Israel (12 page)

When it became clear to Haim that he would not be returning to Jaffa so quickly he began to write to Rosie twice a week. Yol was curious but did not pry, wise enough to know that Haim would confide in him when he was ready. The bearded halutz had never heard how Haim came to fight with a Turk his first day in Palestine.

One clear starlit night Haim and Yol walked along Mount Scopus. They spent the evening on blankets spread beneath the wind-rustled silver leaves of an olive grove. For a while they were quiet, content to feel their kinship with the Hebrews who had walked this ground millennia ago.

Then abruptly Haim began to talk. He told Yol about his first day in Jaffa, what had gone on between him and Rosie and how he meant to marry her. Much to his chagrin, his heartfelt confession was met with a hyena-pitched peal of laughter.

“I think I'll hang you by your feet in a tree,” Haim growled.

Yol wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. “If you do, you'll never hear about Rosie and her family.”

“Just how do you know so much?”

“My friend,” Yol protested, “it's a small country, and Erich Glaser and his children are well known. As for Rosie, she's the one we know best of all.”

“What!” Haim exploded.

“Uh—poor choice of words, my friend,” Yol quickly said. “I meant ‘know of her great beauty.'”

“Be careful,” Haim warned, somewhat mollified. “You're talking about my future wife.”

“Oy. Listen to me, Haim. You are not the first man to be taken with Rosie's charms. There exists a long line of potential grooms before you. Why, I myself proposed marriage to Rosie Glaser—”

“You?”

“And got my face slapped for my brashness, I hasten to add.” Haim muttered. Yol looked sympathetic. “My friend, a goodly number of trees must be planted in Palestine before there are enough branches for you to hang by their feet all of Rosie's suitors.”

“I don't know what to say.” Haim was crestfallen. “Have I made a fool of myself?”

“Absolutely. However that isn't such a terrible thing. Girls of Rosie's sort like that in a man.”

“Tell me everything.”

“I'm glad you asked.” Yol leaned back to gaze with great contentment at the moonlight filtering through the leafy olive boughs. “What a great country Palestine is. Even in Lublin I didn't have gossip on virtually every important Jew. Well, you know, of course, that Erich Glaser is a renowned artist.”

Haim remembered the paint splatters and smell of turpentine. “I didn't know.”

“A great painter,” Yol repeated. “He has been successful since an early age, when he came under the patronage of Sir Moses Montefiore—”

“Of him I've heard.” Haim nodded, impressed. “There is a settlement northwest of the city named Yemin Moshe.”

Yol smiled. “That settlement bears Montefiore's name because he donated so much money to get it built. Anyway, Montefiore was interested in art, and since Erich Glaser was Jewish as well as talented, it was an excellent match.
In the forties Montefiore negotiated with Lord Palmerston for Jewish agricultural colonies in Palestine. By the time he met Erich Glaser, around 1870, I guess, the
Alliance Israelite Universelle
had been established near Jaffa.”

“What was that?” Haim demanded.

“Just a fancy name for an agricultural school.”

“Get to Rosie.”

“Patience. Glaser had some money, a wife, a pair of sons and a reputation as an important painter, thanks in part to Montefiore, who'd also instilled in his protege Zionism. Glaser's the sort who never does anything halfway. He moved his family to Jerusalem in the 1880s. He is one of the first wave of repatriation.”

“And Rosie was born here, yes? She is a child of Zion?”

“She was born here.”

Haim thought back to his landing on the Jaffa beach, trying to remember Glaser's other daughters, but at the time he'd had eyes only for Rosie. “Yol, she's not the youngest daughter, is she?” If there were older girls in Glaser's family, they would have to be married off before Rosie could take a husband.

“Don't worry, she's the oldest, in her early twenties,” Yol replied, reading Haim's mind. “And Glaser isn't the sort to hold to tradition anyway. Keep in mind that the man is an artist, and artists flaunt tradition.”

“You think so?”

“Absolutely. Why, when Glaser first arrived he went to work teaching at Professor Schatz's Bezalel Art School. Of the Bezalel you must have heard?”

“No.”

“Ah, you're a dunce. Fortunately, you are also tall and handsome. It is the little ugly fellows like me who must be intelligent in order to get anywhere with the girls.”

“I see where your intelligence with girls has gotten you—chased from Zikhron to Jerusalem's rock quarries.”

“I called you a dunce. Must you make of me a liar? Maybe I'd best continue my story. At the Bezalel, of which everyone but Haim Kolesnikoff has heard, Erich Glaser began painting scenes of Palestine. His works were placed in galleries overseas, where they sold to wealthy Jews who wanted a bit of the Holy Land to hang on the walls. The earnings allowed Glaser to purchase an inn in Jaffa, which has always been the gate through which immigrants passed. Since he was an artist, I suppose Erich had the right sort of temperament to get along with the Turks and Arabs. His inn became a place where immigrants were welcome to rest and get their bearings during their first few days in Palestine. He uses his own money in addition to funds given him by the agency to pay the baksheesh for newcomers.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“What about Rosie? Tell me about Rosie.”

“You know everything you need to know about her already,” Yol laughed. “She's pretty—”

“I think she's beautiful.”

“That's what I meant. Forgive me, my friend. She's beautiful, with good spirit, and her papa has a little money as well as a fine reputation. That's why when boys come to Eretz Yisroel, don't know what to do with themselves and decide to take a wife, Rosie's usually their choice.” He wrapped himself up in his blanket. “We should go to sleep.”

“Is that why you proposed to her, because you didn't know what to do with yourself?”

“Maybe.”

Both men grew quiet. From somewhere in the grove came an owl's plaintive call. Haim idly plucked at the tufts of grass. “Did you love her?”

“I thought I did,” Yol replied after a moment. “I loved her madly at the time, but thinking back, I suspect it was her father I really loved. You must understand how lonely I was my first few months here. I'm not like you, dear Haim, I don't draw people and make friends so easily. I make jokes but not friends.” He sighed. “So here I was, far from my family and friends in Poland, surrounded by steely-eyed halutzim who had no time for jokes. Erich Glaser and I could talk about art and music; why, he even shared with me a bottle of French wine. Rosie is a darling, and it was easy for me to fall in love with her, for it allowed me to become another of Glaser's children.” He sat up to face Haim, “Can you understand?”

“Yes. What did Rosie say to you when you asked for her hand in marriage?”

“The same thing she tells all her would-be husbands. She said, ‘Not in a million years.'”

“Will she say that to me?”

“Absolutely. In your case, however, ‘not in a million years' may well translate into ‘after several months of courtship.'”

“You really believe that's true?”

“I have a feeling you're the man she'll marry, and my instincts about such matters are usually correct. In my case I would have had to wait the full million years.” Yol laughed. “By then I'd be too old to join the Hashomer.”

“You really do mean to join? The more I know you, the less I see you killing your beloved Arabs—”

“Then you don't know me,” Yol declared. “They call us David and Goliath, but I mean to be a real David, a warrior. It has been my ambition for my entire life. For a Jew to become such a thing in Europe is unheard of, but here in a new land I can be a new person, and I intend to.”

“You needn't get so touchy.”

“Then don't make fun of me.”

“To be a member of Hashomer is my goal as well,” Haim reminded him.

“Hmmm. That you had best discuss with Rosie, yes?” Yol drew his blanket up over his head.

It was over a year before the stonecutting job was done. During that time Haim and Yol got acquainted with other young people who had come to rebuild and repopulate Palestine. Every night there were discussion groups to exchange news, practice Hebrew vocabulary and grammar and endlessly discuss the dialectics of Zionism. In Europe such meetings were for the most part political. In Palestine they struck a social note. Romances sparked, and marriages were made. A network of comrades was gradually formed.

Jerusalem itself seemed to welcome the influx of Jews. Haim had expected trouble with the Turks and the Arabs, but the Turks, if they paid any attention at all to the Jews, merely seemed amused, while the Arabs welcomed the construction work. Haim found himself picking up a smattering of Turkish and Arabic.

Haim kept up his correspondence with Rosie and found the time to make the journey to Jaffa to visit her every few months. Erich Glaser's inn was a rambling one-story whitewashed structure with flat roofs of red tile. Gardens, patios and terraces added charm to the wings that had been constructed over the decades. The place invariably teemed with new immigrants. Sometimes they were packed four and five to a room, but no one complained, since they were being sheltered and fed for free.

The Glasers had a wing all to themselves. The artist's wife was constantly flitting about the place, overseeing the Arab servants who did the cooking and housekeeping. Miriam Glaser had snow-white hair and leathery skin after years beneath the strong Mediterranean sun. Haim thought she was a few years older than her husband. She favored loose robes of Arab design.

Erich Glaser spent the mornings with his children doing agency work. Each afternoon he painted. He would disappear into his studio, a small outbuilding in a quiet corner of the main garden, and not emerge until dinner.

On his first visit to the inn Haim was surprised to find the portrait of himself and Abe framed and hung in the family living room. Erich Glaser asked if Haim had done the drawing and was disappointed at the answer. However, Haim was positive he detected a look of relief in Rosie's dark brown eyes.

His overnight visits with the family were always cordial, but that was to be expected. The Glasers welcomed many halutzim into their home. Haim knew he would not be able to tell how the family felt about him until he returned to Jaffa for good.

Rosie always saw him in private, if only in acknowledgment of the grueling trip. They would walk along the beach or stroll through the Arab bazaar. Rosie always raced ahead, forcing Haim to run to keep up with her. Taking her arm or trying to steal a kiss was out of the question.

Haim considered it an achievement if Rosie consented to talk to him without peppering the conversation with criticisms and insults. Haim did not take her taunts seriously; he was perceptive enough to realize that the members of Glaser's family felt overshadowed by the patriarch's strong will.

Rosie's spirit was too strong to be cowed by her father's—that's why she disobeyed him and tried to negotiate with the Turk—so she was relieved when Haim said he was not a painter. She was interested in him, but clearly she would never marry a man who marched in her father's footsteps. Rosie was waiting for the day when she could escape her father's shadow and be more than Erich Glaser's daughter.

Haim vowed to use Rosie's ambition in his strategy to win her, but first he had to capture her attention, and fleeting
visits would never serve. Rosie was hardly able to grow used to him before it was time to return to Jerusalem.

Still, he had reason to hope, especially after an exchange that took place near the end of his last visit, while Rosie was walking him back to the coach depot.

“Why don't you stay here in Jaffa?” she suddenly demanded, her dark eyes serious. “If you care so much for me, why are you always running back to Jerusalem?”

Haim was tempted to forget Jerusalem and swear to remain by Rosie's side forever if she'd have him, but to neglect his duty was not a possibility. “Rosie, in Jerusalem we cut stone for a school. I wish to be with you, but I must see the job finished. All Jews, not just those who will inhabit Mea She'arim, have a stake in the settlement.” He paused. His tongue grew thick and his heart began to pound at the audacity of what he was about to say. “Someday, Rosie, you and I will take our children to Mea She'arim, and we will point out that school and tell how I helped build it.”

“How dare you,” Rosie scolded, making as if to strike him, but her sable eyes were sparkling and her fingers on his cheek abruptly were something closer to a caress than a slap.

They walked the rest of the way to the depot in silence. Haim was unwilling to break the spell, quite content to savor sweet victory.

After that Haim tripled his correspondence to Rosie, who tended to answer about every third letter with a chatty but impersonal summation of happenings in Jaffa. Writing was torture for Haim. He never knew what to put down or how to express himself. It often took him an entire evening to compose a paragraph, and then he must agonize over its stilted phrases, positive that his clumsy style would only drive his beloved further from him.

“Don't worry about the coolness of her replies,”
Yol advised him. “Rosie will remain aloof precisely because she cares for you. When she turns friendly and treats you like a brother, give up, for a brother is all you'll ever be to her.”

Rosie began to write that her father was involved in a building project with a man named Meir Dizengoff. Her letters spoke in such glowing terms about him that Haim started to worry about having a serious rival. Yol assured him that this was not the case; Dizengoff was not only married but old, and he looked like a toad.