Israel (30 page)

One day Rosie stood before the big washtub with
tears streaming down her face. This time she was not crying for ruined flowers, but for herself. A passing woman peeked into the steamy laundry room but kept on walking.

Nothing unusual, correct, comrade? Rosie thought bitterly. Why shouldn't I weep when faced with a lifetime at Degania?

At least Rosie cried herself into a state of numbness. If only there were a way out of Degania, but there wasn't—not if she wanted Haim's love. She resumed the washing.

She glanced at Herschel, who was playing with a wooden rattle Yol had carved for him. He was sitting on a blanket in the far corner of the room, tan and fat with curly hair like spun gold and startlingly blue eyes that seemed far too wise and perceptive to belong to a toddler. They spent virtually all of their days together. Herschel's eyes habitually followed her after she put him down.

Now Herschel sensed his mother's loving gaze. He set down his toy and turned toward her, smiling.

“Yes, I know,” Rosie murmured. “You like it here as much as your father does.” She sighed and wiped her eyes, getting soap suds in them. She muttered a curse as she rubbed at her eyes with a towel because the soap stung and because she knew that Degania was where she and her family were going to stay.

September 1913 marked her first anniversary at the settlement. She was accepted as a member without incident. Haim asked her how she felt about it one evening after they returned home from supper at the dining hall.

“I feel guilty,” Rosie confessed. “It has more emotional relevance than our wedding anniversary.” She looked wistful. “I hope you're not angry.”

“I told you you'd love it here.” Haim laughed delightedly. He'd been sitting on the floor, playing with Herschel, now twenty months. Haim would hold out his hands and Herschel would totter forward, his chubby arms windmilling the air.

Haim scooped up his son with one arm and with the other embraced his wife. “Wait until I tell them what you've said,” he babbled, clearly beside himself with happiness. “Only a true member could say such a thing. Oh, Rosie, I love you.”

“I love you too, Haim,” she whispered, thinking she would gladly spend the rest of her life telling lies if they could make her husband this happy.

The first rains of winter began early that year, bringing an onslaught of illness. Haim and his family were spared the fever, but others were not so lucky. Their stored medicines were useless against the illness, and the only doctor in the area lived across one of the Jordan's twisting, rain-swollen tributaries.

Haim volunteered to go fetch the doctor, but he was turned down on account of his having a family. It was considered a dangerous journey, for there were said to be Bedouins in the area. Finally a young, single man named Moshe offered to go. He set out on muleback early in the morning. If all went well he would be back with the doctor or at least the proper medicines by nightfall.

The entire settlement started to worry about Moshe as soon as he'd ridden out of sight. He was a friendly twenty-year-old from a poor family in Russia, always ready to lend a hand and very well liked. When night fell, Degania had been anxious for hours.

It was midnight when Yol came to the door of Haim's cottage. Rosie answered his knock, frightened when she saw that Yol was dressed in his work clothes and a leather jacket, with his pistol belt strapped around his waist. She was about to tell a lie—that Haim had come down with the fever—when she heard her husband stir. Suddenly he was standing behind her, looking over her shoulder into Yol's dark, brooding eyes.

“Come outside, Haim?” Yol asked softly. “We must talk, and I don't wish to disturb Herschel.”

“Wear something warm,” Rosie commanded, wrapping a coat around her husband's shoulders. Haim was wearing only a thin nightshirt, and it was drizzling.

Out of Rosie's earshot they hunched against the chill and damp as Yol explained.

“Moshe's mule returned without him. A search party is to go out, but only three. Too many are already sick. We cannot risk the health of the rest by making them ride around in the cold and rain and probably bullets. There's too much work to do tomorrow.”

“Only three.” Haim frowned, shaking his head. “And it's night.”

“It's volunteers, of course,” Yol murmured, looking away.

Haim patted his friend's shoulder. “So who else is coming with us?”

Yol grinned, then continued. “Trumpeldor raised his good arm even faster than me.”

“Of course.” Haim chuckled. “I'm surprised he doesn't want to go by himself.”

Joseph Trumpeldor had come to Degania the year before. He was a dour Russian in his early thirties with streaks of grey in his close-cropped coal-black hair. At first the membership did not know what to do with him. His left arm was missing and he refused to speak anything but Hebrew, a language he did not know. He might just as well have been deaf and dumb, and with his one arm, what sort of work could he do?

Trumpeldor was an amazing man. He had lost his arm in the service of the czar during the Russo-Japanese War. Despite his terrible injury he asked to be sent back to the front. His request was granted. After Port Arthur surrendered Trumpeldor found himself in a Japanese prisoner-of-war camp.
In 1906 he was returned to Russia, where he was made an officer, an incredible achievement for a Jew.

In 1912 Trumpeldor came to Palestine as a militant Zionist. He wandered the country for a bit before finding his way to Degania, where he proved himself able to work harder and fire a rifle more accurately than any of his able-bodied peers.

“That an old soldier like Trumpeldor would volunteer doesn't surprise me,” Haim said, “but why are you going, Yol? There are so many others, and you've done your part over the years.”

“The truth is that I feel compelled to volunteer for the dangerous jobs. When we were younger, I used to brag about what sort of warrior I intended to be. Well, I had my fill of fighting the first time I was sniped at while on guard duty. Now when trouble comes I can hear God's laughter in my mind. ‘Yol,' He tells me, here, I give you a chance. Go be a warrior.'” Yol smiled. “Haim, you know I have always been the jokester. I can't allow anyone, not even God, to have a joke on me.”

“Little monkey, you are quite insane,” Haim whispered, shaking his head.

“Absolutely.”

“Either that,” Haim continued thoughtfully, “or you are joking with me. Which is it, little monkey?”

Yol winked at him. “A big, strong, handsome fellow, you don't need to be intelligent. Now then, go get dressed. I will collect your rifle and saddle our mules.”

Haim pulled on warm clothes and kissed his ashen-faced wife good-bye. Rosie said nothing, merely embraced him. At times like this Haim was thankful he'd married a woman who understood these things.

He shrugged on his coat and turned to his son, fast asleep in his cradle. Haim bent low to kiss Herschel's forehead and then hurried out of the cottage. The other two would be waiting for him at Degania's main gate.

Trumpeldor and Yol were already mounted up. The former gave Haim a curt nod in greeting as he swung himself astride his mule. Yol handed him his rifle and the three rode out in the direction Moshe had taken many hours before.

As soon as they'd turned the bend in the trail Haim felt a hundred miles from the settlement. Once Degania's lanterns were out of sight there was no light at all, for the clouds obscured the stars and the moon. It began to rain more steadily. Yol and Haim had leather-visored caps, but Trumpeldor did not wear one. He rode in the lead with coattails flying, sitting ramrod straight upon his jouncing mule, letting the rain drip from his stern, craggy features as if he'd been carved from stone. His empty left coat sleeve flapped like a raven's wing. He carried his rifle, barrel downward against the rain, across his right shoulder and had his Russian officer's saber thrust through his belt.

Haim kept his own rifle at the ready, balanced across the horn of his saddle. He briefly wondered how Trumpeldor, with his one arm, could work the bolt on his Lee-Enfield. He didn't have the courage to ask, and devoutly hoped there would be no occasion to find out. He glanced behind him. Yol brought up the rear. He was armed with just his revolver, for he had a first-aid kit across his shoulders in case Moshe was injured.

It took the trio two hours to reach the ford. The village with the doctor was another hour's ride beyond. They had to coax their mounts across several steep gullies and thread their way through thorny scrub before they were actually at the water's edge.

“We needn't ride any farther,” Trumpeldor announced as he surveyed the crossing. “Just listen to those currents raging! Moshe's mule returned on its own to Degania. A riderless mule would never have crossed that torrent.”

Haim nodded. “You're clever, Joseph. So if Moshe is here, he fell somewhere along this bank of the river.”

“We can narrow it down a little more,” Trumpeldor remarked. “This ford is only a hundred yards or so in length and it's the only place Moshe could have crossed.”

“How do we find him?” Haim wondered. “It's so dark we can't see very far—”

“And everything I can see looks alive,” Yol complained. He drew his revolver. “If Moshe's calling to us we'll never hear him over the river's roar.”

“Quiet, both of you,” Trumpeldor ordered. “First of all, nobody is to call to Moshe. If he was ambushed, the enemy may still be nearby, waiting for the rescue party.”

“Wonderful.” Yol swallowed hard.

“Here's what we'll do. Haim, you and I will search. Yol, stay here with the mules.” Trumpeldor swung out of the saddle. He left his rifle across his shoulder and drew his saber. “Two men can search a small area like this and keep an eye on each other. If all three of us start wandering around, we'll likely shoot each other for Bedouins.”

Haim dismounted. For some strange reason planting his shoes upon the wet ground made him feel more vulnerable. For the tenth time that night he checked to see that a round was chambered in his rifle.

“Keep your eyes open, Yol,” Trumpeldor warned. “We'll call to you before we return so you'll know who it is.”

“Don't forget or I'll shoot you,” Yol said.

Haim could hear the strain of fear in his friend's voice. “Poor Yol,” he commiserated, “you've got the toughest job, just waiting here by yourself.”

“That's true,” Trumpeldor agreed. “It takes nerve to do this. Are you game?”

Yol shrugged, then grinned. “Absolutely.”

“Good man!” Trumpeldor smiled briefly.

“If only there were a moon,” Yol complained, “I could see something.”

Trumpeldor's smile was gruesome. “If you could see something, then something could see you.”

“Go already,” Yol urged them. “Even I know when to joke and when not.”

“We'll walk ten meters apart,” Trumpeldor quietly instructed Haim as they moved forward. “Parallel to each other and the river. I'll ask you to walk along the water's edge. It's slippery there, rather difficult for a one-armed man holding a weapon.” Haim nodded and Trumpeldor continued. “If we don't find him on this sweep, we'll cover the next ten-meter strip working back toward Yol. Understand?”

Haim nodded. “And if there's trouble?”

“If I can, I'll get to you. If I can't, work your way back to Yol. Don't forget to let him know it's you. Then make Yol do what you think best.”

Their eyes met. Haim nodded. “He's not weak, you know.”

Trumpeldor did not answer. He glided away and after a few steps was lost in the shadows.

The rain pelted the branches of the scrub, making it move as if camouflaging an army of Bedouins. Haim gripped his rifle tightly, squinting against the darkness, trying to watch all around him while keeping an eye on the treacherous footing along the riverbank.

I'm really doing this, Haim thought as he moved along in a semi-crouch, his rifle across his chest. He remembered what Yol had earlier confessed to him, that the little monkey man had had his fill of fighting after one incident of sniper fire.

Yol was afraid and is afraid now, Haim mused. I'm wary but not exactly afraid. This isn't like being sniped at; this is real fighting.

He felt a tiny fire within him, a spark akin to the fire he'd felt when he first laid eyes on Rosie, and when he knew at long last that his Tel Aviv factory was a success.
This flame within him warmed and sustained; it whispered to Haim of his prowess. You cannot lose, it told him.

He stumbled on the body before he saw it. He jumped backward, fumbling his rifle. Then he dropped to his knees, feeling the wet earth bite into his trouser legs as he twisted around, trying to see if he'd blundered into an ambush. He strained to hear movement above the rain.

All was quiet. Haim got to his feet and crabbed sideways, putting his back to the river for protection. Where is Trumpeldor? he wondered anxiously. Now that he knew where to look, Moshe's body stood out clearly. He was lying sprawled on his belly a meter or so from the water's edge. Haim cautiously approached. There was something beside Moshe's head.

“Joseph,” Haim hissed. He set down his gun and groped at Moshe's neck, trying to find a pulse. His fingers came back wet with something that was not rain.

He's dead. He's got to be dead, he's lying so still.

An image flickered in Haim's mind. It was long ago. There was a child and the night was moonless, just like now. Many bodies lay still. “Oh please, get up please, Father, Mother.” I am that child—won't remember. Don't want to.

“Joseph.”

“I'm here,” Trumpeldor murmured, hunkering down beside Haim. “Get hold of yourself. It's Moshe, all right. You look like you've seen a ghost.”

Trumpeldor rolled Moshe over. There was a stick beneath the body. “The boy's dead. Look here—they stoned him, and after he fell they slit his throat.” Trumpeldor glanced at Haim. “Come on, now, snap out of it.”