to him and implored him to employ her and  Zipora. The overseer was an important man, wearing yellow gaiters, a white hat – practically British. Today he could not accept new laborers. No, no! But Malka stood so close that her hair tickled his face. Her eyes were sad, caressing. She just whispered, “You can, of course you can!”

The clock chimed, and everyone returned to work.

 

***

 

Avigdor sat with his friends, his shirt spread under him, pounding with a hexagonal hammer. This was much easier work, but it lacked the glory of the heroic swings. Even a woman could do this work… Avigdor crushed many stones for the “store.” Possibly even enough for tomorrow. He crushed almost all the rough stone which was lying on top and again the thin stones were revealed, ogled often by the Caucasians.

A fire bee stung from above and the ears rang from her determined buzz. A slight breeze flew in from the sea, but its wings flapped above the bent backs and lowered heads. They could see only gray stone, whitish and jagged, a small black hummer with a well-honed, bright edge, and their own legs. Like a candle, the singing blazed and then waned because of the sweat, dust, and heavy breathing. The backs were scorched as if dried by fire. When they turned their heads up their eyes were struck, and their lips, parched by the sun, began to hurt. 

Ilia and his friends had tousled hair and they wore only thin shirts. Two of them took their shirts off. Their skin peeled, but defiantly they gave their flesh as fodder for the sun.

“Burn, burn, fiend! You won’t conquer us!”

            The sun dried their bodies, boiled the blood in their veins, and rushed it as a stream of lava to their hearts, to storm and burn it.

            Avigdor, too, removed his damp shirt. His smooth young body was as beautiful as a woman’s.

            “It’s too early for you – you will be ill!” Ilia shouted at him.

            “Never mind, I’ll get used to it!”

            “He is totally crazy,” interjected Yitzhak Babayev.

            The Caucasians also removed their cherkeskas, except the beaked old man. He did not feel the sun. Grasping the hammer with two hands as he pounded, he seemed to peck the stone with his nose.

            Yoram, the Sephardic, did not remove his black coat. He took Benny’s hand and shoved it under his rags. “Well, how does my body feel?”

            “It’s cold!” Benny was amazed.

            “Ah-ha!” Yoram laughed. “You Muscovites don’t understand anything.”

 

***

           

A flaming stone hung over the heads, a smoldering hammer pounded the stone, sparks flew, the earth burned… the gravel heated up and scorched the wounded hands, the hexagonal hammer blazed with white heat, screaming bitterly, the iron jaw rattled, the stone nuts screeched. White dust covered the eyelashes, the teeth, hovered like white fog before the eyes.

            The hammers pounded, the gray stone of the Judean Mountains crumbled, and thin white gravel poured on the growing pile.

            The stone defended itself like an animal, the hammers retreated, ringing, as they bounced and hit the bones to the shoulders. The stone had a heart. Whoever knew how to feel for it, like old Babayev, could shatter the stone with a light blow, as if it were glass.

 

***

 

            The overseer brought two new girls and gave them hammers. One was tall and very thin, from hunger or illness. Her glittering eyes were sunk in, deep into the brain, and her face was gray; one last light blow of the hammer and this stone, flat, brittle, would crumble to dust…

            The other was broad in the hips, daring of look, as befitted a girl who knew how to break stones.

            “Here is a maiden for you!” Grumbled Yitzhak Babayev. “A hundred people over one stone!”

            The tall one was a beginner. Her friend took care of her. “Sit here, Rachel. Like so… because of the sun.”

            “And you, Ida?”

            “I am not afraid of the sun. I got used to it.” At that moment the sun threw a handful of glittering flame into her face. Through her scorched eyebrows and swollen lips, the girl’s lost beauty became recognizable. Yoram poked the companion sitting nearest to him with his elbow. “Look, how she spreads her legs!”

            The girl noticed and arranged her dress. She could not sit otherwise during work. Yoram made an arrogant gesture; someone laughed loudly. The sickly girl became agitated, her sunken cheeks blushed. Her friend whispered to her, “Ah, this is an Arab Jew, and the others are real Arabs. Don’t pay any attention to him.” She bent and pounded her hammer powerfully. She knew the work, but her friend hurt her finger! She waved her wounded hand, her face blanched.

            Ida was alarmed. “What happened, Rachel? Oh, but you are pampered!” As she was bandaging the finger she said, “It always happens to beginners. When you pound, look at the stone, not at the hammer. Like this.”

            Avigdor was furious with Yoram. He knit his eyebrows and threatened him with his hammer. Yoram retaliated. He raised his sleeve, fastened his lips to his bare arm and made a most offensive sound. If someone had insulted Yoram like that, he would have snorted, expressing great rage, and would have attacked his enemy with a lowered head. But Avigdor remained silent. Could a Muscovite understand?

            Later they forgot the event and became momentarily quiet. Only the talk of iron and stone could be heard. Eventually the shadow of the nearby wall grew long and crawling. The sun sank into the sea. Stone. Iron. Screeching and rattling. Stone dust mixed with sweat. Hands and backs as stiff as wood.

            The day was over. Its corpse lied under the white gravel heaps. Gray, skin-burned people battered its last moments with their hammers.

            Old Babayev turned his beak toward the “store” and for the first time during this day uttered a word in a loud voice. Yitzhak got up immediately and approached the stone heap. He was not hurrying, as if he just straightened his frozen limbs. Absent-mindedly he picked a stone, weighted it in his hand, threw it on his ramp, and then a second and a third. The tall old man joined him. Then Yoram approached and started selecting stones for his group.

            “Why are you pushing yourself forward?” The old man scolded him. Yoram laughed, and his laughter irritated the old man.

            “I go – and he goes!” The old man’s eyes blazed with anger. “Get lost, villain!” He pushed Yoram, and Yoram got angry. He did not dare to shove the old man, but he took one step forward as if threatening him. Immediately, Yitzhak pounced on him and pushed him with his fist on the chest. “I’ll kill you!”

            The iron and stone were silent. People started speaking. The sickly girl covered her face with her hands. “For a few stones!” Her quiet, deep voice seemed to come from that distant world where she was already expected.

            Old Babayev, who did not stop working, shouted something. The tall old man returned to him. Yitzhak gesticulated angrily with his hand and went to select stones. The group that surrounded the fighters dispersed, and everyone went to grab stones. They weighted them in their hands, threw them around, waving, cursing and threatening. The stones flew over people’s heads and shrieked as they fell, heavy, angry, incinerated.

            Finally they finished the thin stones. Everyone hurried to organize the work, and piled the gravel in straight squares to facilitate its measurement. Finally they surrounded the gravel with stones, in preparation for the next day’s work.

 

***

 

            A quiet evening waved its blue wings. A clear moon rose over the wounded rock. The wound became pink, as if filling with blood. The mountains darkened, lowered their heads. Deep in the valley the fallen rock was black, crouching like an uninvited stranger, like an animal that has taken its prey. The moon lit three of its sides, and on the fourth side lurked something dark and brooding.

 

***

 

Old Babayev came alone to his “store.” He prowled around every side of the heap, then lied on it, his hands stretched. The bright moon threw its light straight into his face, and in the sky the Milky Way stretched like a white heap of crushed gravel.

Babayev knew the measurement of his body and stretched arms. He lied like this, resting on the stone bed, and calculated that day’s earnings. When he got up he stumbled on a small stone. He picked it up, scrutinized it, searched and found its heart. But he had no hammer. The stone fell with a dull thud on the white heap.

 

Chapter Five

 

The centuries-old silence of the golden sands was interrupted. Men advanced further and deeper into the sands, their voices heard over the virgin dunes on the beach. Some of them wedged small wooden pegs into the earth, and the diggers followed. Iron rails were laid down, and soil-filled wheelbarrows crawled over them like black beetles.

The divided sands stood like a silent barrier, the grains whispering quietly under the wing of the sea breeze. Rough, untrimmed stones were piled up there, and the men pecked at them with their tiny hammers – slowly, obstinately, like mice. After breaking all the stones they moved on, and others came to bind the sand with a cold, smooth layer of cement.

This was an exhausting, nerve-wrecking, tormenting labor. Simultaneously, a secretive, mystical work was carried out by Eternity, a terrible and inexorable fate; the sand kept covering the cement. Grain by grain, moment by moment, a thin wavy shroud that resembled a diminutive dune spread its soft folds over the cement.

The pioneers discussed it; in half a year the road would be invisible and impossible to find under the sand! Benny replied to that, “Do you see the little pegs and the numbers written on them? They represent people! Under these numbers lie humanity’s will and desire. Right here, strong, large houses and factories will be built, and orchards and parks will be planted.”

“And what about the sand?” Asked Isaac.

Benny added enthusiastically, “The sand? It will be conquered under Man’s foot. People have pipes for conveying water!”

They moved on, advancing under the blaze of the Israeli day, and reached peg number 48 and the tall shady tree, older than Gutenberg’s printing press, older than all of mankind’s new and proud history.

Avigdor followed the diggers. He loved the earth, the scent of the soil. This was his mother’s influence, the fruit of her singing about the perfume of Eretz-Israel’s fields after the blessing of the rain. Since childhood, Avigdor saw himself following the plow in Eretz-Israel, specifically a plow!

And now, though he did not follow a plow, he was piercing and splitting the earth. Together with the others, he turned the clumps of fossilized soil, cut down mounds, filled pits and caves that until recently were the hideouts of robbers and murderers. He even found a bronze knife… He enjoyed the work. His entire group worked with him, including Daglan who has bonded with them.

They got used to going to work. Every morning they started quickly, their muscles no longer hurting like beginners’. They no longer needed the whip of enthusiasm.

They still lived in the communal tent on the beach, and every day they had to walk quite a distance from the tent to their place of work. Now that it had grown closer to plot 48, they decided to put up a tent on the Sorokino lot, under the tree. Menasheh conceived the idea, and they rewarded him by slapping his back with approbation. 

“A tent? Where shall we get a tent?” Asked Benny. Menasheh had the answer to this question as well.

“We have money now.”

Yes, indeed they had money; not the Russian paper money, but heavy shillings they earned on the soil of Eretz-Israel. A tent could be purchased with money, and they were delighted. Only the fifth group member, Shmaria, was a little sad. He was a quiet young man, narrow of shoulders and with a girlish blush on his cheeks. He adored reading books. When he finished a book, he stretched contentedly, like Isaac after a delicious meal. From childhood on he loved to draw and especially to model, using clay in summer and snow in winter. He became famous in their village when he modeled the resident Tzadik (a righteous, revered rabbi) in snow, so accurately that he enraged the Tzadik’s followers, who felt this to be a blasphemy toward the holiness of the saintly man.

Still in Sorokino, he had heard about Bezalel, the art school in Jerusalem, and about Professor Schatz. This was the only subject he liked to talk about at length. Generally he did not speak much, had no time for it, as he was always busy looking either into his soul or out of it.

Living by the sea he habitually gazed at that natural wonder, changeable and surging, and could never have enough of it. During his leisure hours he modeled in the damp sand. Once he sculpted Daglan, and another time Malka, and was so successful that everyone admired him, except, of course, Malka herself. She shrugged and flung at him, “It seems to me that I have never been snub-nosed!” There was some special interaction there. Apparently Shmaria loved her chastely, shyly, never daring to look at her with courage. Malka did not like such men. It was hard for Shmaria to separate from the sea, the damp sand, the bustling pioneer camp, from Malka.

They wondered if the Municipal Committee would permit them to put up a tent. Avigdor already had a little experience regarding the relationship between the authorities and the newly arrived pioneers. But practical Benny commented, “With all the structures erected to protect the cement and the iron? Who would pay attention to one more tent?” Menasheh disagreed with this argument. Everything had to be legal. The law was on their side, since the land belonged to them, to the Sorokinos. Isaac’s lips trembled with anger. “You don’t realize what Jewish authority is like. They will immediately order us to dismantle the tent. You will have to visit the Committee every day, for half a year, to request the permit, to bow to the officials, to present a thousand documents from other institutions. And taxes, endless taxes! I have heard enough already: our officials are a mixture of an obstinate Russian policeman and a colonial governor. And I imagine of one more person; perhaps a Turkish administrator.”

Everyone had his angle. Daglan said, “This is a strategic point. When they attack Tel-Aviv, we will be the first to encounter them.”

Years later, at the same place, the Sorokinos remembered the words uttered by Daglan, who was generally silent.

 

***

 

Cement was plentiful all around. They straightened the area under the tree and covered it with cement. When it hardened, they secured the tent on it. They placed their possessions and their bedding on the floor. They owned no furniture. Still, their home seemed so wonderful that they held each other’s hands, as if blending their feelings into communal admiration and danced a new dance: “Home, my home.”

Isaac’s assumptions were not in vein. Indeed a veteran of some rank came and took down their names. But this was the end of the affair. No one bothered them any further – to the regret of Isaac the scoffer, who saw everything from its shaded side.

From then on visitors never let them rest. Day and night, friends came to see the happy “home owners.” Malka, too, came often. Zipora came only once. She resolutely severed all relations between herself and Isaac and after a few days disappeared completely, without farewell, without saying goodbye to anyone. They said she traveled to one of the settlements.

Isaac and Malka grew closer. They went everywhere together and Malka called Isaac “my boyfriend.” Those of the Eighth Group remaining in Tel-Aviv speculated. “Who would leave whom? Would Isaac leave Malka or would Malka leave Isaac?”

At one point Isaac answered, “She is not a rotten herring to be thrown away.”

She stared at him, raised her thin left eyebrow and said in a flowing, throaty voice, “You only throw away herrings, Isaac?” This was a hint about Zipora.

When she met Avigdor she looked sadly into his eyes and whispered conspiratorially, “So long since I have seen you, Avigdor! Do you remember me?”

Malka did not work yet. She split stones for one day, and after wounding her beautiful hand, stopped working. She hunted down and found a relative, then moved in with her.

She always wore pretty blouses, unlike the other pioneer girls, and her décolleté was not “pioneer style” either. Nevertheless she did not stop associating with the group.

“Why don’t you work?” Benny asked her.

She answered, “Look, the wounds on my hands have not healed yet.”

“But how can you loaf like this?”

She looked at him scornfully, her black irises becoming tiny and sharp like two pins. “Must everyone work, Benny? Here is a bird, flying about without any work.”

“She works too,” said Benny.

“No, she doesn’t work,” and suddenly her face lit from her inner laughter and her irises expanded to fill the entire eye. “The bird does not work. It flies about. Here, here,” she burst out laughing while pointing at a braying donkey. “This one is working!”

She was very beautiful at this moment, and everyone forgave her for mocking work, the sacredness of work in Eretz-Israel.

Isaac was attracted to her as if sleep walking, big, broad, blue-eyed.

The rest of the Sorokinos averted their eyes, except Daglan. He looked at them quietly, smiling, and as usual rolled around his finger a chain with a key for a lock that no longer existed.

 

***

 

The rain impregnated the earth. Winter came to the Subtropical Zone. The first rains revived the scorched soil. The sea was bluer, the waves swelled with snow from distant, cold countries.

During the day the sky was clear, spring-like, but at night it became higher, deepened with freezing cold, and the stars glittered like frost.

The rains caused the gold sand to gleam as they crouched under the winter sun; they were friendlier, not as bright and blinding as in summer.

A sunray penetrated the wet, warm sand. Soon young, soft grass buds peeked out of the earth.

Earlier, with the rainy season soon to come, the work flared higher and higher, like a bonfire. Every day, cheerful honking came from ships, bringing more pioneers. Cheerfulness prevailed and the din intensified. Echoes answered from the Galilee and the Jezreel Valley. There, too, new tents were pitched, swamps were drained, new settlements were built.

In Tel-Aviv as well much work was being planned. The cement road passed lot 48 and continued along the sea. New streets were about to be paved beyond the orchards that stood black, distant and silently threatening. However, the rains stopped the work.

The machine moved by its own momentum. Heavy stone heaps were piled up, a few solitary men wandered over the sands taking some notes, but the work began to die. Did it die strictly because of the rains?

Ships no longer brought pioneers and the sands grew silent. The Pharaoh Beetle rolled its load on the sand, undisturbed. Sand grains, carried by the sea, scattered over the road and covered it. Over from the Arab district, the sound of the Muezzin’s calls and the howling of the jackals became louder.

The Sorokino tent still stood, and as they lived there they were stationed as guards over the cement and iron supplies, and the tools. A timely occurrence for the group during unemployment.

Morning came. Shmaria read a book. Isaac reclined and yawned so loudly that the Egyptian Doves were frightened and flew away from the tree. He slept late, since he returned from town late at night, and he had no need to hurry. He did not have to go to town until lunch, which he would take at the laborer’s kitchen. Daglan, Benny and Menasheh went to town; using Menasheh’s expression, they meant to sniff around for work. Avigdor was mending the canvas awning over the cement barrel. The wind shook it at night. The barrel he stood on rolled around, and he struggled to put it right. Shmaria, deep into his reading, did not see his efforts, but Isaac was looking through the tent’s opening and shouted, “What are you flapping about there for? Do you want to receive the Medal of Honor for your service?”

Avigdor did not answer. He knew Isaac’s views. According to strict rules Isaac was right – a low-salaried guard did not have to mend the awning. Isaac stuck his head out of the tent’s opening, and added, “Strive, strive, fool! A bone fracture for your reward, and even a ‘good for you’ will not be heard.”

Avigdor inserted a wooden wedge under the barrel. Shmaria approached him.

Shmaria was a thin young man, taller than Avigdor and Isaac, but narrow in the shoulders and a little stooping. He was sick for a few days when the rains came, probably caught a cold. He warmed himself under the sun, enjoying his book. Avigdor asked him, “Don’t you have a headache?”

“No.”

“You should visit a doctor, Shmaria. You have become very thin.”

“Ah!” He had a habit of stretching, raising tight fists.

“Have you ever seen Beethoven’s picture?” He suddenly asked.

“I did,” said Avigdor. “Well?”

“Nothing.”

“Could you model him?”

“Beethoven?” He shut his eyes and said, “A certain heaviness in his eyebrows, Beethoven!” He opened his eyes and remembering Avigdor question, said, “No, I could not model him. He had not lived long enough inside me to allow modeling.”

Avigdor looked at him and his heart sank. Poor Shmaria! He wanted to work until spring, to save ten liras, and with this “fortune” to go on to Jerusalem to Professor Schatz and finally start his studies. Suddenly the work stopped and he fell ill. He became so thin and his face was yellow. The Sorokino group could not help him. They themselves ate sparingly using the little that was left of their savings.

But Shmaria was happy. He heard good news, a rumor that Professor Schatz was soon to come to Tel-Aviv. Shmaria hoped to see him and speak with him.

About this matter he could talk at length, particularly with Avigdor who listened to him, and indeed he talked until his cheeks turned red, sunken but still dimpled and always ready to smile.   

Avigdor strengthened the wind-swept awning with nails, and banged his hammer, biting his lips.

 

***

 

Far away over the sun-drenched sands, someone was walking, walking and limping, walking and waving his hands – Moshe Tabachnik. He could be heard from a distance, “Oh ho, you really are entirely isolated from the city!” He approached Avigdor and stared at him sternly. “You are working? As a day laborer? Just fine for the son of Rabbi Shimeon Gunn! Ah, let me sit down. Such a nice walk for me, for a cripple like me! Still, it’s nothing, nothing, except for this accursed leg. How it hurts during the rainy season!

He sat on the barrel and rubbed his aching leg with his hand. Then, without hurrying, he examined the tent, the tree, and said, “This little plot – not bad, really, high up and they have already made a road by it. That won’t hurt. They promise to build mansions here, each more beautiful than the other. Of course, they promise. But for now – it’s a barren desert. Ah, ah, ah! For Rabbi Shimeon Gunn they could not find a better plot!”

Avigdor listened and remained silent. He already understood who were the “they” about whom the old man always spoke with such bitterness. Tabachnik thought for a moment and said, “So this is why I crawled to visit you, Avigdor. I have heard that Usishkin came to Tel-Aviv for meetings.”

Shmaria leapt as if scalded with boiling water. “And Schatz? Did Professor Schatz come too, Mr. Tabachnik?”

“Schatz?” Tabachnik wondered. “From Bezalel? What do you need him for?”
            “Ah, I need him very badly, Mr. Tabachnik.”

“Professors he needs already!” Tabachnik laughed. “I don’t know if your professor came. But Usishkin is here, and this afternoon he will go away again. There is no time for delay. Let’s go, Avigdor, hurry up! You know what, though? Wear something else… maybe you don’t have anything else?”

“I am not going, Mr. Tabachnik,” said Avigdor.

Tabachnik jumped up. “What are you saying? You are not going? He is not going!” He turned to talk to the tent. “For this I ran for two hours in the desert?”

Avigdor wanted to answer, but he could not get in a word edgewise. The old man fumed. “He does not want to go to Usishkin! What are you afraid of, that he would eat you? And maybe Usishkin will suddenly say, ‘why didn’t you come sooner, the son of Shimeon Gunn? Does it become you to lug stones? A different kind of work we must find for you… what will you say then? Ha?” He winked craftily with one eye. “Let’s go!”

“No, I won’t go, Mr. Tabachnik,” Avigdor repeated firmly. “All your fuss was for nothing.”

Tabachnik looked at him wildly, furiously, as if about to devour him, and finally flung at him, “Why won’t you go?”

“Because, Mr. Tabachnik, I am not here to beg influential personalities for a position.”

“So? Now I