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ISRAEL
Fred Lawrence Feldman
Copyright © 1984 by Fred Lawrence Feldman
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or part in any form. For information, address Writers House LLC at 21 West 26th Street, New York, NY 10010.
ebook ISBN 978-0-7867-5444-1
Distributed by Argo Navis Author Services
For my wife Marjorie and my friends and professional colleagues, Albert Zuckerman and Ed Claflin.
Thanks for believing in a dream begun, deferred, renewed.
Prologue
Israel, 1949
The silvery TWA Clipper banked like a hungry bird of prey over the sun-dappled Mediterranean. The big airliner’s four prop-driven engines changed in pitch as the plane began its descent over the sandy dunes and pastel sprawl of Tel Aviv.
“We’ll be landing at Lydda in just a few minutes,” announced the haggard-looking stewardess as she lurched and swayed the length of the first-class cabin. “Please extinguish all cigarettes—”
“You’ve made a mistake,” the stylishly dressed woman in her thirties said as the stewardess passed her.
“Pardon me?” the young stewardess asked, startled.
“It’s not Lydda, it’s Lod,” Rebecca Pickman corrected her, stubbing out the remains of her Lucky Strike. “It’s called Lod now that it’s ours.”
Rebecca, her large brown eyes steadfast, watched as the pink blush of confusion began at the stewardess’ throat and rose to suffuse her ivory features. The stewardess, nodding, said, “Yes, of course—Lod,” then continued down the aisle.
Rebecca chuckled, turning her attention back to the window to gaze at the dark green citrus groves and the patchwork of cultivated fields that rushed up at her as the Clipper lowered its landing gear and swooped down toward the airport. She was exhausted but exhilarated. Her journey had begun days ago in New York. The transatlantic leg of the trip was a nine-hour stomach-lurching battle between screaming headwinds and roaring, defiant engines; it ended in defeat when the plane was forced to make a detour to Ireland’s Shannon Airport in order to take on fuel. The unscheduled stop before they could continue to Paris was to stretch into a delay of several hours due to inclement weather.
It was during this predawn hiatus that Rebecca, her courage already stretched to the breaking point by the long, bumpy flight, wondered if she wasn’t being a fool by coming in the first place.
It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other, she thought, watching the fog streak tears down the windows of Shannon’s waiting lounge. So much has happened. What if we’re not the same people?
The mist abruptly turned to a pelting rain that rattled the window panes. Rebecca, shivering against the damp, wrapped her cashmere coat around her shoulders. Her fingers nervously stroked the rich, soft fabric. Luxury had become her shield. It was luxury, won by her intelligence and determination, that had allowed her to blossom into an attractive, desirable woman. She was still young, but much had happened in her brief life. The immigrant shopkeeper’s daughter had managed to transform herself from a poor drab creature into a radiant butterfly. She had risen to the top of her profession; she had been loved; and yet—
Rebecca Pickman, shivering like a waif in that Irish airport, listened to the rain, stared at the nicotine stains on her trembling fingers, brushed at her mahogany hair frizzing in the clammy weather and wondered if it hadn’t all been a horrid joke on her. Tired, alone in a strange country and at a crossroads in her life, Rebecca was suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to give up this crazy pilgrimage to the newborn State of Israel and return to New York. If she didn’t, in Israel she would become that drab shopkeeper’s daughter all over again.
She didn’t know what she might have done if that driving rain had continued, but it stopped, and then miraculously the mists began to lighten. In a matter of minutes Rebecca could see a bright morning sun. The boarding announcement was made and the flight went on to Paris, where a long hot soak in a tub and a good night’s sleep in her favorite hotel restored her for the next leg of her journey, to Greece.
Rebecca started and then relaxed, realizing that what she’d just felt was the blessed bump of the Clipper’s tires kissing the concrete of the runway. It seemed to her that the plane was going faster on the ground than it ever had in the air, but gradually it slowed and then began to taxi toward the low-slung barracks that housed arrivals and Customs.
At last the Clipper came to a halt, and one by one the propellers stopped spinning. The door swung open and Rebecca caught a glimpse of a flawlessly blue sky framed by the open portal. Then she was hurrying down the steep staircase to the ground.
The first thing to hit her was the warmth of the day, more than a little disconcerting after the still-raw spring in America and Europe. But then, she expected it to be warm. She thought of the last letter she had before she left.
No, it is not all like the desert you have seen in the movies. Come and I will show you pine trees on the slopes of Mount Carmel and snow on the peaks of Upper Galilee. I will show you forests of cypress and fragrant eucalyptus, acres of grapefruits hanging from leafy boughs like yellow balloons, olive groves like the ones in Greece, rivers winding through mighty rock formations like America’s Grand Canyon, multicolored carpets of wildflowers, and song birds like maybe in heaven itself.
There Rebecca noticed that his hand’s bold blue stroke suddenly grew faint, the way his voice characteristically did when his own depth of feeling surprised him.
Come, Becky, and I will show you where our people began. Come home to Israel, Becky. Come home to me.
And here she was, tottering down the steps, her cashmere coat over her arm, an oddity in this land of khaki shirts and shorts. She had been drawn here not by one letter but by a chain of them, letters that came every day and left her hungry, yearning for word from him if ever one was delayed.
Now as she surveyed the airport and its Hebraic signposts, glistening like wet paint, as she stared out at the milling sea of khaki, she felt like a visitor to another planet. Now she wished she had his letters in her hands as a talisman against her insecurity the way her fine coat was a talisman. She was on the threshold of new experience. Rebecca knew this would be nothing like her posh life in New York, not even like her humble beginnings on the Lower East Side.
His letters were right on one count at least; Israel was like no other place on earth. But if it was to be her home—well, she would see.
“Mrs. Pickman?”
Rebecca turned, not easy in the midst of the crowd milling toward Baggage and Customs. The man hailing her—the boy, actually, for he looked too young to order a drink in New York City—bowed respectfully.
“I am in charge of Customs. There is no need for you to wait in line. Please follow me.”
Rebecca did, feeling vaguely self-conscious at this special treatment. In New York she had come to expect it as her due, but here in the pioneer land of Israel she felt she was cheating at a new game.
“If you’ll hand over your baggage check, I will see to your luggage.” The customs official steered her toward a quiet gate. When they reached its desk, he stamped her passport. Smiling, he reached for her cashmere coat. “You won’t be needing that. It’ll be safe with your luggage.”
Rebecca handed it over, feeling a faint twinge of panic. Suddenly she felt stripped of her past. Good-bye luxury. Here she was just another shopkeeper’s daughter in a land spawned by shopkeepers.
The thought was fleeting, for Rebecca’s attention was transfixed by the sight of a flag hoisted high and fluttering in the hot, dry breeze. It was a white banner with two horizontal blue bars, the ancient colors of the tallith, the prayer shawl. Between the two bars was the Mogen David, the six-pointed star, the symbol of
Jewish life popular for over three hundred years in Central Europe.
The shield of David had no religious significance; it spoke for the physical reality of the Jews’ existence on earth. The new Jewish nation could have chosen no other symbol.
“You look at it like you can’t believe it is real, Mrs. Pickman,” the young customs officer softly chided. “You of all people should know that it is real. You worked hard enough and gave enough money and speeches to make it so.”
Rebecca felt her eyes grow wet. “Who knew I was telling the truth?” she laughed.
“Oh, you were telling the truth.” He nodded, grinning. “We have our own flag, our own passports, our own money, our own military, even our own language, Hebrew.” He winked at her. “Which you must learn in order to fit in—”
“That’ll be the day,” she said. What she thought was, If I want to fit in. Who knows if I’m staying?
She was nervously reaching for her cigarettes when she heard a familiar voice call out, “Becky!” She was dimly aware of the Customs clerk beaming as she began to hurry toward the man who had summoned her to this strange land.
As Rebecca ran, she kept her eyes on the ground. To see him from a distance was useless; she would only know if everything was all right when she could touch him, when she could see herself reflected in his eyes. Only then would she know if she was truly home.
“Becky!”
She sensed him moving toward her. She wouldn’t look at him, not until they embraced, and then she’d know.
As she ran, Rebecca Pickman could not help thinking about the pageant of history and all that she had personally won and lost to bring her to this moment.
Contents
PART I DREAMS BEGUN
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
PART II DREAMS DEFERRED
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
PART III DREAMS RENEWED
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
PART IV DREAMS REALIZED
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Epilogue
PART I
DREAMS BEGUN
Chapter 1
New York, 1910
Abe Herodetzky woke to the sound of a squalling child. He groped for his pocket watch and matches on the fruit crate that served as his nightstand. Squinting against the glare of the match, he saw that it was a quarter to five in the morning.
No great shame, Abe thought in Russian. I’d have to be up for work in a few minutes anyway. “No big deal,” he yawned out loud in thickly accented English.
He used the last of the match to light a stub of candle and took a moment to stare up at the cracked, blistered ceiling plaster. He had been dreaming of the past, of his arrival in America. Tattered fragments of his dream still lingered. The oil-dark choppy waters of the bay, the scudding clouds as grey as a Russian winter, the coppery towers of Ellis Island—the remnants of the dream teased him but refused to come quite clear.
Abe kicked away his tattered blanket. The dream faded as he cursed the chill in the Montgomery Street tenement. He climbed out of the rickety cot, stretching and scratching his pale, spindly body beneath his nightshirt.
The baby was still crying in the kitchen. He wished the parents would do something to quiet it, but he dared not complain. A boarder had few rights.
Every day more and more newcomers were flooding into New York. All of them needed a place to stay until they got jobs and learned their way around a little. Abe knew Joseph and Sadie could throw him out and find a new boarder in a matter of minutes. He also knew that this room, tiny as it was, with its single window opening onto an airshaft, was a veritable blessing. A private room, even a closet in disguise, was a rarity.
Three short paces and he was at the airshaft window. On the sill was the jar of water filled at the kitchen sink the night before. He poured the lukewarm water into a tin basin and washed. Next he turned his attention to his one luxury, an expensive ivory-handled straight razor. He honed the gleaming blade and then carefully shaved. It was a bold thing to do, shaving. The sight of his smooth cheeks often provoked disapproving glares in the neighborhood. God’s displeasure hung heavy on Abe’s shoulders.
But this was not the old country, he reminded himself. He was in America and he would be clean-shaven like an American.
He dressed quickly in his baggy blue suit, stained white shirt buttoned to the neck with no tie. He smoothed down his thinning thatch of dark brown hair as best he could, dumped the basin of water out the window, extinguished the candle and left his room.
The Montgomery Street tenement was like all the others Abe had boarded in on the Lower East Side. There were four flats to a floor, with one hall toilet.
Abe’s room opened onto the kitchen. Here illumination was provided by the ever-flickering gas mantle. There was a gas stove, cupboards for groceries and blue-curtained closets where clothing and the two sets of dishes and cookware were stored.
In addition to a table and chairs the kitchen had two tiers of bunkbeds for the children. Between the rusty sink and the stove was wedged a couch where Joseph and Sadie slept. More beds occupied the front parlor of the flat for Sadie’s parents and her younger sister, an eighteen-year-old named Leah.
Area rugs covered the worn floorboards of the kitchen, which had tattered pink floral wallpaper. A yellow plucked chicken hung from a washboard across the sink, heavily salted to leach out the blood, which steadily dripped into the drain.
The kitchen was quiet except for the baby at the foot of the couch. The other children were still sleeping, oblivious to the noise. The curtain was still across the threshold that separated the parlor from the kitchen. Joseph sat at the kitchen table spooning oatmeal into his mouth between sips of tea. There was a place setting laid for Abe. His two dollars a week bought breakfast each morning and dinner with the family at night.
Sadie, stirring the pot of oatmeal on the stove, glared at Abe’s clean-shaven features. She was a heavy-set sallow woman and a fiercely pious Jew. She took it as a personal affront that Abe defied the Book of Leviticus’ ban against shaving. Late at night, when they thought Abe was asleep, Sadie and Joseph discussed their boarder’s many shortcomings, or rather Sadie discussed and her husband listened.
Joseph was as big and strong as an ox and just as patient with his wife’s constant nagging. Now his strong
white teeth were startling against his glossy black beard as he grinned good morning to Abe, who seated himself at the table. Joseph’s work clothes were stained with old blood. He worked, to Sadie’s everlasting mortification, in a nonkosher slaughterhouse on the West Side, by the part of the Hudson known as the North River.
“It’s Friday,” Sadie announced in Yiddish. “Tonight starts Sabbath.” She put a bowl of oatmeal before Abe and drew him a mug of tea from the steaming samovar on one corner of the stove. “Don’t forget, if you want to eat, be home before sundown.”
“He’s not a goy that he has to be told it’s the Sabbath,” Joseph muttered.
“He should also know not to shave,” Sadie replied.
“He wants to be a sport, let him.”
“Let him . . .” Sadie echoed with infinite sadness. She went to the sink. There she took up a cleaver and began to hack away at the chicken with silent, furious eloquence.
Abe said nothing, but ate as quickly as he could. They were talking about him as if he were a child, but he could do little about it. He had to answer to these two the way they had to answer to their landlord.
Joseph stood up, ready to leave for work, but Sadie reminded him that he had to take the tsholnt. Down he sat as she took vegetables from the cupboard and set to work assembling the stew pot for her husband to carry to the nearby bakery. Many families would take similar pots so they could slowly cook in the baker’s ovens for twenty-four hours. Tomorrow afternoon Joseph would bring it home for the Sabbath meal.
Abe took a deep breath to steel himself for a storm. “I must work tomorrow,” he said.
“Shit,” Joseph grumbled in his deep voice. Curse words made up the whole of his English vocabulary. The Kraviches had been in America twice as long as Abe, but the study of English—like so many things—was “not for them.” Abe, on the other hand, had early on begun to frequent the university settlement on the corner of Eldridge and Rivington.
“In my house I don’t need a boarder who doesn’t go to shul, who shaves, who like a Polack desecrates the Sabbath.” Sadie chopped at thin air with her cleaver. “Joseph, tell him this can’t go on.”