The Land Agent Read online

  ‘I was feeling sorry for you.’

  Amshel relaxed his grip, pushed himself to his feet. ‘I’ve had some bad luck recently. That’s all.’ He pointed down to the shoreline. ‘Hey, look at that.’

  Stretched along the beach was a camel train, heading north. Ten of the beasts, each laden down with jute sacks draped over their single humps. Riding in between them were the Arab drivers, sitting sideways across their mules, tiny in comparison to their load-carrying counterparts.

  ‘On their way to Acre,’ Lev said, raising himself on to his elbows.

  ‘Or Damascus.’

  ‘Or Beirut. Or Persia.’

  ‘Hey, we should wave to them.’ And that’s what Amshel did, got up on his feet, started flapping his arms about. And Lev remembered that was what he had always loved about his brother. That exuberance. It warmed him to think it had not disappeared.

  ‘Let’s slide back down,’ Amshel urged.

  ‘No. No. Sit down and tell me what happened.’

  ‘Look. They’re waving back.’

  ‘Amshel. Why did you leave us?’

  Amshel sat down, reached out for a piece of dried wood, started to dig deep grooves in the sand. ‘I met a girl, Lev. I met her by chance, simple as that. By God’s divine hand.’ He drove the stick even deeper into the dune. ‘I was driving the horse and wagon over to Rzeczyca, making a delivery of crates of vodka for Mr Borkowski. And there she was on the road with two of her friends. I gave them a ride. A simple deed. A simple deed that changed my life. Her name was Theresa. A beautiful girl. Dark and vital. As if she were sucking up all the energy of the earth through her toes. I fell in love with her, Lev. Who wouldn’t? And the wonderful thing? She fell in love with me too.’ Amshel looked up from his digging, his dark eyes clouded over with sadness. ‘But what could we do? A Jewish boy and a Catholic girl.’

  ‘You could have stayed.’

  ‘Papa would have killed me if he had found out. Her father would have cut my balls off, fed them to their dogs. I had no choice. We had no choice, but to leave both our families. We travelled south to Wieliczka. I found work in the salt mines. We lived as husband and wife. These were the happiest days of my life, Lev. The happiest.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘She died. Two years later. Typhoid fever. She was just twenty years old.’ Amshel stopped talking, scraped a hand across his beard, a raspy, manly sound. I should have lent him my razor, Lev thought.

  They both looked out to sea for a while. The camel train had gone, leaving just the waves to break along the broad shoreline. Amshel tore up some long grass with his stick, tossed away the clumps and continued: ‘I stayed on at the mines. It suited me, working underground, away from the world. It is quite a beautiful place. Miles and miles of passageways of salt. So white. So quiet. It is like working in snow and ice. The miners have carved sculptures and friezes into the rock. There is even a cathedral. There is also a statue of Theresa. It took me three years to make. When it was finished, I left.’

  ‘Why didn’t you come home?’

  ‘I didn’t think Papa would still have me. So I came here. For a while, Palestine was good to me. The sun nourished my miner’s pale skin, healed my salted wounds. I was strong, good with my hands, good with a pick and a spade. I found work easily. I built railroads, hammered metal, planted trees. And then I got sick. Fever, vomiting. Malaria probably. It became harder to keep a job. I ended up on a road gang. That’s when I met Sarah.’

  ‘Sarah?’

  ‘Sarah from back home.’

  Lev felt a sudden twinge grip his chest like the pain of an old wound. ‘My Sarah?’

  Amshel laughed. ‘Yes, your Sarah. That pretty little girl you used to follow around. With your tongue hanging out like a lost wolf cub. How she made you do things for her. Run for this, Lev. Bring me that, Lev. Yes, yes, Sarah. Woof, woof, woof.’

  ‘Enough,’ he said, pushing his brother hard on the shoulder. ‘Just tell me about her.’

  Amshel sighed a long breath with a bout of coughing at the end of it. When he had recovered, he said: ‘It was about three or four years ago. She was with one of those Zionist youth groups. Socialists building roads for the capitalists. What a joke. What idiots. I vaguely remembered some of them from our home town. But they were only children back then. Sarah, I remembered, because of you. They had plans to start a settlement, I don’t know where. I only worked with them for a few days. Then I got sick again.’

  ‘What was she like?’

  ‘The same as most of them. Exhausted. Skinny. Disillusioned. Her hair was darker than I remember. Still pretty though. It was good to talk to her about home, about the people we knew.’

  ‘Did she say anything about me?’

  ‘She told me you abandoned the group as soon as they reached Palestine.’

  ‘Was she still with Shaul?’

  ‘I don’t know any Shaul.’

  ‘He was called Shimmel back then. Shimmel Feldman. The moneylender’s son.’

  ‘I don’t remember her with anyone in particular.’ Amshel turned over on to his back, closed his eyes, offered up his face to the sun. ‘It’s best you forget her. You know what it is like with these socialist groups. Everyone is sleeping with each other. Sharing a bed, sharing food, it’s all the same to them.’

  Lev pulled at some clumps of tussock grass. He didn’t toss them though. Just made a little pile of dead weeds. A pyre to his dead love. Killed finally by the thought of her sleeping with all these different men. Not just Shaul but possibly others from his original kvutza. Ariel, Noam, Boaz, Doron? ‘You knew I was here four years ago?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you didn’t try to find me?’

  ‘I didn’t know you had changed your name. It wasn’t easy to track you down.’

  ‘So why now?’

  ‘I’m sick of this place, Lev. It’s a hard life. And I don’t mean physically, although that as well. Everything is a struggle. With the Arabs, the Zionists, the British. Every day is like a fight. It tires me out inside. In my soul. I want to leave.’

  ‘Is that what you want? Money to leave?’

  Amshel turned to face him. ‘Sarah told me Papa emigrated to America. Is that true?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know where he is?’

  ‘I have heard nothing from him. He went to start a new life. With his new wife. Did you know he married again? Did Sarah tell you that? Do you care about any of us?’

  ‘Calm down, Lev. Yes, she did tell me about the new wife. Do you know anyone who has his address?’

  ‘You can’t just turn up in America like before, Amshel. Immigration is tougher now. There are restrictions. You need papers. You need money.’

  ‘Papa could sponsor me. He might be a millionaire by now.’

  ‘Even if he was, why would he want to see you again?’

  ‘Do you know anyone who has his address?’

  ‘Borkowski at the liquor store. When zeide died, I got a letter from him. He had news of Papa then as well.’

  ‘Good. That is very good. I will write to Borkowski. Can you help me do that?’

  Lev nodded.

  ‘I shall have to wait here for his reply.’

  ‘You can’t stay with me.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Madame Blum won’t allow it.’

  ‘I could charm her into staying.’

  ‘You would be wasting your time.’

  ‘Lev, I am your only brother. I am family. I have nowhere to stay, no money, no job. It will take weeks for Borkowski to write back. You have to help me.’ Amshel pushed himself to his feet then bent to take off his shoes. He poured the sand out of one, then the other. ‘Well?’

  ‘I know a place.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In the Jordan Valley. One of the new settlements.’

  ‘A kibbutz?’

  ‘Don’t worry. You won’t have to become a socialist. This place is desperate for help. You have the skills they ne
ed. I’m sure they’ll take you on a temporary basis. I’m going there myself in a few days.’

  Amshel tied his shoes together by the laces, slung them over his shoulder.

  ‘It could be a plan.’

  ‘It’s a good plan.’

  ‘As long as I don’t have to sing the Internationale.’

  ‘Only Yiddish folksongs.’

  ‘Even worse.’ Amshel held out his hand, pulled Lev to his feet. ‘Can you lend me some money?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To drink to the health of the Gottleib brothers.’

  Fifteen

  LETTER 11

  Kfar Ha’Emek, Jordan Valley, Palestine

  My dear Charlotte

  It is now two weeks since I last wrote but I have not received any letters from you in between. I imagine you must be busy with all your temperance campaigns. I just hope you haven’t got yourself into trouble. The idea of banning the sale of alcohol in parts of Glasgow is bound to raise tensions in the city. I know you are a brave and fearless young woman but you must be careful not to place yourself in danger. I worry for you. But, at the same time, I have so much admiration for you too. It is so important to bring an end to the desolation caused by drink. If I were back in Glasgow, you know I would be at your side.

  I am well but very weary. You may recall in my last letter I mentioned the possibility of our little settlement acquiring land to give us access to a nearby river. Water, water, water – it never stops raining in Glasgow, yet here we crave the slightest drop. However, for some of us the idea of taking on more land is a horrible prospect. We just don’t have enough workers or hours in the day to start thinking of draining more swampland, digging irrigation ditches and so on. We work so hard already just to survive, it is difficult for me to see how we can do more. My bones ache, the skin on my hands is as tough as old boots, I feel dried up inside and out. We need more help but new settlers do not come. They are not stupid, they know the conditions are harsh, they know there are probably better opportunities in the towns like Tel Aviv and Haifa.

  I realize I paint a grim picture of life here. You are probably asking yourself – why doesn’t she just pack her bags and come back to Scotland? After all, her relationship with Jonny was what took her there in the first place and now that is over. Well, Charlotte, these are excellent questions. I ask them of myself at least once in a day. But there are good times here as well. And when they come, they fill me up with such happiness and joy, I believe all the hardships are worth it.

  Today was a good example. A group of us went out together to pick olives. We inherited a small grove here of about thirty ancient trees and some of the Bedouin from down in the valley came to help us. There was Zayed, who is the elder of the tribe, and some of his sons and grandchildren. He has so many wives and children I think some of his grandchildren are the same age as his youngest sons so it is difficult to work out who is who. I also believe I saw the handsome Arabian prince you asked me to find for you. His name is Ibrahim. However, I do not know if he is married. Even if he is, perhaps you could become one of his harem.

  These Bedouin made fun of us because we chose to pick the olives by hand from off long ladders. Zayed said they just use sticks to beat the branches until all the olives fall off onto the ground. But one of our group – Benny is his name – who comes from Greece and claims to be an expert on olives (as if the Bedouin haven’t been around olives for thousands of years), he says doing that damages the crop for the next year so better to pick by hand. All afternoon I am at the top of a ladder, drawing my grasp along each branch so the olives peel off and slide into my bucket. It is a bit like milking a cow. Not that you would know how that feels like, my dear city girl. At the end of the day, I am atop my ladder and I have a clear view across the valley to the mountains of Trans-Jordan and the sun is setting behind me, and there are all these rays of light spread out through some passing clouds. I can just make out a shepherd with his flock on the hillsides, the Bedouin tents in the valley. I can imagine this place as the land of my forefathers, Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. For a few moments, I feel there could be a God and I realize why this land is so important to so many. My heart stirs and all the tiredness drains away from me and I feel this deep joy within me and I realize that there is nowhere on this earth I would rather be. Until your handsome prince Ibrahim starts shaking my ladder and shouts up at me, laughing in a friendly way – ‘Yalla, habibi’ – ‘come my friend’. ‘Yalla, yalla.’

  Such is my life on this settlement in the Jordan Valley. Please write soon – I long to hear from you.

  All my love

  Celia

  PS: Do you remember I told you about the young man who came here to help with the land negotiations, the one who grabbed my hand? I received a telegram from him this morning, asking if he could come to visit. He gave instructions for the postal clerk to wait for my reply. My message was we don’t accept visitors here, only those prepared to come and work for a few days without pay. How is that for a test of this young man’s affections? I doubt I will hear from him again.

  Sixteen

  THE WINDOWS AND DOORS of the dining room lay wide open. Flies crowded the table-tops for the sticky spills and wedged crumbs of the recent meal. Rafi Melamud sat at the same seat where Lev had first met him. His bald head shone with moisture, the open neck of his blue workshirt revealed sodden curls beneath. The man looked tired. It wasn’t just the large pouches under his eyes, all the skin on his face appeared to sag with the weariness of a senile hound.

  Lev guessed Rafi had once been an officer in some distant army, a man used to letting his subordinates wait for their orders. For Lev was being made to wait now. As was Amshel sitting beside him, flicking at flies, constantly shifting his position, hands in and out of his pockets. Standing opposite, next to Rafi, was Amos. Ferret-faced Amos wearing the same peaked worker’s cap and arrogant look as he did at the kibbutz meeting where he had so vehemently opposed the proposed land acquisition. It was Amos, not Celia, who had arrived with the wagon at the al-Dalhamiyya train-stop, not to meet them, but to pick up another delivery of crates. It was Amos who had told them on the way back how much he hated PICA with its pen-pushing European financiers imposing capitalist values on pioneering socialists. Lev had asked him why he bothered working on a PICA-funded venture when he could move easily to a more communist-minded settlement. Amos had been affronted by the question: ‘I have no intention of ending up as a victim of mass murder and torture,’ he had replied bitterly.

  Rafi tapped the fingers of one hand on the table-top, displacing a squadron of flies in the process. Lying in front of him, a pile of thirty-six cans of the best Norwegian sardines.

  ‘Your gift…’ Rafi said. ‘Our members will be grateful.’

  Lev accepted the gratitude with a dip of his head although it was Mickey who had helped. Lev had asked him if he could come up with a suitable token to take to the settlement. It emerged as a choice between these tins of sardines or sets of false teeth.

  ‘You want to stay a couple of nights?’ Rafi asked.

  ‘As a visitor. Not in any professional capacity as a PICA representative.’

  ‘You’re happy to work?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll be your sponsor then. Amos here will second you. Isn’t that right, Amos?’

  Amos nodded, stretched his lips into a condescending smile as if to say: I might hate everything you and PICA stand for but I am generous enough to support you in this matter.

  Rafi went on. ‘Good. I’ll inform this evening’s meeting as a formality. Tomorrow morning, five o’clock, I will have a hard day’s work for you. As for your brother…’

  Amshel pulled in his outstretched legs, wriggled upright. ‘Yes, sir… comrade.’

  Rafi smiled. ‘You can build houses, comrade?’

  ‘I can make you a palace for a king.’

  ‘There are no kings here. We just need something simple for our children.’

  ‘Whatever yo
u want.’

  ‘You will be on your own most of the time.’

  ‘I can manage.’

  ‘We can provide you with meals. But you will have to sleep where you work.’

  ‘The sky shall be my roof,’ Amshel said. ‘Like Jacob, our forefather, with his pillow of stones.’

  Rafi chuckled. ‘Well, unlike Jacob, the children’s house will need a roof.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You will not be able to vote at our meetings,’ Rafi said. ‘Or even speak at them.’

  ‘You are merely an unpaid guest worker,’ Amos added. ‘It is a concept I do not approve of…’

  ‘…but we have to be practical too,’ Rafi continued. ‘We can give you two months on this basis. Can you finish within that time?’

  ‘If it’s not a king’s palace you want then I don’t see why not,’ Amshel said.

  ‘Good. I shall also notify this arrangement to this evening’s meeting. Amos, I assume, will not second the proposal on a matter of principle. Isn’t that right, Amos?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Amshel, I will therefore ask Celia to support the motion since she has met your brother.’

  ‘I doubt Celia will be at the meeting,’ Amos said. ‘She is sick.’

  The thick stench of disinfectant stung Lev’s eyes as soon as he pulled aside the tent flap. He slid inside, closed up the doorway. Cracks of light stole through the tent seams, exposing a round interior partitioned off by ropes and blankets to create three separate cramped living spaces. Celia, or at least the prone figure he assumed must be Celia, lay on a cot under a mosquito net in one of them. The other two cots were empty. He took a couple of paces forward, placed the workclothes he had just picked out from the communal laundry on a vacant chair, then steadied himself with a grip on the centre pole.

  ‘Who is it?’ strained a weak voice from the cot.

  ‘It’s me. Lev.’ And then, just in case she had no idea who he was: ‘Lev from PICA. I sent a telegram…’