TEL AVIV BOOK

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

The Eighth Group dispersed. Only a few friends remained in the tent under the ancient tree on lot 48. This band too, however, was about to separate.

Shmaria was ill. He was also so deeply submerged in artistic dreams that had any opportunity arisen, he would not have refused to travel to Paris or Italy, settle there and work at his art. Isaac entirely lost faith. He mocked anything suggesting a visionary goal. In everything he saw only fraud and cunning of brisk businessmen who knew how to profit from others’ naiveté. He spent many evenings in meetings, where Red and his followers delivered speeches; he listened to them amiably, but never spoke himself, and mocked them in his heart. The group’s ideals, pioneering, Herzl, the building of Emek-Israel – everything seemed to him the doings of shrewd liars or the nonsense of provincials and bourgeois. His attitude annoyed the innocent and honest Benny, who often scolded him.

“If so, why are you sitting here with us? If you are a Bolshevik, go to Russia.”

“I can’t tear myself sway from you,” answered Isaac. Benny went on yelling. “Let’s say you were wrong – I have nothing against that. But be an honest Bolshevik and don’t sit on two chairs at the same time.”

“Bolshevism,” Isaac grinned, stroking his smooth chin, “is an insolent lie, even more insolent than Zionism. Do you assume that Trotsky is less power hungry than Weizman, or that Lenin is not as mentally ill as Herzl?”

“Ha-ha-ha!” Isaac laughed. “I am anything you wish but not a fool! Not a donkey you can ride!”

Daglan and Menasheh did not participate in these arguments. Daglan’s truths were hidden deep inside him. He did not like to talk about them and perhaps did not know what to call them. Menasheh was not sufficiently intellectual to participate in discussions. The group was very dear to him, mostly because it was part of Sorokino and therefore an extension of his home town. He worked as hard as he could for the group and the tent, looked for paid work, and left everything else to the others. That was what better educated friends were for.

A special situation existed between Avigdor and Isaac because of Malka, so they never argued, but it was obvious that a clash between them would erupt sooner or later. For example, Avigdor did not join the Histadrut (the labor union) and in this matter was at odds with his friends Daglan, Benny, and Isaac. Isaac joined the Histadrut since a union meant opposition, protest, criticism, and that pleased him. He treated the labor status aspirations with his usual mockery, and the naïve Benny, who threw himself heart and soul into the Histadrut, was bitter about it and often yelled at Isaac, “So why are you in the Histadrut? What do you find there? Get out!” Isaac would laugh. He loved teasing Benny.

Daglan joined the Histadrut because, first of all, it had some discipline. That was good; discipline was essential for everyone. Second – but he told no one what was hidden in the “second,” and said to Avigdor, “I don’t agree with you. If you are a soldier, behave like a soldier. If you are a laborer, join the Histadrut.” Avigdor had his own opinion, a little of which he expressed during his clash with Red. He said, “We came here not to create class divisions, and not to destroy our strength by splitting into enemy camps. When did you become a laborer, Benny, and for how long have you been fighting for the status of the labor class? We, the Jews, ape others; if other nations have a labor class, we have to create it. Who are the members of this class among us? Shopkeepers, students, graduates of the Gymnasium who have been working in Eretz-Israel for a few months?”

“Wait, just wait a minute,” interrupted Benny. “If we don’t organize they will eat us alive! They will trample us! Don’t you know how much we are taken advantage of? Look, how we, namely the laborers, are suffering, are tormented!”

“Yes, yes, Benny, I agree with you that the laborers live a hard life, and the orchard owner from Petah-Tikva you told me about – I will never forget him. But all this belongs to another saga – the war between labor and ownership. However, did we come here for that war? We must remember the goal for which we came. Let’s not ignore that.”

His friends, and others who came to the tent as guests, listened in silence. He felt his listeners were judging and blaming him in their hearts, since almost all of them joined the Histadrut. From revolutionary Russia they brought with them an affinity to the labor movement and a sense of hostility expressed by the worst epithet: “A soldier of the White Brigade!” This epithet expressed not only a general disdain toward the enslavers, the unenlightened, those trampling the sacred foundations of justice. To the Jew, the epithet was reminiscent of the spilled blood of a hundred and twenty thousand Jews. It echoed with the horrific cry, “Hit the Jews, save Russia!” When Avigdor expressed his views he felt the horrible epithet hanging over his head and his heart troubled him. His nostrils quivered, his eyes shone, and his brow wrinkled. Malka shrugged, surprised, and Isaac lifted the left corner of his mouth, smiling.

No matter! Thought Avigdor. I will say whatever is in my heart. Loudly he said, “You may think as you please about me and I will still tell you the truth. Our brothers, sons of Israel, are divided in our land into two enemy camps; the Histadrut is in the trenches against the householders. All that will destroy our enterprise. This is not the time for it. We must wait until we are strong and well-established in our country. When a few people raise a heavy stone they should not quarrel while doing it, as the stone might fall and crush them all together.”

No one answered. The silence felt like a bad omen. Only two or three strangers in the throng said as they left, “You will change your mind yet, Avigdor.” Malka said, “I don’t understand why you have to reveal what is in your heart to everyone! Keep your thoughts to yourself and do not declare them to the entire world.”

This evening Benny said to Avigdor, “I find it strange, Avigdor! I never imagined hearing you say such things. In my opinion, it’s plain obstinacy on your part.” Benny loved Avigdor very much and always deferred to him as a student to his teacher. He was therefore experiencing a difficult emotional crisis.

A few days passed and Avigdor noticed that many of his friends treated him with indifference and when meeting tried to avoid him as if he were ostracized. Once in a big meeting he heard behind him, “So this is him? Yes?” and someone answered, “Yes, that’s him. Villain, a soldier of the White Brigade!”

He was never talkative, and now he receded into himself, sank deeper into his soul, but did not become hard hearted. Avigdor thought and observed, and despite his youth always saw beyond the petty people and their inflated slogans and shouting, perceiving the image of the great national building of the new Hebrew Eretz-Israel.

And so the inner tie among the Sorokino group members loosened. It seemed only the white tent kept it from snapping altogether. During those days, Shimeon Gunn’s letter arrived, and the dying fire blazed again. Everyone started planning toward the arrival of Gunn and his family. Naturally, Avigdor in particular revived, shook off the trouble of the hard winter and was in good spirits. Suddenly it occurred to him to build a wooden hut. For whom? For the Sorokino group, of course, which his parents would join. During those hard days, days of hunger and unemployment, this was a bold idea. He thought and talked about the wooden hut so much that the idea began to appeal to the entire Sorokino group. Avigdor understood, then, that the “hut” was not simply a hut, but a symbol of something vastly important to all of them.

At the same time Menasheh came up with a “horsy” suggestion. It was a hard time for workers. They could not find work, and the number of the sick and the hungry grew. Menasheh realized that only the owners of a horse and a wagon made a good living, and few coachmen existed in Tel-Aviv in those days, since the pioneers could not afford such property. Menasheh consulted Avigdor first, and then went to Tabachnik. Tabachnik approved. “Good, I see, you are a clever boy. Forget ‘physics shmysics,’ buy a horse, and it will provide for all of you.”

A promissory note was signed, Tabachnik acting as a guarantor, and one of the banks lent eighteen lira on the condition of payment over ten months.

Menasheh climbed the old tree and cut a straight branch. He whittled it for a full hour, creating a splendid cane. Why did he suddenly need a cane? Hard to say. He shined his shoes and washed his round, tanned face.

“No, you are no good,” said Menasheh. “You will only laugh. Daglan, you must come with me. You were in the military, surely you understand horses.”

“Fine,” agreed Daglan. “During the war I ate horse flesh and I do understand horses.”

“We should not be a crowd,” said Menasheh. “I found two experts; they are waiting to join us in Neve-Zedek. That makes five.”

The three got up and left, Menasheh ahead with his cane. Isaac called after him.

“You are a pretty good stallion yourself, just like the one owned by the Sorokino priest.”

“Yuk, ugly,” Menasheh made a face. “I have been observing mules for a long time. The miserable beasts have no brains at all. Besides, they do not reproduce and we will have no colts.” His face softened. “I always liked small animals, particularly colts, with their slender legs.”

For eighteen liras, Menasheh could only afford a skeletal gelding and a long wagon with one shaft, appropriate for a pair of horses. The horse was so thin, his bones and ribs could be counted, and he had deep indentations under his sides and his ears. Menasheh nevertheless liked him immediately. “Never mind, I’ll fatten him! You will see, he’ll become sleek with me. Most important, he is cheerful. I love cheerful horses.”

Indeed the horse possessed a cheerful face. When the three sat in the wagon and Menasheh pulled the reins, the horse turned his head, looked at them with his strange, laughing eyes, as if asking, “Do you seriously expect me to pull you in this wagon?”

“My soul, he is laughing!” Menasheh said joyfully. “Look, comrades, he is laughing!”

As if wondering, the horse started pulling the wagon leaning with one side on the shaft, and limping with one leg. They all howled, “Tabachnik! He walks like Tabachnik!”

Tears of laughter came into Avigdor’s eyes. Daglan took the reins from Menasheh’s hand. “Honestly, you can’t drive when you lie on your back with your feet in the air.” The horse led them over the sand till they reached the cement road, and despite Red’s ranting and raving, the first wagon bounced on the road. One of the wheels was not perfectly round and it rattled with a fine rhythm, r-r-rt-rt-dram! R-r-rt-rt-dram!

The horse went on in the sand without looking to either side, as if offended, until he saw a delegation approaching, carrying bread and salt. He understood he had to stop. Benny stepped forward with the bread and salt and Shmaria started a welcome speech to the new member of the group, but his laughter made him cough and he could not finish it. Isaac looked from the side and asked, “Have you lost your mind, Menasheh? Look at this skeleton. The horse is dying!”

“Stop that, don’t shove!” Menasheh protected the horse from Isaac, who pushed him with his strong hand. “When he was young he kicked better than you.” Menasheh took the reins. “Look how nicely he runs!”

The wagon moved and three more jumped into it. The horse looked up, moved backwards and forward and started walking, pacing and limping like Moshe Tabachnik with the back wheel drumming r-r-rt-rt-dram! Finally they reached the tent and administered to their new friend.

The old tree supplied them with a second shaft but it was too short, and when they hitched the horse his back legs hit the wagon. Menasheh did not want to shorten the long shaft. “It’s a pity, perhaps I’ll find a second long shaft like it.”

“Never mind,” he answered seriously. “Perhaps in Paris such a fashion already exists.”

After supper the whole group surrounded the horse and he stood under the tree and examined his new owners.

Menasheh fixed himself beddings in the wagon. “I am afraid the Arabs will smell a horse and come to steal it during the night.”

“Don’t worry,” Isaac comforted him. “Such a jewel will not be stolen.”

“Of course they will come to steal him,” said Menasheh with conviction. “From now on I will always sleep here. I sleep lightly and any whisper wakes me up. I may get a dog to guard him.”

“He will get us food. He is a smart horse. You will see, I will take care of him and he will be an excellent horse.”

They fell asleep feeling a certain satisfaction. That night they had more space on their communal bed, since Menasheh slept in the wagon. Nevertheless, Avigdor woke up suddenly at dawn, pale and disturbed, and jumped off the beddings. He heard the horse banging, just like the horse in Avram Solovei’s cellar.

Every day the horse brought in the price of his food and at least ten grushim over it. Some days were even more successful. The group collected the monthly payment for the bank and had a small sum left over for their frugal expenses. Menasheh loved the horse jealously, not allowing anyone to take care of him, and was very angry with Isaac when he wanted to check the old horse’s teeth.

“Menasheh,” Isaac laughed, “you should hang a black veil over the horse’s face like an Arab does to his wife.”

“Menasheh,” Isaac went on teasing him, “why does this Arab keep wandering around here every day? Do you think he wants to exchange horses?”

The young Arab came closer. He rode a magnificent black horse, whose every muscle quivered, exuding power. The rider was much like the horse, tall, slender, a thin moustache under his aquiline nose. He wore an elegant blue suit, a red fez, and yellow shoes that matched the color of the saddle and reins.

Isaac winked with sharp sarcasm, looking straight into the Arab’s eyes. He stood with his legs apart, hands in his pocket, and his bright, insolent eyes expressing such sharp, vicious mockery that the Arab’s face darkened and he raised his head proudly.

“Effendi, do you wish to exchange your horse?” asked Isaac in French, pointing to the old horse.

Surprisingly, the answer came in perfect Hebrew. “How much cash would I have to add?” The Arab turned his horse, approached the tent and touched his fez. “Shalom.”

He looked into the tent. “Your wives and children are in the tent with you?”

“Children?” they burst out laughing. “Our children are still warming themselves in Heaven,” said Isaac.

“I did not look closely,” the Arab was embarrassed. “A blond, I believe?”

Shmaria gazed with interest at the Arab’s face and at his magnificent horsemanship. Menasheh was not pleased. He did not like this acquaintance. He did not want to look at the beautiful, slender legged, dancing horse. He petted his aged horse to comfort him. All his good care could not cure the old horse.

That evening handsome Ilia, who used to crush stones with the Sorokino group, pushed into the tent. He said with the smile of a tormented man in great pain, his lips open over clenched teeth, “Please, comrades – a slice of bread. Right away!” and sank to the floor. His high forehead was as pale as whitewash and his beautiful eyes darkened with hunger.

“Not all at once, not all at once!” Benny took care of him. “Like so, like so. Swallow a little water after each bite. I am too… always… like that…”

Avigdor stood over him trembling as if with ague, his hands clenched. The other comrades stood quietly, like frightened babies. Daglan turned and left, stomped his foot and uttered a strong Russian curse word.

Despite the hard times, Passover was celebrated with great joy in Tel-Aviv. Defying all the enemies of Israel, they sang songs in all the houses, and played the pianos and the violins. The pioneers walked in groups in Allenby, Herzl, and Nachlat-Biniamin Streets. The windows rattled from the sound of their singing. By the Gymnasium they danced in three circles, circle within circle, the Hora and Shusha dances.

Over Tel-Aviv shone a Passover moon, reclining on snow-white clouds that floated it leisurely over the deep spring sky. The dark orchards wore white buds for the holiday, and a light breeze carried their intoxicating scent to the celebrating city.

The Sorokino group mingled with the crowds to celebrate their first Passover in Eretz-Israel, drinking, dancing and singing. They came to Tabachnik and filled the low house with wild, youthful singing, the stomping of feet, laughter, and the sounds of clinking glasses. Zemira joined the circle immediately, clicking her small heels. They pulled in the old woman and Tabachnik himself, despite his protests that his leg was aching. Only Hania and her Sephardic sat politely in the corner, under the pictures that were hanging on the wall, until Tabachnik himself caught fire and grabbed their hands. “What, aren’t you Jews? Yalla, yalla!”

And Old Reb Moshe forgot his pain and stomped his feet and danced in the circle like any of the youths. From Neve Zedek they went, arm-in-arm, to Malka’s house, and arranged a dance under the windows, including Isaac. Malka did not invite them to come up to her room but went out to them, wrapped in her shawl, and called to Avigdor, “I am not coming with you, Avigdor. There is a quarrel in the house; I think I am the cause.”

“Malka!” Avigdor was mortified and grabbed her hand. “Get out of there! Right away!”
“And where should I go? To you, to the tent?”

“I’ll prepare a place for you. Perhaps under the awning. It won’t rain anymore.”

“Ah!” Malka answered. “Now go and enjoy yourselves. I’ll come tomorrow morning.” She turned and went upstairs to her room. Avigdor dragged on after his friends, deep in thought about poor Malka. But soon his joy returned. He drank only a little, but felt intoxicated by the happy voices of his youthful friends, young Tel-Aviv, the scent of the orange blossoms, and the glow of the Passover moon.

Yitzhak Babayev, drunk, and Ilia, smiling, joined them on their way. Then came Sharpman, the old devil that walked with the young.

“Why aren’t you dancing?” Benny teased him. “You may be older, but you are a pioneer! Don’t refuse! Give us a hand!” The circle kept widening.

Daglan danced alone in the middle of the circle with his hands on his waist, and Isaac drove the circle powerfully, making the weak and slow fall down.

“Never mind, we will manage somehow,” thought Avigdor while singing and dancing, investing all his love for Malka in the song. He spread his arms as if he wanted to drag the moon into the Hora circle.

“Oh, a man’s strength is failing! A man has only small, weak lungs!” The circle separated, the dancers breathing heavily.

“You shouldn’t, Shmaria, not yet!” said Menasheh, the group’s “mother.”

Sharpman opened his heart that night. He wrapped his arm around Avigdor and said, “It’s beautiful, Avigdor!”

“Stand here, with your face toward the moon,” said Sharpman, holding Avigdor’s head with his two hands. “You are just the way you were then in the Boulevards. Let me kiss you!”

Avigdor lay his hands on Sharpman’s shoulders, and he looked at Avigdor affectionately. “I am like a father to you! I am already almost forty! Have you never heard that I am a spy?”

“Ha-ha-ha, Avigdor! I am a bit of a spy. I am a writer, a dreamer, a fool whom no one knows.”

The celebrants got some empty tins and drummed on them with sticks – on a night like that one could not rely on the weak throat of flesh and blood.

Noisily they walked the moonlit streets. After midnight, the tired crowd started dispersing. The streets emptied out and settled quietly into the shadows of their houses. Suddenly, from a distance, an explosion was heard, like a bottle of sweet red wine bursting open. Human shadows rushed about after the shot, and the dark orchards gave off their intoxication scent.

A young pioneer fell among the orchards. It was his last Passover in Eretz-Israel; the song “God Will Build the Galil” was his last song.

Passover was gone, Shavuot passed and no news came from Shimeon Gunn. Avigdor was depressed and began to despair. During these moments of desolation he would take out his father’s little letter, attempting to derive comfort and hope from it. Tabachnik said to him, “Do you suppose your father is traveling on a fast train? No, my friend. They are traveling secretly with a horse and wagon, through woods and fields. Or perhaps you think he is journeying like a pioneer with a rucksack on his shoulder?” he grinned and whispered, as if revealing a secret. “Shimeon Gunn will not come empty-handed. He will bring something with him.”

The summer days dragged on, boring and joyless. The pioneers’ ranks went on thinning every day. They turned and went their separate ways, some to America, some to Argentina, some to the hospital, and some to their eternal rest. Many went to the Galil and to Valley, and new names surfaced from there – Ein Harod, Nahallal, and other settlements that were created with agony, devotion, and immense love.

Benny and Daglan planned to go to the valley and join one of the new settlements. Avigdor longed to go there too and fulfill his goal: to plough the earth of Eretz-Israel. But Plot # 48 detained him. Every day he expected news from his parents, and dreamed of building a wooden hut. As for Isaac – his heart did not pull him toward the Valley. He made the acquaintance of a beautiful young American woman and spent all his free time with her. They looked odd together, he in his pioneer’s attire, she in her elegant dresses and expensive jewelry. Shmaria modeled and dreamed of Bezalel, while Menasheh did not mean to go anywhere. He trimmed and shortened his horse’s main and tail, and assured his friends that the horse looked ten years younger. When they said that the protruding bones bore witness to the horse’s age, he retorted that bones were no evidence, such horse breeds existed. For example, Berl, the Sorokino cantor – skin and bones, but healthy and strong as an ox. “Trust me,” said Menasheh, “this devil, when he senses that I have overloaded the wagon he turns toward me and shakes his head. I swear it! He is a reincarnation of something!”

And so the friends were attracted toward separate roads but did not as yet break up or leave the spot. The tent stood under the ancient tree as before, and the sand-strewn cement road never lost the tracks of three round and one crooked wheel.

One scorching day in September, an Arab child brought Tabachnik a telegram from Romania, from Shimeon Gunn.

“Tomorrow to Usishkin!” shouted Tabachnik, hitting the table with his fist. His face was red from the heat of the day and his skull cap slid from his head and landed on the nape of his neck. He glanced angrily at Avigdor, who did not object this time.

When the hassle and trouble of obtaining entry permission for Shimeon Gunn was over, Avigdor started building the wooden hut. The summer was over and the pleasant days of autumn arrived. The group found more work and the horse also earned something, and again they ate sufficient food and some coins jingled in their cash box. Unanimously, they decided to buy planks for building.

Menasheh moved furniture from the port for a rich American. One of the boxes was as large as a train car, and they bought it cheaply. Avigdor suspected that the American was giving them charity, and meant to decline, but Menasheh whispered in his ear, “Donkey! The American at first planned to throw it into the trash!”

Later, Benny found a small, old hut that was going to be sold for the price of the old planks. The owner was an old, worn out, tired pioneer. He said, “Take it, boys, and build your hut. You have the strength of youth and I am tired, I can’t go on anymore. All I had I gave to the Eretz-Israel, the sun, and the malaria. Seventeen years! I was like you, like this one,” pointing at Isaac, “broad shoulders, broad chest. Now I am going to America. Here is my visa. I buried my wife and I am taking my daughter with me.” Sadly he lowered his head. “You take my old hut and build. Perhaps you will be more successful than we, the first laborers, had been.”

They disassembled the hut and took the planks to plot # 48. They planned to build two rooms and a small kitchen.

When they moved the wooden box and the planks from the old hut, they started banging with their axes. The second day a man holding a portfolio of papers arrived and forbid them to build the hut.

“But this land belongs to him!” shouted Tabachnik. “This is his father’s plot, Shimeon Gunn from Sorokino!”

For days Benny and Avigdor ran around, knocking on the doors of well-known officials and various organizations. Tabachnik banged his fist on the table at City Hall and threatened the clerks in the name of Usishkin, Weizmann, and the shadow of Herzl himself, who had known Shimeon Gunn from Sorokino very well. All to know avail. Tabachnik said to Avigdor, “Remember what I once told you? Now you understand the nature of the Jewish Official.” Tabachnik was depressed. He sulked for a while and then addressed the Sorokino group with bitter sarcasm, “Childish doings! Shimeon Gunn needs your hut? Do you think he would deign to live in this plot in the desert? You wasted money on these planks.”

The next day he returned to the young men, looked both ways and said furtively, “You have this dried-up horse. Take all the planks to my yard and prepare the walls for the hut. Do you understand? The kind of walls that can be connected and raised instantly.” He smiled. “There is an old Ottoman law stating that if you raise the hut overnight the City Hall has no jurisdiction over you, and you can answer all complains by telling them to kiss your…” he got up and raised his hand in command, like a general. “Yalla! I’ll show them!”

The poor horse again carried the planks to Neve Zedek, doing his part for the general business of the group. The rest of the group, the two-legged ones, labored industriously all day, sawing, planing, shaping, and sanding. They made the first room from the new American planks. “The salon,” laughed Tabachnik. The second room was built from the old hut’s planks.

“Hands of gold he has,” said Tabachnik about Avigdor. “Look, Hania, how he planes, so fast and smooth. Anyone would think that his father, Shimeon Gunn, is a carpenter.”

The old woman added, “There are no sons like him in the world! He is as full of good qualities as a pomegranate.”

Old Tabachnik sat all day with the young men, observing their work. The major part was done, of course, by Avigdor and Menasheh. Shmaria tried hard but did not have the strength. Daglan and Benny worked industriously but were heavy handed. Isaac worked lazily; he had the American! Eventually the old man became excited and started helping. He blinked, his skull cap slid to the side, he knocked with his little hammer, banged his finger and painfully stuck it in his mouth.

It was a quiet, moonlit night. The old horse treaded stealthily as if sensing that he was carrying forbidden goods. They brought all the planks already connected, the walls smooth and equipped with holes ready for the screws. The wagon was followed, apart from the Sorokino group, by Tabachnik, Ilia , and Sharpman. That night, all their friends were drafted to help out.

Benny carried and ax on his shoulder as if going to battle. “If someone,” he said, “dares interrupt, I will smash his skull.” Daglan must have had the same thought. His hand was in his right pocket.

Tabachnik stayed with them until dawn, as they fastened together the walls and the ceiling. At daybreak, the hut threw its first shadow. They stopped working and stared silently at that shadow. Cocks crowed from the Arab quarter. Suddenly the Russian church’s rang, probably a Pravoslavic holiday.

Benny suddenly hugged him and shouted, “It’s the building of our home in Eretz-Israel!”

“Let them come now, the villains!” old Moshe threatened, winking at someone.

“You will be fine with us now, Malka,” said Avigdor, caressing her with a smiling look. He felt some change in her face. She seemed distracted, and looked to the side. Only as an afterthought she directed her blue eyes at him.

“No, Avigdor. It’s impossible. Soon your parents will arrive, your sister, perhaps that girl.”

“Malka! You don’t know my parents! My mother! She will love you like a daughter, like our Rosa, since you will be ours, too.”

“I’ll perfume you with some eau-de-cologne.” She hurried to the little bedside table, covered with all sorts of little bottles and vials. The room was small, and decorated with various ornaments. She rented it after she had acquired the position of a sales lady in one of Jaffa’s large stores.

Avigdor moved aside, avoiding her smooth, perfumed hands. “No, thanks. I don’t need eau-de-cologne. Tomorrow I carry manure again.”

She saw that his eyebrows contracted like two angry little pythons and she wet his face with the eau-de-cologne despite his protests. “Bad imp! There!” she said.

“Malka!” her friend and co-worker at the store called from outside. She was a made up, showily dressed girl.

“Why are you running away?” Malka held on to his hand. “We are going to the dressmaker, come with us.”

“I don’t like your friend. Your room, your eau-de-cologne, and your job do not appeal to me.”

Had she been angry, had she argued and said the kind of things she was capable of saying, he would have felt better. But she was entirely calm. Not the same Malka of the old days. No, not the same.

He pondered it on his way home. A few times he had attempted to talk to her, clear up their relationship, but did not succeed in doing so. She always eluded him, perhaps finding it easier to avoid confrontation. What was there to clear up? Avigdor wondered. Did she stop loving me? Impossible. She always accuses me of indifference, and she is jealous of the Sorokino girl. Unconsciously he started comparing the two. The other, a beautiful, cold moon. Malka, a burning Eretz-Israel sun. The other, only a shadow of love. Malka – with her fiery love, securing an eternal place in his soul. Yes, I do love her, thought Avigdor. I love her despite her shortcomings, her selfishness, her bourgeois aspirations. Yes, yes. I love her with the yellow sparks in her blue eyes, and sly, wicked lips. He stopped suddenly, wishing to go back to her. But he was near the dunes, and from the distance the hut was visible, with Shmaria sitting on the roof, hammering. Avigdor changed his mind. The made-up young lady would still be sitting with her! Unwittingly he looked at his clothes – she did not like the manure. He turned and went to the hut. This must be resolved, the relationship must be cleared up. On Saturday, I’ll bring her here. That girl is always stuck there.

Malka yielded to Avigdor’s entreaties and went to meet his parents with the Sorokino group. She even put on her old blue shirt which she had not worn for long time, but was a great favorite with Avigdor.

The ship, already anchored, sent her cheerful whistle to the shore. The first boat left the ship with a group of travelers. Benny tapped Avigdor’s back joyfully, “Curse you, Avigdor! I’ll strangle you!”

“They are in the boat!” declared Menasheh. His round eyes were more far sighted than the others’.

“God in Heaven!” Tabachnik murmured to himself. “I am shaking as if with malaria. Avigdor! Why are you moving aside? Come here! Listen… he used to look like a Paritz, (a Russian landowner) round beard, round face, broad shoulders… is he still like that? I am afraid he won’t recognize me. Ah, Lord, how much I have changed! I am like a squashed cockroach! There he is moving away again. How strange is this Avigdor! His father, Shimeon Gunn is arriving, and he sidles to the wall…”

And on the shore, among the pushing crowds, Menasheh was again the first to identify the new comers. “There, there they are!” he shouted and sprinted toward them.

The mother already recognized her son and ran to him sobbing, with open arms. He bent and kissed his long-suffering mother and she whispered something to him and pressed his head to her heart.

Shimeon Gunn approached them, smiling, his eyes full of tears. Indeed he resembled a Russian nobleman, particularly when wearing his Russian-style short coat with two pockets on his broad chest. His beard was wide, dark blond, tinged with gray at the edges. He carried the suitcases, but the Sorokino young men quickly took them away from him. He smiled at them, but the excitement prevented him from speaking, other than calling their names, “Ah, Isaac! Menasheh!” and he laid his hands on their shoulders.

A tall girl of about fifteen years of age and strongly resembling Avigdor, stepped before Shimeon. “Avigdor!” she cried loudly and dragged her brother from the arms of their mother, who stepped back crying and enjoying the sight of the brother and sister embracing each other.

“How she had grown!” said Avigdor cheerfully, turning to his mother. But he suddenly saw his father, his kind smile under his moustache, his eyes wide open and full of tears, and turned from his sister Rosa’s arms and fell on his father’s neck. “Father!”

“And here, thank God, you are too, Reb Moshe,” said Shimeon, hugging Tabachnik, who wiped his nose vigorously. “Who am I and what is my life – a squashed cockroach, Reb Shimeon. But you, thank God, just like you have always been, exactly like a Russian Noble, even more than before.”

“This is Malka,” answered Avigdor, slightly embarrassed. “Mother, do love her!”

The mother wondered for a moment, perhaps looking too closely at Malka’s blushing face.

Shimeon came over, looked at Avigdor, Malka, and his wife, and understood. Affectionately, he laid his hand on Malka’s shoulder.

Shimeon was telling the Sorokino group already about their relatives, where they had escaped to and where they stayed. Only Menasheh was so busy with getting the luggage from customs, it seemed as if he forgot to ask about his parents.

“And who is this one?” asked Reb Shimeon. “Not from our Sorokino group?”

“This is our Daglan,” said Tabachnik. “He is entirely like one of us, the Sorokino group.”

“And this is our horse, Reb Shimeon,” said Benny. “Don’t pay attention to his less than beautiful appearance.”

“Who says he is not beautiful?” said Shimeon, patting the horse. “Here everything is beautiful, everything is good.”

Any other time Menasheh would have been overjoyed to hear such a compliment to his horse, but this time he did not even hear Shimeon’s last words. He loaded the luggage on the wagon, removed his hat, passed his hand on his cropped head and put his hat on again. He then approached Shimeon, looked at him strangely, and said, “And now, Reb Shimeon, I’ll hurry to the synagogue to say the first Kadish, but please tell me, after father or after both?”

“Both?” Menasheh trembled. “I supposed just father. What about the rest of the family? My brother Chaim and my sisters Malka and Hania?”

Again Shimeon looked down, his face bent to the ground. “The Petlura murderers… your home, Menasheh, was the first.”

“I had known it for a while,” whispered Tabachnik, but Menasheh heard him. “I did not know, Mr. Tabachnik. I really did not know a thing.” He took one step and suddenly stopped, grabbed Shimeon’s hand and whispered, his lips trembling, “And now you, Reb Shimeon, and you, Rivka, you will be my father and mother…”

Tabachnik invited them to his house. “Come to my little home in Neve Zedek, Reb Shimeon, Rivka. Give me the joy of your visit!”

Shimeon hesitated and the group was not happy with that. Tabachnik added, “My old woman is expecting you too, Reb Shimeon, Rivka…”

“I’ll be honest with you, Reb Moshe. First, I want to go to my son,” he looked lovingly at Avigdor, “and my Rivka must rest. She is sickly” he whispered sadly in Tabachnik’s ear.

It was decided that they would go straight to the hut, and in the evening, or the next day, they would visit Tabachnik. “We’ll have plenty of time to bother you, Reb Moshe,” Shimeon tried to appease the old man, who was nevertheless a little sad. When he came home he told his wife everything and added, “after all, this is Shimeon Gunn! And he walked to the hut, this is how things change in this world. Life is a spinning wheel, today I am at the bottom, tomorrow you are, the next day, he is. But I still imagine that Reb Shimeon brought something with him in the old trunks.”

At that time the Sorokino family followed the heavy-laden wagon in the dunes. From a distance, the green-painted hut became visible.

“Why did you say a wooden hut!” said Shimeon happily. “It’s a beautiful house, isn’t it, Rivka? Are you tired?”

“No, my son, I will walk. I feel so light, I could walk ten more parasangs (roughly 35 miles).”

Avigdor and Rosa walked arm-in-arm with their mother. Every so often Rosa moved on to her father, who walked with the group.

And the mother pressed her son’s hand to her heart and whispered, “Is it very hard for you here, my darling? Your face is so pale.”

“Not terribly hard, Mother. I work and earn. Some of the people here lead much harder lives.” She looked at him with her tired, loving eyes. “You are not angry with your father and me for teaching you to love Eretz-Israel?”

Adoringly, he pressed her pale hand to his lips and kissed it. “No, no, Mother dear! I am very happy here.”

Finally they arrived. A few pleasant surprises awaited them in the hut. A beautiful blue tablecloth covered the table that was built yesterday from planks in honor of the newcomers. A glass vase, full of flowers, stood on it. Sharpman was sticking thumbnails into the walls, securing a Yemenite painting from Bezalel, and Zemira, who had hurried with bated breath to be there before the guests arrived, was busy doing something by the wooden bed.

“Cheers, Zemira’le is here! Isaac cried happily and hurried over to her. She blushed, embarrassed at being “caught in the act.”

“How lovely she is,” Rosa whispered in Russian. “Mother, look, everyone here is so beautiful!”

“These drops were prescribed by her doctors. She will feel better right away. Be strong, Rivka, you made it to Eretz-Israel, to your son.”

Avigdor was not surprised by his mother’s weakness. She was always thin and pale and his father wrote from Romania that she was ill for many days.

“I don’t need the drops!” Rivka suddenly announced. Her nostrils quivered just like her son’s. “I’ll sit for a while, and then get up.”

The two girls started a conversation in Hebrew. Rosa learned a little Hebrew in the Diaspora; Shimeon Gunn and particularly his wife prepared their children for Eretz-Israel since a very early age. They hurried to the kitchen, and right away clicking plates, rumblings of the primus, and the sound of laughter were heard from there. Benny and Isaac joined them. The father and son stood near Rivka. Sharpman finished arranging the Yemenite artwork and quietly left the hut.

“Ah, this is a wonderful man,” said Avigdor. “Look what he had done here! Tablecloth, flowers, picture! We just asked him to guard the hut until we came back from the port and he… ah, Father, there are such good people here.”

“There are good people everywhere, Avigdor. That is what I have always said.” He laid his hands on his son’s shoulders, smiled and shook him. “Never mind, you are steady on your feet… but you have lost weight! You must lead a hard life here, son. But never mind. With God’s help we will do better.” His eyes lit with the quiet energy well known to Avigdor. “You did well, my son! And after all you were not received as well as you have received us. A home, a table, a bed, all is ready for us.”

Avigdor listened to his father’s voice, looked at his face, but did not believe his eyes, fearing it may be a dream. The father, who had understood, laughed kindly, drew Avigdor to himself and hugged him. “You are as tall as I am already!” Shimeon said, and again the tears glittered in his eyes. “My son, my darling son!”

Three friends rested on the communal bed. The fourth, Menasheh, stood in his customary place and prayed. His bedding was in the wagon near the horse, but before retiring he always entered the tent and stood for prayer in the corner which he had designated as his praying spot.

Silence reigned in the hut and the tent; it was very late. Everyone was exhausted by the joyful reunion. Menasheh was now entirely alone in the world. Suddenly he keeled over and writhed, sobbing bitterly.

The young men woke early, quenched their thirst with tea in the tent and went to work quietly. They thought everyone in the hut was still sleeping. Naturally, the friends did not let Avigdor go to work that day.

“Avigdor!” the mother called him. “Come here, my son. Why didn’t your young woman come over yesterday?”

“I don’t know, Mother. She lives in Neve-Shalom, quite a distance from here.” When he talked to his parents about Malka he averted his eyes, and shrewd Rosa noticed it and deliberately looked straight into them.

It seemed as if the mother wanted to ask him something else, but refrained for some reason. Suddenly, Avigdor said, “Mother… in our village, there was a girl, Hadassah…”

“Yes, yes,” Rivka said happily. “Indeed, I have just been thinking about her. We see you as a steady person in control of his feelings. I thought you would be faithful to her.”

“Well, so how is Hadassah?” they spoke in whispers so as not to wake Rosa, but she suddenly raised her voice, with her eyes still closed, “She had married someone a long time ago.”

Avigdor burst out laughing, hurried to his sister, and grabbed her affectionately by her thin, bare shoulders. More than once, while reflecting on Hadassah and his culpability toward her he would think, perhaps she had forgotten me! He wanted that very much, feeling that her betrayal would save him from his own guilt. No, no she won’t forget me! He decided that, recollecting her eyes, glowing with love. She was not capable of forgetting. And yet, knowing that she had married another was not very pleasant to him.

The young men were wrong in assuming Shimeon Gunn still slept. He woke at dawn, looked around, and went to Tel-Aviv. He strolled slowly in the city’s sleeping streets, and when he felt tired he had already approached Rothschild Boulevards and sat down to rest on the same bench his son occupied on his first day in Eretz-Israel. This time no one played the piano and Sharpman did not sit there. But in Shimeon Gunn’s big heart a wonderful chorus sang and his eyes shone just like those of his son. After resting a little, he walked on and stumbled upon the Neve-Zedek synagogue; this was just what he wanted at that hour. He prayed with the first “Minyan” (ten or more adults praying) in the old-fashioned way of praying at sunrise. Turning his face towards Jerusalem, whose nearness he felt with all his heart, he prayed joyfully, thankfully, not noticing the others around him. When his prayer was over he heard someone saying “Kadish Yatom” (a mourner’s prayer for his parents) with intense emotion, his voice breaking every so often. The man complained, threatened, and raised his sobbing voice higher and higher.

“This is our Menasheh,” whispered Tabachnik. “Good morning, Reb Shimeon.” Refusing would not have succeeded, and Shimeon went to Tabachnik’s house, drank tea, and listened to the homeowners’ explanations about all the photographs on the walls. Tabachnik then went with him to the hut.

“Now tell me, Reb Moshe, everything you had experienced since you left Sorokino.”

“What shall I tell you, Reb Shimeon? Settling here was not easy. With the money you gave me I bought this little house, since in my opinion every Jew needs a home above all else. Neve-Zedek was like Tel-Aviv today, a tiny Jewish city. Do you ask me how did I live, or made a living? Truly, Reb Shimeon, making a living was as hard as parting the Red Sea. God had granted me many children, may the Evil Eye never harm them, and earning money in the Holy Land was not easy. I became a glazier. In our village I never touched a pane of glass and here I became an expert glazier. Even now some Neve-Zedek Jews call me Moshe the Glazier, by force of habit. Later, when more Jews came over, I became an agent. I still do some middleman’s work, but mostly, Reb Shimeon, my sons support me, may God grant them a long life. Children like mine are few in this world. Who, do you think, is giving a dowry to my daughter Hania? Her brothers, of course. I have only one possession – my left leg, which makes my life miserable!”

“No, Reb Shimeon, it’s all the same to me. If I go slowly or fast it would hurt a lot anyway. Yes, Reb Shimeon, this is my situation. My daughter Hania will probably be married soon, to a broker. To my sorrow he is a Sephardic Jew, even though he is a good, well-educated man. What can I do? Don’t I and my old woman see that her heart is aching? He is a Jew like us, the seed of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, but his spirit is different, not like ours. My Hania is a pretty girl and a good housekeeper, but she does not have good luck. But what am I chattering about…” he remembered he was talking to Shimeon Gunn from Sorokino. He took half a step forward and looked at him. Yes, Reb Shimeon Gunn! Indeed he has aged, but the same good, calm, dignified face, like a Paritz, like a philanthropist Jew. But what is this short jacket he is wearing, with the little pockets on the breast? Tabachnik was wondering.

Passersby appeared in the street. Many noticed the newcomer and stared at him. Tabachnik stopped one of them and introduced Shimeon.

“Reb Shimeon Gunn from Sorokino. You must have heard his name? In the Congresses…”

The man remembered and exclaimed joyfully, “Ah, Mr. Gunn! Do you remember? Kiev, during the days of the Contracts?”

I thought he would mention Basel, and here he remembers him from the Contracts in Kiev! Tabachnik mused. This man had probably spent ten thousands on Eretz-Israel, and nobody notices him. Audibly he said, “Ah- ah ah, what is the destiny of a man in a strange country!”

“Maybe we should visit him, Reb Shimeon? Though, why should you come in together with me? Such a great honor? A glazier, an agent, good for nothing, lame with one leg like Mendel the water carrier in Sorokino, half the water from his buckets spilled…”

Reb Shimeon laughed. “Reb Moshe! Reb Moshe! You had not changed; you are just the way you were in Sorokino.”

“And why should we visit the Mayor, Reb Moshe?”
“What do you mean, why? Such a man as you are! You need to know all the great people.”

This time Reb Moshe opened his eyes with surprise, and his eyes were large, black, and very beautiful. “Is it possible that you will not visit Usishkin, either?”

“Yes, of course. I know Usishkin and he probably had not forgotten me,” said Reb Shimeon, his face slightly troubled. He passed his hand on his beard. “But why should we bother people who are busy with great doings?”

Tabachnik spread his hands in surprise and started stammering. “So forgive me, Reb Shimeon! Of course, I am not the one to teach you wisdom – who am I? But… but… you are just like your Avigdor!”

“May there be many like him among Israel! But… Reb Shimeon… it’s necessary to manage! I, of course, I don’t know…”

“Never mind, my friend, Reb Moshe,” said Shimeon, laying his hand on Tabachnik’s shoulder. “Like all the other Jews! We’ll manage like all Jews do.”

“We will consult again about it,” said Shimeon. “And now, let’s hurry, over there they are wondering and they don’t know where did I disappear to.”

That evening, after spending a pleasant day with his parents, Avigdor suddenly remembered Malka with apprehension. She did not come all day. No member of the group saw her. Isaac may have known something about her, but he kept quiet, and Avigdor was ashamed to ask him. General conversation filled the hut, the entire Sorokino group assembled. Sharpman also arrived, and became an instant favorite with Reb Shimeon.

“Mother, I’ll be right back,” said Avigdor. He left quietly and no one noticed his departure. Only the mother looked after him with that special loving sadness peculiar to a mother observing her son leaving her to visit a beloved woman.

Avigdor, intoxicated with happiness, walked briskly, clicking his hobnailed shoes. When he saw light in Malka’s window his heart suddenly trembled. He entered, banging with his shoes on the stairs, and confronted the landlady, a repulsive woman he had hated from the first day he saw her.

“Sir, are you coming for Malka?” she asked, her broad back retreating backwards.

“Yes.” She did not move aside and continued to block the door. “I think she… Malka! Malka!” She suddenly cried loudly.

“What is it?” said Malka, keeping the door ajar and looking out with one eye. “Ah, it’s you, Avigdor! Wait one minute.” She disappeared behind the door. All was silent, the landlady disappeared. Avigdor stood in front of the closed door, his heart raging.

The door creaked a little and again Avigdor saw only one of Malka’s one eye and her right cheek, trembling strangely.

“I don’t know. Maybe tomorrow. Please excuse me.” The door shut again, and behind it – silence.

Avigdor descended the stairs confused and upset. Whatever happened to her? At the entrance he stood for a moment. Suddenly a banging sound was heard from the yard, the kind of banging that shocked him, that he would never hear in peace. By the wall in the yard stood a black horse he knew well, the horse of Hussein Effendi.

“Ah!” Avigdor let out audibly. “The riddle is solved!” He meant to return upstairs but changed his mind immediately. “What for? Revenge? Murder?” His mother’s image, waiting for him, passed before his mind’s eye.

“Yuck!” he said angrily to himself. Everything around him seemed filthy – the walls, the yard, even the linen hanging on the clothesline. He walked faster and went into the street. “Very nice,” he grinned, looking at her window. Then he turned and left quickly.

The pain was great, but the sensation of filth overpowered it. He now remembered a few words casually spoken by Isaac, regarding the Arab. He recalled a few other puzzling moments, the way she looked at men, her behavior toward him during the last few days, some small, expensive toys and rings that suddenly appeared on her table and her fingers and which he did not know where they came from. He combined all these facts and reached the inevitable conclusion. And I thought this was true love, he pondered. Yuck, dirt and filth!

This sensation of dirt grew and increased as if he emerged from a cesspool. Only when approaching the dunes, where the sea breeze blew at him, he felt cleansed. The light from the hut under the ancient tree glowed like a tiny star.

“My mother! My darlings!” his lips moved as he hurried toward the hut. First, though, he went to the faucet and washed his face and hands, as if removing a layer of mud. Then he entered the hut, blinking at the light. Hew face was pale, but smiling. Everyone was drinking tea at the table which was covered by the blue tablecloth, and conversing enthusiastically.

“You returned quickly,” said the father, and the mother asked, in a whisper, “Is she well?”

“What is it, my son?” she asked anxiously, looking at his face. He lowered his head for a minute, recovered, raised his head and looking straight into his mother’s eyes, raise her hand to his lips and whispered, “Mother, let’s not talk about this matter anymore!”

“Do you know, Reb Shimeon,” said Tabachnik the day after. “Perhaps it’s your luck! The boats are blasting their horns again in the port. My word! New Jews are appearing – not the young, poor pioneers, but respectable men, with paunches and full pockets. Look here, do you see?” He caught Shimeon’s sleeve. “They are on the dunes, five, six, seven of them! Can you see them? Wherever you go they are strolling, snuffling, measuring, and some are buying.”

“Who? Jews from America, Germany, Poland, and some of our own Russian Jews who managed to save something. Slowly, they are beginning to come to Eretz-Israel. You have no idea, Reb Shimeon, how desolate the country was after the pogroms of 1921 and 1922.”

Tabachnik gave him a shrewd, mocking, dismissing eye, but suddenly remembered who he was talking to. “Reb Shimeon, after you are here for a while, you will hear and understand. I tell you, our Russian “Ponka Kvas” (a derogatory term) with his Homel and his Kishinev (towns where horrible pogroms took place) are nothing compared to what happens here. This is not what I came to talk to about, but I tell you in passing, Reb Shimeon, my opinion that the Balfour Declaration will give us much trouble.”

“Why? Indeed this is the question, and I will add another: why are we, the Jews, the most miserable of all nations? Are we any worse than the Russian Kazap or the Romanian Lapazkan? (both derogatory terms) In my humble opinion, Reb Shimeon, there is a horrible machination in the world, and its name is Politics. And the Balfour Declaration, which made you so happy in Russia, dragged us into the wheels of this grinding machine. I am afraid, Reb Shimeon, that it will squash us. I hope I will be proven wrong!”

Shimeon listened thoughtfully. He stood by the tent under the tree. The rains had not come yet, but the summer was over, and the dunes were chilled with due. None of the young men were at home, all had work lately. Near the hut, Rosa and Zemira were busy planting an oleander in a large barrel full of soil that stood by the door. The two girls became very much attached to each other.

The men previously seen on the dunes stepped into the road and looked at the tree and the hut. Rivka came out of the hut and joined her husband.

“I am convinced, Reb Shimeon,” said Tabachnik, “that right here, in this place, one of the most beautiful streets in the city will be built. And at the beginning I was angry that they gave you a far-off place on the dunes.”

“You are right, Reb Shimeon, quite right. But man is a vessel of wrath. I was extremely angry. And now, in my opinion, you should think about building a house.”

Shimeon smiled, saying nothing. Rivka said, “Reb Moshe thinks, it seems, that we are still rich.”

Tabachnik was shocked. “You could not transfer anything to foreign banks? Or bring among your things? I met a man from Kiev – you probably know him – he hid a British note of five thousand in the handle of his suitcase…”

“I saved nothing, Reb Moshe,” repeated Shimeon. Rivka added, “They took everything. We are destitute.”

Tabachnik lowered his head and was silent. He turned and left immediately. Rivka said, “From now on he will not consider you to be as important.”

The next day Tabachnik returned with a new proposition. He searched and found the men who wandered over the dunes the day before.

“Have you ever heard of such a thing? They are four brothers. One from Argentina, two from New York, and one from Russia. All of them wealthy. To make a long story short, they like your plot and want to buy it.”

“But you have two plots, Reb Shimeon. Will you build two houses? Sell one plot. You will get a lot of money for it. Then you can build a one story building, and when one story is up the second will build itself.” Tabachnik became more and more excited. “You have no idea what is going on in town; there are no apartments to be had. They pay four pounds per month – have you ever heard the like? And here, there will be a wonderful street. Almost all the plots around here were sold!”

“No, Reb Moshe,” answered Shimeon. “We have a totally different plan, we did not come here to be landlords and rent our rooms.”

Shimeon saw that Tabachnik was very sad and laid his broad hand on his shoulder. “Have you forgotten, Reb Moshe, the old plans we had regarding our Aliyah to Eretz-Israel? We wanted to till the land. We had enough of chasing money, riches! How many years have I lost, wishing to bring a fortune here – and with what result? What do I have to show for all my labor? Only this plot. This is why I won’t sell it even if they give me thousands of gold dinars!”

“Don’t worry, my friend,” Shimeon tried to calm him. “We will make a vegetable garden, not big, but good. We will raise poultry, ducks, geese, chickens, and buy a couple of cows… you will see, Reb Moshe, what a nice farm we will create here with the boys! Do we need a better, more honest business in Eretz-Israel?”

Tabachnik told every detail of this conversation to his old wife, and Hania, who was sitting in a corner, embroidering, listened attentively. The old man usually related his stories enthusiastically, flavoring his tales with sharp mockery. But he could not discuss Shimeon Gunn in that style. The wrinkles on his temples smoothed away, he did not even wink, and he added quietly, “When a man loses his money over bad business – he may lose a little of his reason. Nevertheless, how dignified Reb Shimeon is! Such a precious soul is not to be found these days anywhere in the world!”

And Hania sat in her corner and listened, attempting to understand these new people who brought so much excitement into the darkness of Neve-Zedek. Sometimes she imagined that they came from an enchanted country that was always infused with splendor, and that they brought some of this splendor into their poor tents and huts.

The more she understood, the sadder she became, and to end her torment and that of her parents, who followed her moods with apprehension, she finally accepted her Sephardic lover and they were soon to be married.

Many guests came to the wedding and Tabachnik’s little house resembled an ants’ nest. Some guests wore long silk coats, Jerusalem-style, with fur hats on their heads. Many Sephardics, men and women, came wearing velvet, silk and patent leather shoes. They observed the cheerful Sorokino pioneers with amazement and curiosity, as they danced the Shusha and Hora in circles, stomping their feet that were shod in hobnailed shoes. The pioneers were joined by Zemira’s guests, sixteen year old boys and girls with clear, joyful voices.

The dearest guests of honor were Shimeon and Rivka Gunn. Tabachnik was a little drunk with wine, happiness, and sorrow. Yes, sorrow as well. This time he danced with two legs, sang and cried, and kept repeating to Shimeon and Rivka, “God wanted to comfort me, so he brought you here!”

Isaac also danced wildly and stared cheekily at the bride too often. The bridegroom was annoyed, and the bride placated him by affectionately fixing the silk lapel of his tuxedo.

Only Menasheh did not come to the wedding, since he was in mourning. The wedding itself was, to him, a cause for mourning. No one knew or suspected, except perhaps Isaac, that Menasheh loved Hania with the kind of quiet, secret love that always seems ridiculous to others.