“Yeah,” said Matthews, who had stood two hours of propaganda in Glickstein’s bumpy English. “It reminds me of the taxi-drivers in Paris after the last war who were all Russian Grand Dukes.”
Glickstein’s smile became pinched. “Allow me,” he said. “Those people were thrown out of Russia. But most of our pioneers came to our country of their own free will, long before Hitlerism began.”
“You win—as usual,” said Matthews. His sense of fairness compelled him to admit that Glickstein was right and that all these admirable guys were doing an admirable job about this National Home of theirs. But he wished to God Glickstein would talk less about it, and with less of that intensity which sprayed the moisture from his lips into one’s face, and that all these clever and admirable guys would relax sometimes and offer a guy a drink instead of statistics and heroics, and would get drunk sometimes themselves. He had now spent almost five days touring the country and had collected a lot of stuff for his story, but somehow the story didn’t come off—or came off the wrong way, with a twist in it which he hadn’t intended to put in, and which would have been unfair to these guys whom, the more he was with them, the more he admired and disliked.
Matthews sighed and rather embarrassedly pulled a flat bottle from his hip pocket. These people didn’t drink, and he did not wish to shock them, but sometimes a guy got fed up. He offered the bottle to Glickstein and to Winter and then gave it up and fiercely took a deep gulp, almost blushing. He saw Glickstein’s indulgent, gold-flashing smile, and he wished to God Glickstein were a Fascist and that he had an excuse for a good, straight punch at his nose.
Winter, sitting on the other side of Matthews, had not said a word for the last hour. He was filled with a quiet, aching bitterness which each remark of Matthews’ increased. A goy remains a goy, he thought, well-meaning or not. Here he travels through a country where our people are doing something more fantastic and difficult than their famous conquest of the West, and all he can think of is to compare us with Paris taxi-drivers and night-club whores; and all the emotion he is capable of working up comes out of his bottle;—look how he tilts it up and how his lips form a disgusting ring of flesh round its neck. Ay, don’t we know the Bottle and what it does to the goy—the songs at the top, the sentimentality in the middle, and the pogrom at the bottom….
Joseph and Dina lay resting side by side in the narrow strip of shadow next to the still roofless dining-hut. Behind their heads sat Simeon with his back against the wall, knees drawn up against his body and trousers pulled up neatly over his ankles. He was reading last night’s Davar, the Labour evening paper which a lorry had just brought up from Gan Tamar. Next to him sat Dasha, a good-natured fattish girl with a pretty face already coarsening under the influence of climate and work.
“There come the big-heads,” said Joseph, as the two cars and their escort came in sight, struggling up the last stretch towards the top.
No one answered. They were all exhausted, fearful of the moment, twenty minutes ahead, when they would have to start work again. Except for the watch-posts the whole camp lay prostrate, dazed by the blazing sun, immobile like lizards on a hot rock. As the cars pulled up near the tower, they lifted their heads and let them fall back again on their arms. Only Reuben and Bauman got up to greet the guests.
Mrs. Newton got out first; she viewed the scene in disapproval, taking it as a personal insult that nobody seemed to get up or take any notice of their arrival. The Major climbed out next from the car. “Good morning,” he shouted with bluff heartiness, turning to Reuben and Bauman. “Are you the leaders of this happy gang?” His voice exploded like a shell in the heavy, dazed silence.
They all shook hands, except Mrs. Newton. The travellers from the other car joined them. They stood about in a group in the shadow of the tower. Dr. phil. Lustig took informal snapshots of them, prowling around the group with self-conscious unobtrusiveness, a permanent smile on his lips and behind his rimless, sharp-lensed glasses, which meant to convey that he was Only a Photographer. Then he strolled off with his Leica to photograph the hill with its stones and the camp in statu nascendi. Each time he clicked the shutter, he saw in his mind’s eye the caption to the picture just exposed, as it would appear in some future propaganda album: “FIVE YEARS AGO EZRA’S TOWER WAS NOTHING BUT A STONY DESERT…” while underneath would be the photograph of a modern communal village, with white concrete houses, shady eucalyptus alleys, lawns, orchards and laughing children: “…AND THIS IS HOW IT LOOKS NOW.”
He took a snapshot of one of Bauman’s boys with his rifle, in profile, from a low angle, so that the figure became tower-ingly silhouetted against the sky: “… EVEN AS IN THE TIMES OF EZRA, WHEN THE MEN WHO RETURNED FROM THE BABYLONIAN EXILE WITH ONE OF THEIR HANDS WROUGHT IN THE WORK AND WITH THE OTHER HELD A WEAPON …”
Dr. Lustig was moved. The sun shone hard, sweat from his forehead trickled down under his glasses and stung his eyes. He rubbed them with the handkerchief from his breast pocket, wiped his glasses, and took a shot of Joseph and Dina, squatting on his heels behind their heads, at a refined angle which would make their horizontal faces appear hard and sculpted like partisans in a Russian film. His imagination, trained to see everything in patterns of “BEFORE” and “AFTER,” like advertisements for a face powder or nerve tonic, had already surrounded them with a bunch of children happily eating home-grown oranges, while Dina played on some vague string instrument, a harp or lute, as Bath Sheba had played for David.—He tiptoed on, smiling to himself, lost in his daydream of the resurrected Hebrew State, elated and quite forgetful of the fact that he was Only a Photographer.
Reuben was meanwhile showing the guests round the site. He made only a few matter-of-fact comments and Matthews thought that he liked this guy much better than those big-heads from Jerusalem. Mr. Newton listened absent-mindedly; he had a feeling of bewildered admiration for all these young people who started on these ventures against such heavy odds, driven on by a sentimental fanaticism which was entirely alien to him; at the same time he resented the bother which would arise if the Arab terrorist gangs started some monkey-business which they certainly would, though this was, thank God, the Major’s business and not his. He also disliked all this messiness which went with the building of the camp. It was sure to become one more of those ugly, uncouth, modern settlements which were an offence to the landscape. What a contrast to the melancholy beauty of Arab villages, like the one across the valley, peacefully dormant in the hot, trembling air….
Mrs. Newton, who walked in front at the Major’s side, had similar thoughts, though they were less clearly defined and lacked aesthetic appreciation of the beauty of Arab villages. But at least with those Arabs one knew where one stood; they were natives and knew their place. Their notables were polite and dignified, the mob picturesque and obsequious. If occasionally they did some rioting or shooting that was only natural, for what else could one expect from them? But the Jews were different. They had no notables and no dignity and they were not picturesque. Instead of being grateful to the British for letting them in, they behaved as if the country belonged to them. Look how they lie about on their backs and stomachs, ignoring one, instead of jumping to attention when a Major and the A.D.C.’s wife inspect them. Good heavens, if they dared to behave like this in Roonah! … The trouble of course was that they were white—white natives, who has ever heard of such a thing? And on top of it they were all university professors or whatnots. Thought they were cleverer than oneself, and yet couldn’t even offer one a decent cup of tea at their parties, or carry on a really nice conversation. Had to show off all the time with their bookishness and the languages they knew and what clever-clever fellows they were….
The Police Major, walking by her side, followed his own trend of thoughts. The dry heat reminded him, as it always did, of the Sudan from where he had been transferred only a few months before; and how much simpler everything had been there. Meanwhile he observed, with a curious and expert eye, the dug-outs and trenches those
Jew-boys had made. They had some pluck to come up here just now, and if it was true that Fawzi’s band had moved into the vicinity they were in for a hot time. When all was said, the twelve rifles they had been allowed did not amount to much—but then they had their blasted defence organisation, the Haganah, with its illegal arms…. Anyway, they had been warned, and if they wanted to play the dare-devils and insisted on getting their wretched hill—-like that famous pound of flesh—well, it was their funeral. As to Fawzi and his gang, that was the concern of the Military, bless their souls….
“Look!” Mrs. Newton exclaimed, and with sudden animation pointed at Simeon, buried in his Hebrew newspaper. “Look—he does read from right to left, isn’t it funny?”
It was the first comment she had made since they had got out of the car, and it was made in her sharp, loud voice. Simeon slowly dropped his newspaper. The Major turned his head, and his blue, slightly goggling eyes plunged all of a sudden into a pair of burning black ones with an expression of such calm, concentrated hatred that the Major experienced something like a faint electric shock. He saw with bewilderment a lean young man sitting rigidly erect with his back to the hut, with a dark, gaunt face dominated by those fanatic eyes which quickly made him avert his own. “Christ,” the Major whispered to Mrs. Newton, “that fellow looks daggers….”
He had the weird feeling that he had met the fellow before under almost exactly the same circumstances and had received, equally undeservedly, the same dirty look. “Nonsense,” thought the Major, as he walked on at the abruptly silenced Mrs. Newton’s side. “But by jove, what a country, what a country!—it’s as if everybody was walking about with sunstroke.”
At 12.30 P.M. Reuben’s whistle sounded the end of the break, and out of the narrow strips of shadow behind the tents and huts the workers emerged and scrambled to their feet, tottering with fatigue. Soon afterwards the official visitors took their leave. As he shook hands with Reuben and Bauman—Mr. and Mrs. Newton were already inside the car—the Major expressed in a hearty and slightly embarrassed voice the hope that all would go well.
“We share your hopes,” said Reuben with a faintly sarcastic smile. “The more so, as we have learnt to look after ourselves.”
The Major said nothing and closed the door of the car with a bang. They slowly jolted down the new track, followed by the Bren carrier. The party which had come with the second car decided to stay for the afternoon and go back with the convoy of the returning Helpers, before sunset.
Matthews had succeeded in getting rid of Glickstein and Co., as he called them to himself—they were animatedly conversing in Hebrew with old Wabash—and strolled alone through the camp. The barbed-wire fence was almost completed, and so were the five main dug-outs; but the trenches connecting them were in places still very shallow, and the sweat-glistening faces of the people working at them—mainly young and sturdy Sabras—became more dogged and sullen as the afternoon advanced. In contrast to them the carpenters who were fixing the plywood panelling of the dining- and living-huts whistled cheerfully, and the boys hammering away at the roof-girders and laths were in equally high spirits. The two huts stood at right angles to each other and, together with the watch-tower, formed a square in the middle of the site. The outward-facing walls of the huts were reinforced by a stockade of timber, block-house fashion, which had arrived in pre-fabricated segments; the gap between the stockade and the hut walls was partly filled up with gravel. Only partly, for there had been a hitch: the amount needed had apparently been calculated too low, and in addition one of the lorries carrying the gravel had broken down. They had signalled from the watch-tower to Gan Tamar for further supplies, but it was doubtful whether they would arrive before sunset; to Matthews’ surprise nobody seemed to worry about it.
In the centre of the square stood three tents, huddled together between the protecting walls of the tower and the two huts. Outside the square, near the barbed wire, was the latrine, screened by a fence of pales and divided into two by a wooden partition; a few yards further they were fixing the pipes of the shower-bath, also surrounded by a fence but as yet with no partition inside. Matthews made a mental note of this; he also wondered why these people bothered about a shower-bath before they had finished digging trenches. True, there were as many people digging as space permitted without getting into each other’s way; but still …
The chap with the black leather jacket smiled at him from the platform of the watch-tower and Matthews climbed up, awkwardly lifting his heavy body up the ladder whose steps were set too wide apart. He noticed that even this slight effort drove at once the sweat through his pores and made the blood pulsate in his temples; and his respect increased for these fellows who had been working since sunrise—and who had chosen to live and work in this God-forsaken spot to the end of their days, provided they were not kicked out or bumped off.
“Why don’t you take that bloody jacket off?” he asked as he arrived puffing on the platform. “Got the shivers?”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Bauman with his broad smile.
Matthews divined that for Bauman his leather jacket was a kind of uniform and that he regarded it as a symbol of his authority as an officer of their famous illegal Haganah. Below them, at the foot of the tower, Glickstein and Co. were still talking in Hebrew to old Wabash, who, leaning on a spade which served him mainly for ornamental purposes, looked more than ever like a biblical prophet. “What is he saying?” Matthews asked Bauman.
“He is excited about the roofs,” said Bauman. “He would like to see them finished. According to Ottoman Law once a house had a roof on it nobody had a right to tear it down, even if it was built without the landowner’s permission.”
“But is that law still in force?”
“No.”
“So what?”
“It was in old Wabash’s time. In this country traditions have a thousand lives, like cats.”
“Do you believe the Arabs really care whether there is a roof or not?”
“No. But old Wabash does,” said Bauman, and his smile broadened.
Matthews let his eyes wander and take in the landscape from the height of the tower: all those arid and yet softly undulating hills, now ochre-coloured under the flaming sky; a silent landscape which bore the hallmark of eternity. With a sigh of regret he turned again to the messy camp. Twenty yards to their left, they were unloading the last truck; it contained slates for the roofs and some bales of barbed wire which were urgently needed to complete the fence. They were all slightly nervous and in a hurry now; some had torn their fingers in handling the heavy barbed-wire rolls without even noticing it. On the top of the truck stood Dina, in her khaki shorts and blue open-necked shirt, legs apart, handing down slates. Her palms were torn by the wire and from time to time she lifted them absently to her mouth; licking the blood off them. Her face, trickling with sweat, glistened like metal in the sun; her smooth brown hair was all over her face and shoulders. Bauman too was looking at Dina.
“That kid’s a knock-out,” Matthews said. “To which one is she married … does she live with?” he corrected himself awkwardly.
“She lives with nobody,” said Bauman.
“But I guess most of them do?” Matthews had to force himself to go on. He hated nosing into these people’s privacy, but after all it was his job to find out about the ways and habits of their community.
“Most of them do,” said Bauman laconically.
“Look,” said Matthews, “I guess you wish me to hell, but I would like to get this whole business straight.”
“It is quite straight,” said Bauman with his amused smile. Then, to avoid being impolite, he added:
“Dina is a special case. She comes from Central Europe and didn’t get away in time. They did certain things to her. She hasn’t quite got over them yet….”
He left it at that, rubbing his cheek. Matthews did not press him further; Bauman had a quality of being frank and elusive at the same time. They all had it, these youngsters; they g
ave the impression of having nothing to hide, but lots of things they refused to talk about to outsiders. As long as they talked to you they did it with complete sincerity; but when they shut up, there was an air of finality about them.
The group which had been standing at the foot of the ladder was no longer there; Glickstein and old Wabash had climbed into one of the dug-outs and were explaining something to each other with sweeping gestures, squatting on their heels. Winter had disappeared, but after a while Matthews discovered him hanging on precariously with one hand to the roof of the dining-hut and with the other driving nails into the girders. “He will fall down in a minute,” said Matthews, pointing at him.
“Winter is all right,” said Bauman. “He used to be a slater in Tel Aviv before he became a Labour leader and member of the Executive.”
“And Glickstein?”
“Oh—he is in the Political Department….” He again left it at that and lifted the field-glasses to his eyes: they were signalling from the opposite hill-top. Matthews had a feeling of being unwanted and climbed down the ladder. He wandered about rather aimlessly for a while, then stopped near one of the trenches. The boys were working in the same dogged, sullen silence as an hour before. Dasha, the nice fattish girl, was walking along the row, handing them mugs of cool water from an Arab clay jug. They swilled the water round their palates before swallowing it and spilled the last drops over their handkerchiefs which they wore nightcap-fashion on their heads. Their faces were smeared with sweat and dirt, their lips dry and cracked; they worked with slow, automatic movements.
After a while something in the expression of one of the workers—a thin, narrow-chested, short-sighted boy with pimples on his face—caught Matthews’ attention. He had slowed down in his work; presently his movements became vague and tottering, as if he were drunk or asleep. Suddenly he stopped altogether, leaning on the swaying handle of his spade; his neighbour was just in time to catch him in his arms before the boy crashed into the trench. There was only a slight commotion while the boy was carried into the first-aid tent; and without quite knowing how it came about, Matthews had taken over his spade and place, and was shovelling earth and rubble out of the trench. His neighbours made no comment; they carried on steadily as if nothing had happened. The next time Dasha passed with her jar, he removed his cork helmet and replaced it by his handkerchief which Dasha wetted for him, her thick lips smiling pleasantly in her pretty and rather dumb face. Matthews felt elated and a fool. He worked on steadily, trying to be economical in his movements and to get into the rhythm of his neighbours. After a while he saw Dr. Lustig prowl with his Leica towards the trench, manoeuvring himself into position. Matthews managed to catch the right second to stick his tongue out and pull a face just before the camera clicked. Dr. Lustig put on a rather strained smile, but the boys in the trench grinned approval and Matthews felt that at that moment he had passed a kind of test in this tough and elusive community of Jew-boys.