tel aviv

BOOKS

JEWISH LITERATURE: "Tel Aviv" By Dr. Avraham Wissotzky. SERIALIZED NOVEL BY DR. ILIL ARBEL

The serialized version of the book: Tel-Aviv, by Dr. Avraham Wissotzky, part of the upcoming The Aliyah Trilogy. Scroll to the end to see new chapters as they are published. Should you wish to read the introduction or any of the previous chapters, please go to http://www.worldjewishnewsagency.org/Ilil%20Arbel%20novel.htm .

Translation: Ilil Arbel. First printed: 1947, Israel. Copyright: Ilil Arbel

Chapter Six

Moshe Tabachnik’s wife strongly resembled her husband. She, too, blinked with her left eye and dragged her left leg. In Neve-Zedek they said about them, “This couple is not like a husband and wife, but like a brother and sister.”

They had handsome children. Their sons and daughters, all good looking, lived in Brazil, North America, Africa, and everywhere else in the Diaspora. The many pictures hanging all over the walls proved it. Only two daughters stayed with the parents. Hania was twenty-five, but looked a little older due to the hot climate. Perhaps she seemed this way next to her little sister, Zemira, who had suddenly become a beautiful girl though only sixteen years old. Hania still petted her beloved little sister, but she had already begun to feel that the little one overshadowed her with her blossoming beauty.

Suddenly, the Sorokino pioneers’ group burst into their quiet lives. They came often to Tabachnik’s house, Menasheh more than the others. For hours he sat and conversed with the old people, telling them details of Sorokino life. The old couple listened with great interest. Hania also listened and in a few days she knew and acknowledged all the Sorokino’s heroes: Ben Zion Poltora-Zhid, Yos’l Kishkeh, David Pradznik and their families.

Among the young men, Daglan’s age matched Hania’s best. He appeared to come only for her sake and spent many evenings with her. However, he could not speak either Hebrew or Yiddish very well, and altogether he was a strange man. Tabachnik used to say about him that one hoop snapped in that barrel. The other slightly older person in the group was Isaac; he was twenty-three at that time. A handsome man by everyone’s opinion with his childish blue eyes and his mocking views of the world and of himself. Hania was automatically attracted to him. A daughter of Neve-Zedek, she had never experienced true love, but her heart fluttered every time she heard his nonchalant voice in the corridor, “Sha—alom!”

Isaac loved a good snack, especially corn on the cob. Hania noticed it and he always found corn ready for him. And he knew, the sly one, that the corn awaited.

Hania was aware that a blond young girl named Malka was one of the group. The friends always said to Isaac, “Your Malka!”

It hurt her a great deal; she had no idea what to do about it. Only one consolation remained – she knew that the pioneers treated girls differently. Maybe it was nothing. She saw him once in the street with this blond, hugging each other in everyone’s presence.

Slowly she walked on, holding the lace she had just bought. She bent her head on the lace and whispered, “Why does he come to our home, then?”

Her light checkered dress seemed to her old-fashioned, herself a member of an older generation, ugly, an old maid from Neve-Zedek!

For two days she waited for him and in the evening she was glad he did not come that day. Still, she hoped he would come the next day, as if nothing happened, and stare at her with his long, daring look… Who knows, perhaps everything would change. And she – the blond? Maybe it was truly nothing but their customs, nothing more.

He came on the third day. Zemira, a student at the Gymnasium, sat alone in the front room doing her homework.

By that answer, and by the way he hugged her as he bent over the exercise book, Hania understood this was not the first time for them. “Now I know for whom he is coming to our home!”

“Ah, Hania!” He was not embarrassed but his eyes were unusually bright. The little one, however, buried her blushing face in the exercise book in front of her.

She did not answer. He caught Zemira’s eye, grinned and bent over her again. “Let’s see if you found the solution.”

Hania’s black eyes shot angry looks. She said to him in a strange voice, “I have a few words to say to you, Isaac.”

He followed her, shrugging his broad shoulders. In the next room, she caught him by his coat’s button, looked straight into his eyes and said in a choking voice, “Our Zemira is still a child. Leave her alone!”

This was the end of her love. She said to herself, “These are the idealists who dedicated themselves to work for their nation. It’s all lies and illusions.”

For her, Eretz-Israel was a hot, boring country, where she was brought as a child; with all her heart she would have left it and go to one of the gay cities of Europe.

She did not understand the pioneers’ wonder and dedication. For example, she would never have agreed to do hard labor and live in a tent. Everything was mundane to her. What she could not understand at the beginning now seemed like a gross fraud. She disdained the pioneers and started distancing herself from them. Sadly, quietly, she returned to her brooding, dark Neve-Zedek, and except on rare occasions, avoided going to Tel-Aviv.

“Moshe,” she whispered to her husband, “Hania stopped talking to Isaac and Daglan. What is the meaning of this?

“It’s all nonsense, Wife,” said Tabachnik thoughtfully. “Nothing but nonsense.”

That day the sun shone warmly as if it were summer, but in the evening the sky darkened with heavy clouds, gray as the rocks of the Mountains of Judea.

Darkness and silence spread over the sands. The tent shook and the old tree on lot 48 creaked and rustled.

In the tent, a small lamp burned, placed on cement boxes. Shmaria sat hunched by the lamp, poring over a book. Avigdor prowled around the tent, checking the ropes and the stones that weighed the tent’ canvas. A stormy night threatened, the sea roared in the darkness, and the earth seemed to reel from the waves’ blows.

Avigdor felt sad that evening. His meeting with Usishkin awakened many gloomy thoughts. Above all – his loved ones, his family. His longing for them increased. He imagined hearing calls from the turbulent water. He trembled and listened.

Besides the homesickness, the meeting with Usishkin increased a suspicion that lurked in his heart from the first days in Eretz-Israel, regarding the weakness or indifferent nature of the Hebrew settlement in Eretz-Israel. Of course the fairy tale about a government headed by Max Nordau, with Jabotinsky as a minister of war, was already debunked in the pioneer camps in Romania and Turkey. Nevertheless his faith in other matters did not lessen. It was impossible not to believe, because without the supporting faith he would have faced total despair. He still believed that in London, Geneva, and Paris the Jewish leaders had influence on the world powers. However, Usishkin’s words made it clear that the leaders were only lobbyists, begging for mercy. This was one side. On the other hand, the nation of Israel was casual, fickle, easily forgetful, and the leaders stood before it too with their hands extended like beggars. Shame! How horrible!

He walked around the tent, checking the pegs, tightening the ropes, listening to the rumbling of the angry sea, the silence of the sands – and to the pain in his young soul. His sorrow silenced him. All his friends were in town, except Shmaria, also sad after his meeting with Professor Schatz. The professor had no time, he was in a hurry, and asked abruptly, “Do you have any of your work with you?”

“You Model?” The professor was pleased. “Have you modeled anything in Eretz-Israel, too?”

“In sand? How can you model in sand? Ha-ha-ha!” Schatz laughed, but it was a kindly laugh that would not insult. Shmaria laughed with him.

“Never mind!” Schatz patted his shoulder. His formerly sad eyes now gleamed with youthful enthusiasm. “Never mind – sand! In the Damascus’s jail, when I was a prisoner, I saw a man modeling in Bread. Very good! But there was only a little bread there, and the sculptor ate his creation.”

Schatz opened his eyes widely with terror, as if afraid of his own words and said, “You see? He ate his own creation, the same as during the famine in Russia, when mothers ate their children.” In the meantime someone called the professor and his eyes turned sad again. “And now we are hungry for money and they are going to eat and swallow the Bezalel School. But you – never mind. Come to us to Jerusalem, we will find something for you.”

The professor having departed, Shmaria remained standing before the closed door, tall, thin, and the smile not leaving his thin cheeks. His thread of hope stretched and extended from the Sorokino Talmud School to this closed door.

From behind the door, Schatz’s loud, clear diction reached his ears and Shmaria imagined he heard the word “sand.”

Shmaria returned to the tent, thinking as he walked, “Obviously, sand is sand. What can you do with sand?”

When he told Avigdor everything he felt relieved. He held the book but could not read, because an idea started pecking at his brain. Finally he told Avigdor, “I could model him.”

“The professor.” Shmaria’s eyes lit, and a smile appeared on his face. “Here over his eyebrows he has three wrinkles, and he has a beard – like so!”

Avigdor looked at him and thought, “Why would a man’s face bring him such ecstasy? Where does it come from?”

Shmaria noticed his friend’s look and pleaded, “I will achieve my goal, won’t I, Avigdor?”

He started planning again and relaxed. Dark green twilight spread under the tree, shadowed the tattered book and made reading difficult. Shmaria fixed the lamp, took a slice of bread and started munching and reading again. He was deep into his reading, and did not notice that suddenly a great calm spread around them. The whole world was hushed and even the tree seemed to listen to the silence and the stillness. The sea rested from its rage. Only one jackal started howling as if begging for mercy, terrified of the silence.

Avigdor stood at the tent’s entrance and looked up. There, in the menacing silence, high mountains piled up, dark abysses opened and shut. Unexpectedly an eye made of fire opened. Everything stood deathly quiet and suddenly the sound of thunder rolled.

The thin tent shook. The ancient tree waved its strong branches as if about to be uprooted. Shmaria jumped from his seat and hurried to the entrance. Avigdor stood there, pale as death. Both laughed.

“I was startled and the book fell out of my hands!” said Shmaria and started collecting the scattered pages. From behind the tent quick steps could be heard and a voice cried:

These were Menasheh and Daglan who managed to return in time. Outside the tent heaven and earth fused. The tent beat like a drum.

“Isaac, may the devil take him! He will find good accommodations with Malka,” said Menasheh, removing bread and other foodstuffs he brought from his rucksack. “But why is that fool Benny wandering about at night? The stupid meetings interest him! Now he will get soaking wet and fall ill.”

Menasheh functioned as the Sorokino group’s mother. He grumbled and took care of everyone just like a kindly mother. Daglan removed his torn shoes, into which the sand penetrated. His curly moustache faded in the sun. He announced, “Benny and Isaac went to a Labor meeting. It’s a huge meeting of the unemployed. A million people! Not only the unemployed came but also many people who had never worked in their lives.”

“I am sick and tired of meetings!” Said Menasheh. “Not a single day of work will result from these meetings. And here I have found a small job,” he turned happily to his friends, “if the rain will not interfere – transferring boards from one place to another. Two are needed. Will you come with me, Shmaria?”

Already shod, he paced with the measured steps of a soldier, as if wearing military shoes.

They moved their table to the middle of the tent – a cement barrel, with linked boards arranged on it. The kerosene stove stormed, muting the sound of the rain, the kettle boiled. They put bread, herring, and halva on the table. Halva is the salvation of the poor; it’s cheap and tasty, and if too sweet, there are, after all, herring, onions, and pickled olives in the world!

Outside – neither sky nor earth, only a boiling, thundering abyss. Dark chasms, stamping, splashing, and rumbling of thunder. Under the while canvas cover the four of them attained a corner of a dry sanctuary, a lamp’s yellow light, and the whisper of an irate kerosene stove.

And the ancient tree screeched, sighed, and groaned. The canvas flapped and fluttered.

“It won’t carry it away,” said Avigdor. “I tightened the ropes today, strengthened the pegs and the stones.”

“It’s dangerous to be under the tree; it is full of electricity,” said Daglan. He spoke of danger and grinned in his customary way. A strange man, he talked haltingly, removing the herring’s bones from between his teeth.

“On the Carpathian Mountains, a tent stood under a tree, just like this tent. Suddenly lightning struck – six soldiers burned. They turned black as coal.”

The friends listened with opened mouths and at that moment the tree sighed heavily.

“Perhaps there really is a danger here?” Menasheh was alarmed, but comforted himself.” Ah, nonsense! Doesn’t it happen that lightning kills inside houses? Remember the great fire in Sorokino at Pan Yavorski that was caused by lightning? A cow burned then.”

Sorokino is the center of the earth; anything that happened or will happen in the world had already happened in Sorokino.

“It’s true that during a storm, the danger is greater under a tree,” said Avigdor. “It’s written in every physics book.”

Menasheh was not a book lover. He knew his own business. “The important thing is that our tent is doubled. Without that, the rain would have seeped in. Can you hear the torrential rain? A flood! And the overflow will not reach us from the bottom, since our tent stands on a hill.” He was satisfied. His dark, round face perspired from eating and the hot tea. He held his glass with two hands, warming his fingers and gazing affectionately at the tent.

“Look, not a drop of rain. Nothing like our tent! And the tree only protects it.”

“Perhaps the rain will stop by morning and we can go to work,” said Daglan, lighting a cigarette. He was the only smoker I the tent.

Shmaria responded to Menasheh’s contagious good mood and started laughing, telling how Schatz laughed about his sand modeling.

“With what? With sand?” His eyes wide open, as if startled, he spread his fingers. Everyone laughed, and he combed an imaginary beard with his fingers, like Schatz, patting the shoulder of an imaginary Shmaria.

The rain subsided a little, but from outside the tent a rustling sound could be heard. They seemed to float on a rough sea. The hour was very late, and they prepared to go to bed.

They slept on a wooden platform, linked boards placed upon cement barrels. They spread Isaac’s historic blanket under them, and three of them lay on this bed and covered themselves with a communal blanket. Menasheh did not lie down – he was praying. Menasheh whispered his prayers every night in a special corner of the tent, his face toward Jerusalem, and his heart toward the country and village where his parents and relatives resided. He prayed for the safety of those family members whose whereabouts were unknown to him after the village was destroyed, and his eyes filled with tears. When he prayed his friends kept silent, also thinking about their own parents’ homes. Even Isaac did not laugh. The friends did not notice, but he was also silently praying during these moments.

Suddenly Benny and Isaac burst into the tent, wet from head to toe, shivering and breathing heavily from the cold.

They changed clothes. The group had no warm clothes, only cotton garments. Menasheh hurried to boil water for tea.

“They will fall ill – the donkeys! Drink immediately and get under the blanket, to warm up.”

All six lay crowded and squeezed together. However, the blanket was too short for all of them and inadequate to cover those lying on the edges – Avigdor and Daglan.

“Yes, it did. Thousands of unemployed will demonstrate tomorrow in the streets of Tel-Aviv. The villains will see how many hungry people live here!”

Isaac did not want to talk anymore. He was tired and fell asleep. The others also fell asleep without delay. Only Benny and Avigdor, lying near each other, went on talking in whispers.

“Have you spoken with Usishkin?” Whispered Benny, and even in the dark his small eyes glittered. Avigdor did not like his friend’s excitement; it did not match his own thoughts after the interview with the celebrated leader. So he answered briefly and simply, “Yes, I spoke with him. Let me tell you, no one in the world is as unhappy as Usishkin seems to be.”

“Yes, Usishkin, Weizman, and the rest of the leaders of the nation, or rather, what is called “The Hebrew Nation.”

“All that because of the crisis?” Interrupted Benny. “True, thousands are hungry…”

“No, no!”Avigdor stopped him, thinking and searching for words to describe his thoughts. “The crisis – what of it? The crisis can pass any minute… the important matter is that Usishkin has no nation! Usishkin and Weizman are forced to be like Demosthenes to arouse the ‘Children of the Dead’ with their enthusiastic speeches. What do you think is the reason for the crisis? These speeches no longer work on the nation. Usishkin and Weizman should become singers with beautiful voices, perhaps with song and music they will awaken these rotting hearts.”

Benny was also agitated. Avigdor added, “From the first days we came to Eretz Israel two things were made clear to me: first, the Jews really are ‘Children of the Dead,’ as nicknamed by the Arabs. When you told me about this nickname, I felt as if a sword stabbed my heart. Second, it became clear that our leaders have no decent, decisive standing with the great European leaders. They are beggars to Lloyd George, Poincaré, and Wilson. And it’s our fault, Benny, for one reason – our leaders have no nation! The nation is asleep!”

“What are you whispering about? Go to sleep!” Grumbled Menasheh. “It’s so cold and they…”

Silence and darkness in the tent. Cold streams of water pounding it. The rough canvas did not let the water through, but it was soaked with rain and the wind whipped it, spluttering drops of water over the sleepers. Daglan pulled the blanket powerfully toward himself – his exposed side was freezing. The blanket moved over five bodies and eventually Avigdor lay uncovered. He shivered with the cold, curled up like a baby, his white forehead furled as if in a nightmare.

The wind grew stronger. The pole supporting the tent started moving and the moist canvas became inflated.

While sleeping, the pioneers heard a weird sound. They were whipped by the storm and the rain.

They drew together under the tree. Two held the blanket, blowing in their hands like a black sail. Neither sky, nor land – only a raging black abyss. Down the hill, the tent was visible, white. Over their head, the ancient tree groaned, as if about to be uprooted, and under it the six young men stood in their white shirts. The wind pulled at their shirts and tore their screams to shreds.

Finally they ran downhill and pushed under the rough canvas that covered the cement barrels, shivering; they lay down among the barrels on the dry, dusty ground.

The canvas cover vibrated under the rain like a drum. Everyone was silent. Only Menasheh seemed to mumble something from under the cold and the noise of the storm.

“Moshe!” Old Mrs. Tabachnik woke her husband up. “Do you hear what is going on outside?”

“Yes, what is going on, what will be going on… so what? It’s raining. It rains in winter. Oi, oi, oi!” The old man groaned. “My leg, my leg! It feels the rain. Tell me, why are you waking me up?”

“Moshe, it’s horrific outside. Wake up a little. Oh, who knows what is going on at the Sorokino pioneers’ tent!”

“The pioneers? There under the tree? A better place They could not choose for Rabbi Shimeon Gunn – curse them, the villains!”

A shutter was torn from one of the houses and flew noisily in the wind. The whole house shook from the blowing wind.

“Moshe, will you listen, how the sea is raging? The world is disintegrating!”

“Mama, I am scared.” The girl lay near her mother and shivered with terror. “Mama, how horrible it is at sea!”

“The poor pioneers!” Her shoulders trembled now, but not with fear. The mother stroked her head.

“Ah, ah, ah!” Moshe Tabachnik groaned. “Don’t be afraid. They surely do not sleep in the tent tonight.”

Chapter Seven

After four days the sky cleared. Shmaria was sick, in Hadassah Hospital. Avigdor was ill too, but he stayed in the tent. The remaining four prepared to search for work in Petach-Tikva. They woke up at dawn, a pale moon still lingering in the sky. They wanted to arrive as early as possible to Petach-Tikva’s market, at the time when the orchard owners came out to hire laborers. Hurriedly they drank their tea without sugar, since the sugar was gone and they had no money to buy more. Over Jaffa, beyond the Arabs’ orchards, they suddenly heard the bells of the Pravoslavic Church, which the Arabs called “The Muscovite.” The sound of the bells rang clearly in the cold air. All five listened and forgot their tea. Then they signed softly. The heart’s deep, hidden strings trembled – memories of childhood and eternal insults.

“What holiday do they have today?” Asked Avigdor. When he was studying at the Russian Gymnasium he knew all the Pravoslavic holidays, but now he did not remember them; his head ached.

“The Devil knows them!” Said Isaac. “Perhaps today is a holiday for a king already forgotten in Russia.”

“We are going to work accompanied by ringing bells!” Benny laughed. His snub nose sharpened in the last few days, but his lively eyes remained cheerful.

They took the bread bundles and their walking sticks and went on their way. Avigdor was left alone in the newly erected tent. He rested for a long time, listening to the bells, and finally fell into a deep sleep. He dreamt about the Sorokino girl, whose curl was still secreted with him. This was an old childhood love. When he was a small boy they played together with gravel and everyone could see that the children loved each other. He gave her the best gravel and when she hurt herself he would kiss her little hands.

“Bride and Groom!” Everyone laughed around them, but at that time he was not ashamed of his love. Shame came later when they grew up a little and their love was revealed only by modest looks as they met behind a fence, by a shy blush. Then he traveled to another town to study in the Gymnasium, and childish dreams faded away. When they were seventeen they met one spring evening in the woods; many boys and girls were there. When they were alone they did not speak, but love glowed in their eyes. He looked at the hands he had kissed as a small child and felt a desire to kiss them again. For two years no news reached him about the girl; her image faded in his memory. It was hard to visualize her face and that made him feel guilty. He stayed loyal to her and rigidly avoided all love affairs, though his friends mocked him for it. And yet he remained strict about it. Sometimes other girls, particularly Malka, excited his heart, but he considered it a betrayal, and after such moments his heart smote him for a long time.

Ah, how many memories were awakened by the sound of this remote Russian Church’s bells!

He fell asleep to the sound of the bells – and there she stands fanning him with a branch. He feels the slight breeze caressing his closed eyes and his hair moves on his forehead; he clearly sees the branch and the hand… but who is she?

She laughs quietly, her voice like a silver bell, bringing him tremendous joy. He cannot stand it anymore, and opens his eyes, also starting to laugh.

The sunlight blinds him. She is by his side, but “she” is Malka. Immediately it was clear to him that it was Malka in the dream as well.

“What is the matter, Avigdor? Are you ill? You laughed a horrible laugh in your sleep!” She laid her large, soft hand on his forehead. Her touch pleased him very much and he closed his eyes for a moment; she did not remove her hand and bent over him. When her lips touched his he shuddered and kissed her. He opened his eyes, panicking, and saw her large pupils, filling her entire eyes.

The market in Petach-Tikva resembled a slave market during those hours. Hundreds of Arabs stood huddled together, but only forty or fifty pioneers. The four members of the Sorokino group stood alone. The orchard owners, with their experienced eyes, picked the strongest Arabs and sent them to work. They did not choose a single Jew. A few pioneers entered into arguments with the owners. “Don’t we have the right to live?” The pioneers asked. “Why don’t you hire us?”

The crowd dispersed. The orchard owners did not like these arguments, and hurried away with their Arab hires. Only one fellow, tall and healthy, remained there. He wore yellow leggings and held a whip, much like the plantations’ owners described in Uncle Tom’s Cabin. He joked with the pioneers. When he laughed, his tongue protruded out of his mouth, and his shaved nape swelled.

“You can work?” For some reason he decided to harass Benny. “What can you do? For what type of work should I take you? An Arab – an Arab works for me twelve hours for twelve grushim. And you?” He held on to Benny’s shoulder. “You want to work eight hours. Is this not so?

“Yes!” Said Isaac, shaking his forelock, and approached the man. But the fellow saw only Benny.

“Right!” Replied Isaac, and also put his hand on Benny. “Yes, he requires twenty.”

“Now, calculate. An Arab works one and a half times longer and for half the price. Therefore, an Arab costs me a third. Three Arabs against one! And what are you worth against one Arab?” The man shook Benny roughly until his head bobbed.

“Ha-ha-ha!” Daglan laughed loudly. The man in the yellow leggings heard Daglan’s laughter and searched for him with his eyes.

“You are right,” agreed Daglan. “And what about eating?” He asked in broken Yiddish. “Who will give us food?”

“Eating – that is a different matter! Those who brought you here should feed you. That’s none of my business.”

“And what about Zion?” Benny finally found the right word and leapt toward his adversary, bright-eyed and demanding an answer to his question. “And Zion?”

“Zion? You are, I believe, asking about Zion? That I don’t know. I am a simple man, I do my work. I am familiar with oranges and lemons, I know how to water and hoe. Those who brought you here, my brother, should tell you about Zion. They are well paid for that.”

Envisioning himself quick, shrewd and invincible adversary to the destitute lads, he left the crowd. A horse with a yellow saddle waited for him by the fence. As he jumped on the horse he heard an insult uttered by one of the pioneers.

“You are talking about me,” said the orchard owner. “Nice laborer! And you want me to hire you? Let me tell you, I am sorry for the Pharaoh of Egypt, having to deal with laborers like you!”

After uttering this saying which seemed to be customary with him, he tapped his horse and departed.

They walked the streets of Petah-Tikva. Their eyes burned with anger, perceiving every inhabitant of the settlement as an enemy. Only home-loving Menasheh quickly relaxed.

“Look!” He called his friends. “Each house has a plow and a wagon full of hay, like the Russian peasants!”

“Ai, ai, ai! Go and weep with joy! In each house two Arabs are working, and you, fool, are starving! Here, get the bread, I am as hungry as a dog!”

They sat down behind a fence to eat breakfast. They had bread and one onion, with which they smeared the crust.

“When I am hungry I black out,” said Benny, “and I have attacks of nausea and headaches.”

Saturday. As usual every Sabbath evening, they washed well under the faucet and wore clean shirts.

“Saturday of hunger,” grumbled Isaac as he combed his long hair. “If only there were turtles here for the hungry!”

“Come, let’s go to Herzl Street, perhaps we can borrow a few grushim from someone and then we might eat dinner,” said Menasheh.

Benny turned blue from the cold water. He danced in place and waved his hands the way the Russian peasants did during the cold winters. Avigdor, who also felt very cold, liked it and they both danced, laughing, against each other.

“Do you know what I would eat now?” Asked Isaac. “Ham. Like this, very thin slices with mustard… ah!”

He pronounced it in such a way that their mouths watered, except Menasheh, who did not eat pork.

“Ham is nothing to me,” said Menasheh. “Phui, stinking pig, rolling in garbage. Give me pot roast and fresh bread! Is there any delicacy in the world like mother’s pot roast on Sabbath evening!”

“Go to hell!” Isaac stomped his feet against him. “I am starving and he reminds me of that to annoy me! Hurry up, let’s get out of this damned place and go to Herzl Street. I will strangle someone there.”

Darkness and silence settled under the tree. The edges of the horizon reddened over the sea. A tiny cloud, pierced by a golden arrow, floated over the dark sky. Sabbath’s sunset. The five marched on the sand. The sixth was in the hospital. He lay in the darkness with his hot head sticking out of the bed, his finger outlining something on the floor, drawing someone’s face.

Pioneers thronged to Herzl Street from all directions. The white tents were silent, and their owners came to the main street of the new city. It was a tiny street in those days, from the Gymnasium to the railroad at the gates of Tel-Aviv. Beyond the gates the fields were black, the lonely palm trees waved, and then the threatening Arab orchards began to appear. But the lights shone in Tel-Aviv! All the windows glittered, the lanterns burned. The street gleamed, white as snow, from the white shirts of the pioneers. They streamed like a flowing river, sang songs with one heart, laughed like one – from the Gymnasium to the gate.

But now came sad Sabbaths, hungry Sabbaths. There were no bursts of laughter, the enthusiastic songs were silenced. The pioneers stood in groups, arguing, debating bitterly, angrily. Sabbath candles glowed on the window sills; the homeowners and their families sat around the tables, eating heavy Sabbath meals. The pioneers roamed the cold streets in their white shirts, with open collars despite the chilly winter wind. With hunger and desperation they sand crude Russian ditties to annoy the whole world, to irritate the well-fed and the complacent.

A circle formed by the Gymnasium, and inside it three young men danced to the pointless ditty:

Two danced silently, looking angrily under their feet, as if they were stomping on something. One looked up. Up there hurried a caravan of clouds, late visitors on they way to Jerusalem. He stomped his feet, hands on his hips, humming in rhythm with “Tula:”

Everyone looked at that direction. At Hania’s side walked a tall, handsome Sephardic young man, dressed in an elegant black suit with a silk handkerchief peaking out of the pocket of his jacket.

“Ho, ho! At last she hooked someone, even if a Sephardic!” Isaac grinned. “Good luck to her!”

“She ignores us as if she doesn’t see us,” said Daglan. “Friends, let’s remove our hats! One, two, three!” The commander forgot they were all bare-headed.

Only Menasheh removed his hat from his shorn-to-the-skin head. He greatly cherished the old man Tabachnik and his household – they came from Sorokino! Hania strongly appealed to him. He looked after her with emotion and said, “There, a healthy girl!”

“Choice!” Agreed Daglan, also looking after her. Isaac blurted disdainfully, “Backside like a Sephardic’s! Zemira is a hundred times prettier!”

“Oh, Shalom, Benny! Shalom, Avigdor!” And with a voice slightly softer and lowered lashes, “Shalom, Isaac! Shabbat Shalom!”

“Very well, Isaac. Father is asking about all of you. Why aren’t you coming over?”

“We will come, we will come, Zemira’le. And you come along and walk with us.”

“No, Isaac, I am with friends, thanks! You must come to us,” she cried as she walked away, and Avigdor asked in a whisper, “No letters, Zemira?”

They turned and walked away and Isaac looked after her, unable to take his eyes off her. “That’s a charming girl! A sweet child!”

“Isaac, you devil! What is going on between you and her? Don’t you have your Malka?”

“Malka?” Isaac repeated the question, and to Avigdor it seemed that at that moment Isaac glanced at him with a strange look. “What has Malka to do with it?”

“I understand one thing, that if a man goes out for a whole year with a gorgeous girl like Malka, he should not chase other girls. You, Isaac, resemble the Sorokino priest’s stud horse. Everyone knows that!”

The analogy pleased the young men and they all laughed, remembering the Sorokino priest’s wild horse, and Isaac laughed with them.

“Hey, shorn sheep,” said Isaac, holding Menasheh by the nape of his neck and pulling him toward himself. “Do you remember when the horse burst out of the priest’s yard and ran to the village?”

“Ho – ho,” Benny interjected, “everyone was scared and hid in the houses.”

“And it was well they did so,” said Menasheh sharply. “He jumped on Shmaria’s father and almost trampled him.” He looked obliquely at Isaac and winked slyly. “This horse was ready to attack anyone.”

The crowd around them rumbled, screamed, sang and complained. The five were swept by the streaming throng to the gates of Tel-Aviv. Near the gate Malka appeared.

As always she strutted proudly like a conqueror, her beautiful head held high. She walked briskly as if the tight crowd around her did not exist.

The Sorokino group surrounded her. Daglan put his arm around her waist. “Come, walk with me, Malka’le.”

“No, I don’t want to go out of the gate. It’s dark there, scary. Dogs are barking!”

“There are very beautiful houses there and handsome Arabs,” said Isaac, and she, as if she waited for him to speak, said “And beautiful Arab women, too, Isaac, Arab women too. No, I don’t like going there. Let’s go to the Gymnasium.”

By the gate she moved away from Daglan’s arm. Isaac stood in front of her. They spoke with glances the others did not understand. Suddenly she pushed Isaac away.

Avigdor stood near the gate. Malka approached him slowly and took his arm. “Will you walk with me, Avigdor?”

An Arab rider suddenly appeared from the darkness. The crowd’s noise and the lights startled both horse and rider. The horse, a little frightened, started prancing and the Arab looked at the strollers’ faces when suddenly, seeing Malka, he stood upright in the stirrups and stared at her with burning eyes.

Noise and screams were heard by the Gymnasium. The throng coalesced into a fortified wall. Behind the human wall they were demanding water and a doctor. Finally they extricated a man who had fainted and carried him to Hadassah Hospital.

“He danced, danced, and suddenly fell down,” said those who stood around him.

“From hunger!” A woman’s scream was heard. The crowd was suddenly quiet, thoughtful.

The crowd moved and hummed. Suddenly Red from the Seventh group appeared on the scene, looking as if flames consumed him. Hair, eyebrows, lashes, freckles – all were bright red. He did not speak but screamed, flinging harsh words.

“They came to build the country! For whom? For the Nation of Israel? Ha-ha-ha!”

“And you, why did you come here?” shouted Benny. Red, happy to hear a voice calling him, turned.

“Perhaps you should ask me why was I born into this despicable world? I was born!”

“No, it should not be so!” Screamed Red. “Seventeen million Jews! Wealthy! Millionaires! And here – ten thousand pioneers building for them… ha-ha-ha!” A red fist was raised. “Fat mob! You should be building a guillotine, not a country!”

“Shut up? No, I will not shut up! I am hungry!” He waived his fist. “We are all hungry! They cheated us! You shut up, Donkey of Zion!”

A not-so-young man stood before Avigdor and looked into his eyes. Who was that? Who was that? He strained to remember, and the man smiled.

“You don’t recognize me? Rothschild Boulevard in the summer, remember? I believe it was your first day here.”

“Ah!” Avigdor remembered and extended his hand; immediately he felt the squeeze of a youthful, warm hand.

“Here, in Tel-Aviv,” answered Avigdor. “So you remembered me? I also kept thinking about you.”

The whole Sorokino group surrounded them. Malka looked darkly at the not-so-young but handsome man, wearing a Russian shirt. The Sorokino group looked at the stranger with animosity. Benny said, “Why don’t you answer Red, Avigdor?”

“No, he must be answered!” Said Benny as he approached Avigdor, his small eyes burning with rage. In the meantime, Red disappeared in the crowd. Every so often his red fists protruded above the crowd, and his hoarse voice was heard over the noise.

Benny almost cried and Isaac whispered in her ear, asking, “Are you very hungry, Malka?”

“Go away, you bother me!” She pushed him to Avigdor who was conversing with the stranger in whispers.

“Here, there he is!” Red suddenly burst out of the throng and jumped toward Avigdor.

Malka stared at him. She loved looking at him when his nostrils were trembling and his white forehead furled

“So, so!” Benny cried happily and patted the stranger’s shoulder, and noticing his mistake was embarrassed and removed his hand.

“Ha-ha-ha!” Red guffawed. “You are not begging? You are proud?” Suddenly he raised his voice. “You should beg! Try, don’t be proud! I dare you – beg: give a slice of bread to a starving pioneer! No one is going to give it to you! They will not give!” He shouted upward. “They will not give; die, Donkey of Zion! He paved a cement road. For whom? For the rich of New York! Now chew cement, chew! Sit here and guard the cement, Fool of Zion! Who needs your cement? Our Jews choose to stay in New York, Paris, Berlin! And you sit down, rest on dead cement! The dead road!”

“Listen, Red,” started Avigdor, but Red went on shouting. “Leave, leave the dead road! To hell with Zion and hunger! Run away! You lost your way, you were cheated! Workers of the world should follow life!”

“Red!” Avigdor shouted so loudly that his friend Benny was startled. “You lost your way – get out of here!”

“No! I did not lose my way!” Avigdor cried intensely and it seemed his stature suddenly increased. “Do you hear, Red? I have already heard several of your speeches and I know where you lead the listeners. A year ago you ran away from foreign ways to help pave our own new ways. At that time you were ready for anything, and you probably waved your fists and called all your listeners to come here.”

Red was about to attack him, but handsome Ilia, who had smashed stones with the Sorokino group, rebuked him. “Shut up, Red! Listen!”

Avigdor added, “Then, you called us here, but when you encountered a new way, a hard life…”

“Yes, hunger, cold, and disease,” agreed Avigdor, and the same voices continued calling.

“Yes, yes, yes,” agreed Avigdor. “When you encountered all that, you retreated and started clamoring for foreign ways. Go, go to the foreign ways! We will not follow you!” He shouted loudly and waved his own fist, without noticing it. “We will not go!”

He then lowered his voice a little, seemingly exhausted, and spoke quietly, as if only handsome Ilia stood in front of him.

“We knew,” answered Ilia, also with a soft voice. Suddenly he raised his head, his face blanched, and cried loudly, “We knew!”

Daglan also answered in a whisper as if straining the words though his moustache. “We knew!” He straightened like one standing in the front.

“We will build,” added Avigdor in a low voice. “Despite hunger, we will build. And many others like us, needing Zion, will continue to come. Yes, yes, Red, those longing for Zion. And you who have strayed and are looking for foreign ways – go away! Your ways are not ours!”

Around him some people clapped their hands in applause. However, some whistling and hooting were also heard. Red left, surrounded by his comrades. Isaac smiled, approached Avigdor and patted his shoulder. “You, an orator? Where did you learn that? I am sure that soon they will send you to America to collect money for Eretz-Israel!”

Avigdor caught up with his friends on the sand. They argued enthusiastically and their voices were heard from a distance.

“What’s to talk about?” Isaac shrugged. “You are kissing? Good, go ahead and kiss. Today it’s you, tomorrow that Arab on the black horse.”

“What? You are offended? A duel! Don’t be Don Quixote, Avigdor.” Isaac turned and walked away.

From a distance Avigdor heard his friends’ voices, but no longer saw their shadows. He looked after Isaac and felt as if his friend spit in his face.

“Indeed, what did I want to speak to him about?” Avigdor felt angry with himself. A red halo surrounded the moon and the night sea knocked on the stones at its edge.

Chapter Eight

During the days of unemployment Isaac liked going to Jaffa, to the Arabs. Sometimes he took Daglan with him, who, when coming back, would guffaw while telling about Isaac’s doings. Isaac could not find work. The most successful at finding profitable work was Menasheh, followed by Avigdor.

Avigdor found work through his new acquaintance, the man he met in the boulevards on his first day in Eretz-Israel. Sharpman was his name. He was a soldier in the Jewish Legion that came to Eretz-Israel during the war, and then settled there. He was seen everywhere but did not visit any home, was close to no one, and many tales were told about him. Nobody knew how he supported himself. He was not well-to-do, lived frugally, and walked the land as a strange onlooker.

Avigdor and another young man were digging a sewer. His wages were timely; Shmaria returned from the hospital and they had to supply him with nutritious food. His back bent further, his cheeks drooped lower, and his eyes sank deeper in their sockets, but he was calmer and happier than before his illness.

“It’s not tuberculosis,” he told them, “but it can develop into it. That’s what the doctors said, but of course, it’s all nonsense.”

“Once work starts, I’ll get ten pounds and then, yalla (go) there! Yalla to work!”

“There” meant Jerusalem and Bezalel, and “work” meant modeling and drawing.

The sky was clear and pleasant, the sand shone golden in the sun, and the ancient tree rustled quietly.

One morning a broad-shouldered man came over the sand. He had a divided beard and kind, cheerful eyes.

“Ah! You are the man!” the professor was glad. “I almost gave up looking for you. Well, show me your work in the sand!”

“Professor, sir!” Shmaria cried, holding his head in his hands. “You were looking for me?”

“Yes, yes, I was looking. When you came, I had no time. Later, I wanted to visit you, but I forgot your name. Soroka (magpie), I believe?”

“Ha-ha-ha!” Schatz laughed and Daglan, Isaac, and Shmaria himself laughed with him.

“Yes, yes,” Schatz agreed with Isaac. He stopped laughing and did not hear what was being said. “Please, look over there,” he said to Isaac and turned his head to the side. “That’s good – don’t ever cut your hair!”

“I have nothing to show you,” said Shmaria, embarrassed. “I have just returned from the hospital.”

Schatz looked at Shmaria’s face and became sad. “You must get well. Don’t work now. Here is what I brought you,” he said and handed him a small package. “Learn to model in this clay. Then you show me, when we meet again. So long, Shalom. Get well!”

He left and again did not ask for Shmaria’s name. Shmaria wanted to run after him and tell him his name, but his weakness prevented him.

“Never mind,” Isaac comforted him. “Next time he will ask for vorona. He’ll find you, don’t worry.”

This was Neve-Shalom, the Jewish neighborhood in Jaffa. Avigdor looked behind him. It was twilight. By the gate of a ramshackle Arab house stood tall Avram, nicknamed “Solovei” (Nightingale) by the Eighth Group, on account of his pleasant voice and cheerful songs.

“Yes, here,” said Solovei, who no longer looked cheerful. “Do come in, my wife will be glad to see you.” As they started down into the malodorous cellar, Solovei joked, “Those who work the land of Eretz-Israel must sit not on top of it, but inside the earth.”

The cellar was dark. From the corner a woman’s voice was heard. “Who is with you, Avram?”

“Ah, Avigdor,” the woman was glad to see him. “Shalom, Avigdor. How good of you to come and see us.”

“Matches… but matches don’t last long, Avigdor,” answered Avram. “Let’s sit in the dark for a little while. Perhaps it’s better this way.”

“We no longer need anything,” said Hannah in a strange voice, and Avigdor noticed in the darkness that Avram suddenly caught something in his hands.

“We will rest soon,” said Hannah in a smaller voice. “Sit down, Avigdor, here, next to me.” A basket creaked under her.

“Here, so. Avram won’t be jealous. You won’t be jealous, Avram?” Without waiting for an answer she added, “I am really glad you came. You were such a good fellow in our group.”

“An Arab wagon driver lives there, and his horse constantly bangs and bangs behind the wall.”

“Constantly bangs and bangs,” Hannah repeated in her strange voice, like an echo.

“Why have you stopped looking?” asked Avigdor, raising his voice. “Just the day before yesterday I passed a courtyard that had boards…”

“Avigdor,” Hannah interrupted, “do you remember how in Romania we sat in the evening, singing songs?”

“How happy we were then! How we all laughed! Do you remember Sholem Aleichem’s story, where Yankl tells Shukl, ‘listen, man, here is a ruble and shut up, you pig.’”

“Ah, to hell with work!” answered Avram. “That evening, by the Gymnasium, you talked to Red. I will ask you too, since Hannah and I always loved you and respected your views, even though you are younger than us.”

“Avram,” Avigdor interrupted him, but he waived impatiently. “No, do answer me. This is how it was, but now, here is a cellar. The cellar is dark, and a horse is banging. Hannah is coughing blood from her lungs. And the only word we hear is visa, visa. As you recall, the only word on our tongues was Palestine. Now, visa to America, visa to Africa. Weizmann himself has hurried off to America and he is whining and begging ‘give charity, the pioneers are starving to death.’” He pronounced the word “dying” in a whisper, through clenched teeth.

“No, Avigdor. This is not a momentary issue. I am older than you and I know better. Faith is like a growing baby, but it can also die like a baby. And here, faith is dead! They travel to America, Africa. But they will find no rest there, because they buried their first born, their love, their faith. I had a visa too,” he tapped his pocket. “They sent it to me from America.”

“Do you know, they also sent us tickets for the ship?” Hannah added, and suddenly became quiet. Avram was also silent.

“We returned them today,” said Avram. “I waited for a long time, to see what she would say. I did not want to influence her.”

“Hannah’le said, ‘Avram, send them back’ and I sent them back because we cannot move from here, Avigdor.”

“We can’t leave the country,” Hannah whispered, laughing or crying. She raised her voice. “Here is the basket, packed and ready, and the ship is in the harbor. Tonight it sails.” At that moment the ship’s siren was heard from the sea.

“We have returned them,” said Avram. “We could not go,” they both repeated.

“Avram,” Avigdor got up from his seat and grasped his hand in the dark. “Your faith is alive! You will still sing, Nightingale!”

Avram took his hand away. “No! Here!” and he pointed to the direction from which the muffled banging of the horse’s hooves could be heard. “Here!” the banging accelerated. They were like black sparks that thickened the darkness in the cellar.

Avigdor strode briskly through Jaffa’s filthy alleys on his way to Tel-Aviv. He worried about Avram and Hannah and did not notice the strange movements around him. The Arabs wandered here and there, ran from one coffee house to another, waved their hands and made noise. Despite the early hour, they lit candles and not a single Jew was to be seen in the streets of Neve-Shalom.

“What are they doing in the cellar?” Avigdor mused. “Listening to the horse banging away!” a strange fear rose in him as he thought about the banging. “This is terrible,” he thought and stopped walking. “How could I leave them alone?” but he was extremely tired and hurried on to his tent. “Tomorrow we will visit them,” he decided. He left the three grushim on the basket. He walked on, thinking. “They distanced themselves from all of us and in that way they hurt themselves. Loneliness is sickness. Perhaps the despair that attacked many friends came from loneliness, from the notion that they were forgotten. This is where Red’s despair and bitterness come from as well.”

His thoughts led him elsewhere, but he suddenly remembered the banging horse in the cellar and began thinking again about Avram. “How did we not notice that Avram Solovei was not seen anywhere? Yes, we were all occupied with our own affairs. The Eighth Group scattered, dispersed.”

Two young Arabs jumped from an alley and blocked his way. He stood still. He was unable to talk to them. One pushed his friend’s shoulder. “Imshi!”

The second looked behind him and saw a horse’s head in the corner. They both ran away. A police officer approached. He looked after the escapees and shook his head.

“Imshi!” the officer suddenly scolded Avigdor and brandished his whip at him. Avigdor ran through the narrow, dark alleys, sensing evil. He came to the Jewish neighborhood of Neve-Zedek, and saw many Jews congregating in the street.

“One they murdered on the beach and the other on the railroad near Tel-Aviv.”

“That’s just it, separate locations. The murders were committed by orders. It is starting again.”

The man was excited and pale but not depressed. On the contrary, he seemed glad that the matter was “starting” again.

“You see,” he added, “this is the third time this winter, and the government is idle and does nothing to prevent the problem.”

“Government?” Avigdor heard a familiar voice. “And who told you that the government has to do anything?”

“Ah, here you are, the son of Reb Shimeon Gunn?” suddenly he remembered the name. “Avigdor! You just came from Neve-Shalom? Oi! They did not touch you?”

“Come to my house. You are a strange man, honestly!” the old man pulled him away.

“Thanks, Mr. Tabachnik, but I must hurry home to the tent. Shmaria is lying there, sick.”

“Oh God! They will murder all of you there. Run quickly! Tomorrow we will take all of you. Somehow we will find space for you.”

Herzl Street was crowded, as in the former, happy Friday nights, when the Jews of Eretz-Israel did not consider the horrible word “visa” and boats did not come, like the dragon in the old legends, to pick the nation’s best and the strongest and lead them to a new, distant Diaspora. The Sorokino group stood near Rothschild Boulevards, except for Shmaria, too sick to leave the tent. Benny was excited and very pale. He had just returned from the port, where he worked for half a day.

“What will happen? What will happen?” he asked everyone. Menasheh looked at the distance with his round eyes and said, “What will happen? Oh ho! Greater horrors will happen, Benny! Do you remember, in Sorokino too the trouble started like that, little by little.”

Avigdor was surprised by Menasheh’s expression of strange excitement, like the Jew in Neve-Zedek.

“What are you happy about?” said Yitzhak Babayev bitterly. “Today they killed this man. Tomorrow it will be you. You won’t be happy then.”

Daglan’s expression was very odd. He stared ahead but his eyes saw nothing in front of them. His face froze in concentrated thought, again taking the persona of the commander, as during the “military rule” on the ship. Yitzhak Babayev remained close to him all the time, whispering something in his ear, though formerly they never had anything in common. Daglan listened, looking at the roof of the nearest house. Sometimes he nodded in agreement.

“Ah, boy!” Babayev greeted Avigdor. “He did not kill you yet? Just wait – he will kill! He will kill everyone! I know the Arab. He is like the Cherkassy. We do not require the police for him. For the Arab we require – you for me, I for you, so he will be afraid. But none of you understand anything.”

When Daglan saw Avigdor, he approached him, rubbing his hands as if it were a cold day.

“They shoot with exploding bullets. Do you understand? Half the head exploded.”

“I saw,” answered Daglan with an odd smile. “The entire ear and eye – they just flew away.”

“Sick!” added Menasheh and marched away first, followed by his friends and Yitzhak Babayev.

“The Arabs won’t go there,” said Isaac. But Daglan commented, “It’s more dangerous there.”

“Great danger,” Babayev agreed and whispered to Daglan, “so I’ll come immediately.”

The darkness and silence of the sands deepened. The sea waves banged on the sand like the horse’s hooves in Avram Solovei’s cellar.

“I saw Avram,” Avigdor started, but Daglan interrupted. “Our hands are empty. Prepare some stones and do not walk together. Form a row! Like so. Don’t utter a sound.”

“Here are some matches,” he said, waking up. “The lamp is on the table.”

“But we will light the primus,” said Menasheh. “We are not giving up tea because of these pigs!”

They ate in the darkness. Daglan said nothing, and did not eat. He could not sit still, but went in and out, whistling a soldier’s ditty.

Suddenly a whistle was heard. Daglan whistled back carefully. After a few minutes Yitzhak Babayev crawled in, wrapped in a shabby black garment.

“He is dead,” said Babayev. “The one shot in the heart. I went to the hospital.”

“The one who was shot in the head? He fell dead on the spot. Half his head exploded.”

“I saw it,” said Daglan, his eyes strangely brilliant. He got up and entered the tent.

“His children are crying… a tragedy!” said Babayev, holding his head in his hands.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said as he walked to the entrance, but suddenly returned and silently shook his friends’ hands before leaving. Yitzhak Babayev followed him like a shadow.

Daglan returned late at night. Everyone slept while Avigdor stood guard. Daglan passed him silently toward the tent, took a sack to put under his head, and for some reason went to lie down under the awning over the cement barrels. Avigdor asked him, “How are you?”

Half an hour later Daglan emerged from under the awning, came to Avigdor and told him, “Go to sleep. I will stand guard.”

“Why aren’t you sleeping?”
“I can’t.” He was holding his shoes, and now sat down to put them on.

“We were where we were,” said Daglan, lowering his head. “It is cheerful there.”

“There, in that place.”
“What did you do?” asked Avigdor fearfully, coming closer to Daglan.

Daglan was silent for a minute. Then he raised his head and looked at Avigdor.
“Two,” he said plainly.

“This is war, Avigdor,” said Daglan, wrinkling his brows, and after a momentary silence, added, “a regular, legal war. During war you don’t call the police. And the police itself – who are they?”

Avigdor put his hand on Daglan’s shoulder and looked at him with deep sadness. Daglan’s lids trembled as if something got into his eyes. “You want to say: murderer. Don’t lie!” Avigdor was silent. “On the Carpathians they made me into a murderer,” Daglan added in a severe voice. “Such learning will be useful now. When you are being killed, you don’t sing love songs.”

Early in the morning, wretched Goldenberg who was the student doctor for the Eighth Group, came running over the sand; he was wet and blue with the cold.

"Where is the dark one?" he whispered. He did not remember names, it was one of the symptoms of his illness. Benny, however, understood, and asked, "Avigdor?"

"You? No. Only the dark one, and the other one. You know? Daglan!" He was extremely happy to remember the name. "Daglan."

"What deeds? Here is the grand event: the Heart has been found!" he shouted and his face blanched. The friends looked sadly at the madman. He was an educated man, intelligent, a good friend, and a truly decent doctor. When he came to Eretz-Israel he continued working for a while, but gradually began to talk constantly about the Heart, as if obsessed. The Heart of the World, as he called it, was to blame for all the wrongs of humanity. Goldenberg deteriorated from day to day and now wandered about with long, wild hair and an unkempt beard, thin, pale, and his clothes in rags. The world’s sorrow depressed him to such an extent that he did not feel hunger and would not eat until reminded that he had not eaten.

"Drink some tea, Goldenberg. Take a cup." He tore the bread with his teeth like a voracious animal, and quickly swallowed the large pieces. When he finished eating he said, "I can’t wait. I will go, and you tell the dark one that the Heart is not among the stars but in the sea, very, very near. At night, when you hear the movement of the waves, know that it is the Heartbeat. Yesterday the sea split and I saw the Heart. It is as large as the Caucasian Mountains, as the Himalayas!" He spread his fingers in terror and his mane trembled on his head. "The Heart is red, drenched in blood," he whispered, glancing fearfully at the sea. "The valves are worn out; the World’s Heart is weak and cannot fulfill its task. It is necessary to blow it up."

"Relax, Goldenberg," Benny laid his hand affectionately on his shoulder. "You are imagining all this. After all, you are a doctor!"

Goldenberg shook his hand off and said, angrily, "This is why I did not want to talk to you! It is not worth it to talk to all your friends, either! Miserable cattle! The entire world is tormented! The stars leave their orbits! Human beings are tortured, lost, hungry! Human beings fight! Human beings kill! Human beings eat each other’s flesh! Here, here, look around you! The sun freezes, the earth congeals! And he, fool, does not understand."

"Ah, here you are, dark one! Yes, yes, you understand!" He took Avigdor aside and whispered to him, pointing to the sea. "A device is needed… do you comprehend? A device that will blow the Heart to pieces. Please help me prepare a device like that from cast iron and put dynamite in it, lots of it, so it will blow it to pieces! So all will be extinguished, all will die, and the suffering will cease!"

"Goldenberg," said Avigdor, also whispering. "Do you think the World’s Heart is sick?"

The madman, momentarily stunned by the argument, was quiet. But after a few minutes deep sadness came over him. "Ah, you are like the rest! You don’t understand anything either!"

He waved his hand desperately and started marching briskly over the sand toward the sea. The young men looked sadly after him. Isaac passed his hand over his hair and said, "I must have a haircut."

They arranged where everyone would go to look for work, and went toward the city. Shmaria, ill, and Daglan, slept on.

The city was bustling despite the early hour. At first the Sorokino group thought that the crowd was excited because of yesterday’s murders, but everyone was running toward the sea. On the beach lay the bodies of Avraham Solovei and his wife Hannah. They removed the rope from their basket and used it for the last time, tying it strongly to their waists. But they were not satisfied with that, and also hanged a very heavy stone on themselves.

At first it was thought they were murder victims. But they found a note with three grushim on the basket in the cellar.

Thousands of silent, somber pioneers followed them to the graveyard. The concentrated silence and heavy footsteps expressed a deeper grief than a eulogy. Red was silent, too. Quietly he followed the two palls, tears streaming on his red freckles.

"Here! Here! Here!" he suddenly bellowed like a madman, stomped his feet and waved his fists. The friends forced him away from the graves and he screamed, struggling to get away, "They escaped to the sea from the vileness of the Land! Why? Why such sacrifices? For who? For what? Idiots!"

Avigdor wandered through Neve-Shalom’s alleys, his feet stumbling on the stones. It was a wintry night, a light rain drizzled on. No passersby could be seen. After the latest murders, both Jews and Arabs stayed home from early evening on. Avigdor was bare-headed and wore only a shirt. His thoughts were jumbled and he did not try to order them.

Walking through Neve-Shalom he passed Malka’s house, but remembered it only a few minutes after he passed it. He stopped for a moment, looked back, and than waved his hand desperately. "It’s all the same to me!"

Deathly silence spread over the generally bustling Neve-Shalom, despite the early hour. He was alone, his shoes clicking on the pavement. Suddenly it crossed his mind, "It is dangerous, they can stab me." He did not even have a stick. "Ah, it’s all the same to me!" he decided and went on as if drunk, wiping his face, wet from the rain, with his sleeve.

Two days passed since Avram and Hannah’s death and his heart drew him to the cellar. He was extremely depressed and could not order his feelings in a logical way. He knew only one thing – he had to come to the cellar, specifically in the evening, and listen to the bumping of the horse. For two days this wish was not sufficiently clear to him. He had found some work during that time, and worked like an automaton, sunk in reverie. Daglan worked with him, and they did not disturb each other. They carried bricks to a second floor. Their hands were already trained to take eleven bricks each time, without counting. The building’s corridor was narrow and Avigdor met Daglan while walking up and down to the bricks. It felt like a dance.

"Did you tell them?" Daglan asked on the first day. Avigdor understood and shook his head in response.

Avigdor noticed that Daglan lost weight and his face darkened. He wanted to say something to him and could not. Later he forgot.

The second day, at sunset, it became obvious to him that he had to visit the cellar and hear the banging. As soon as he finished his work he went to Neve-Shalom. He entered the yard of the house. No one was around. A dim candle dripped in the window above the cellar. The cellar’s door was open and hung obliquely on its upper hinge; the perforated stone under it was taken away.

Avigdor listened for a moment and stepped into the darkness. He was chilled and surrounded by sepulchral darkness. He extended his arm in front of him, like a blind man. Silence. He took another step toward the basket. Something gleamed white on the floor. He bent – a newspaper. The basket was not there, it was replaced by this crumpled newspaper. He picked it up with two fingers. The newspaper rustled, and the sound filled the cellar. Avigdor threw the paper and took one step backwards. He looked around, the silence again spreading all over, everything was hushed. He stood alone and his hands extended toward the place where Avram Solovei stood that evening. He called softly, "Avram!" and listened. No answer. No trace of Avram was left. But his breath was still there, and Hannah’s voice as well. Here they were both tormented, his soul must be here, and Hannah’s soul too! "Hannah… Hannah…" he whispered. "I… I…here I am, Avigdor, from the Eighth Group… I am… I am… your murderer! I did not come back to save you. I returned to the tent, leaving you alone with death, with the knocking…" Yes, the knocking. Where was the knocking? When he remembered it, he was appalled. There was no knocking now. Then, death knocked. Suddenly he sensed a strange odor. He was filled with nameless dread. He hurried to the cellar’s entrance, stumbled and fell on the step. Someone was standing by the entrance. Avigdor leapt and knocked him down to the ground, and only when he was behind the gate he heard the Arab cry out.

Saturday. The tent dwellers bathed and changed their clothes. They had bread and a joyful surprise – a letter from Shimeon Gunn! The friends told Avigdor, and stuck the letter in his hands; he stood as if stunned, did not understand what they said, and turned his head away.

"What is it? Have you lost your mind?" screamed Benny. "This is a letter from your father and you are not taking it! Your father sent a little letter from Kiev via some man. Look here!"
"Leave him alone," whispered Shmaria. "Don’t you see how it is affecting him?"

His father’s handwriting revived him. He looked at the characters, clung to the letter and suddenly sank at the table, buried his face in his hands, and sobbed. His Sorokino friends cried silently, too. Only Menasheh did not cry.

"And I am telling you, even though he is writing about all your relatives, and does not say a word about my family, I still know they are alive and not killed. My heart tells me. I know!" He looked at the distance with his wide-open eyes and waited for his friends to comfort him, but they were silent; they knew that any comforting will be in vain.

Daglan smiled crookedly and left the tent. He had already drunk the poisoned cup; his entire family was slaughtered by the soldiers of his own brigade.

The tears eased the trouble of the last few days, and with the letter came joy. Avigdor bathed, changed his clothes, and his appetite revived for the first time in days.

"Do you understand?" said Benny. "Purim is approaching. In a month it will be Passover, and after Passover your parents will leave Kiev! Cheers! Avigdor, bad boy!" he slapped Avigdor’s back. "Why are you silent?"

"Why are you upset, fool!" said Isaac suddenly, affectionately. "Your family is coming!"

"Let’s all go to Tabachnik," said Benny. "He begged us to come. It’s been a long time since we visited him."

"Daglan, come into the tent," said Shmaria. "Why do you stand there alone in the dark? Sit down. Your eyes are strange. You have grown very thin, Daglan. What is the matter with you?"

"Nonsense, Shmaria. I am as healthy as an ox. I used to feel my wounds in such weather, but the pain is gone."

"You are lying, Daglan – look into my eyes! Like so. Tomorrow I will start modeling you. Above your eyebrows there is a wrinkle that gives you an angry expression. But you are not angry… some trouble came over you. What happened?"

Daglan grinned crookedly. "My father used to say, that if human beings bared the depth of the souls, everyone could see they were full of mortal wounds. Let me load my gun. Listen, brother, we are alone here and this is war."

He was the only one to possess a gun. Shmaria blinked and as he saw him loading the gun he said, "You are a strange man, Daglan. What are you doing it for?"

Moshe Tabachnik was in a Sabbath mood. He sat at the head of the table, elegantly dressed in a black coat, his aching leg resting on the arm of the easy chair. Candles burned. The youths filled the room with joy and happiness. Moshe read and reread Shimeon Gunn’s little letter, shaded his eyes with his hand, and every so often found new clues.

"Did you see that, Avigdor, this erasure? Why, would you say, did your father cross this word with his pen?"

"Ah, you don’t know? I figured it out. Look, he wrote ‘Dni’ and then crossed it out. He wanted to say ‘Dniester’ but was afraid of these chaika (seagulls, a derogatory term for the river guards), these dogs… He did well! Now you understand how he will make his way. Naturally, through the Dniester. Do you understand? This is good! So, Reb Shimeon Gunn will come soon! We must go, see Usishkin and remind him of his promise."

Zemira was telling how all the students in her class put out their tongues to the teacher and everyone laughed.

Suddenly a whistle was heard outside. Zemira ran to the window. A friend came and asked her something, then went away. Isaac asked her in a whisper, "This is your whistle, Zemira?"

"Zemira, bring the glasses and the kettle," said Hania loudly. Zemira hurried on, and only had time to shake her lovely head threateningly at Isaac.

Later, the Sephardic agent came in. After Isaac stopped coming, he again approached Hania. He wore a nice suit and yellow shoes. He spoke French with Hania and Hebrew with the Pioneers. He conversed logically and confidently but Isaac still mocked him a little, and Hania noticed it. Therefore, she treated the Sephardic young man affectionately, and served Isaac’s tea without looking at him though saying to herself, "How handsome and fair he is! And his eyes express such daring and intelligence!"

Avigdor stepped out first. Malka waited for him on the terrace. "Come here, under my shawl," she said and put half her shawl over him. "You will freeze in this thin shirt!"

"Avram?" she sighed. "Yes, Avram! And Hannah’le! What can you do, they are already there and we are here." She finished her say by kissing him.

"What, another ‘but?’ A person cannot enjoy life without some ‘but’ or other?"

"How innocent you are, Avigdor! Isaac never loved me and will never love another. He is too foolish for that."

"Malka what? Yes, yes, I kissed him to spite you, wicked one! Yes, to spite you! And I will do it again if you treat me like that."

The sea breeze attacked the gray, immobile cloud front, tore it to pieces and sent it to Jerusalem. A young golden moon emerged and everything woke up, sparkled, glittered.

The heavy shawl opened and dropped to the ground. Neither of them noticed it. Side by side, two hearts beat strongly.

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