The Land Agent Read online

  ‘I think you’re wrong,’ Lev said. ‘We’re not seeing any more land applications than usual.’

  ‘These new Jews aren’t interested in farming. They’re not pioneers. They’re not socialists. They’re opportunists. They start off with a soda stand in Tel Aviv. Then a small business. A cobblers, maybe. A café. Or a bakery. And the next minute they’re building hotels and factories. With jobs for their own Jewish workers. Soon they’ll be moving into Haifa too. The Arabs feel it. They feel they’re being hemmed in or pushed out. Fifty thousand Jews arrived here in the last two years. It could be Jaffa all over again.’

  Lev remembered the Jaffa riots. They had happened not long after he had arrived in Palestine. Forty-seven Jews killed, a similar amount of Arabs. He couldn’t even recall the actual incident that caused the flareup but the overall reason was the same as what Mickey was talking about now. Arab fears over increased Jewish immigration. The fighting then hadn’t spread from Jaffa as far north as Haifa but the British had sent in a warship just in case. He remembered watching the grey destroyer with its twin guns fore and aft trained on the harbour. He wasn’t sure if it was there to defend or attack him.

  ‘That’s the way it goes here,’ Mickey said. ‘More Jews come in, the Arabs riot in protest, the British introduce quotas, the Zionists pressure the government in London and the quotas are lifted. Then it starts all over again. Soon it will be time for the riots again.’

  ‘I don’t know why these Jews want to come here in the first place,’ Madame Blum exclaimed. ‘Nothing works. The electricity is off and on. The water is off and on. A person could suffocate to death in the heat. I never understood why that adulterer of a husband, may his soul rest in peace, brought me here. To a place where they spit at a widow in the street. Why would a Jew come here?’

  On his way to work that morning, Lev thought about what Mickey had said. Were there really tensions here? Were those knives being sharpened on that grinding wheel meant for Jewish hearts? What kind of plot was being conjured up by those old men sitting outside the coffee house? Was that joyful or mocking laughter he heard behind his back? What was inside the basket that woman carried on her head? A revolver for the Arab nationalist movement? He had almost forgotten those old feelings of fear he had been brought up with. The Catholic farmboys chasing him home from the forest, the pig-like snorting that followed his walks through the town, his father’s hushed talk about pogroms in Russia. The few years spent here had been more or less peaceful ones. The deep-water port was being built. There was talk of a pipeline bringing oil from Iraq. A new olive oil and soap factory had opened. Surely there was work for everyone, Jews and Arabs alike?

  He went straight to Sammy’s office. Sitting behind his desk, head in hands, his boss seemed wrapped up in a tension of his own.

  ‘A heavy curtain has come down on my brain,’ Sammy said.

  ‘You should lie down,’ Lev suggested. ‘Or go home.’

  ‘Lie down? Go home? That is the opposite of what I should do. This visit from our Anonymous Donor. So many accounts and reports to prepare. So many meetings.’ Sammy rubbed his fingers vigorously into his temples. ‘What do you want to tell me?’

  ‘That land at Kfar Ha’Emek. The piece that doesn’t exist on any map. You were right. It is Mewat.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I checked it myself. It is definitely out of earshot of the nearest settlement. I have a statement signed by myself and corroborated by an independent witness.’

  Sammy peered at the document. ‘Who is this witness?’

  ‘My brother.’

  ‘Then he is not independent.’

  ‘The surnames are different. He is still a Gottleib. No-one will know.’

  ‘And the Bedouin?’

  ‘I made a deal with them. We will register the title in their names under Mewat. Then they will sell us what we need, keep the rest.’

  ‘How much are we paying?’

  Lev told him.

  ‘A little high for a slice of swampland. But I suppose it is not unreasonable in the circumstances. At least we will have a clear and legal title. Otherwise, we could be fighting in the courts with the British, the French, the Arabs and even Those Bloody Zionists for years to come.’

  ‘I will make up the necessary documents, take them to Jerusalem.’

  ‘Before you do that, I will need the office of our Anonymous Donor to sign off on the purchase price.’

  ‘How long will that take?’

  ‘As long as it takes to get an appointment.’ Sammy turned his attention back to the accounts on his desk. ‘Now leave me alone with my headaches.’

  ‘There is something else.’

  ‘What is it now?’

  ‘I met Gregory Sverdlov.’

  ‘You met Sverdlov? Where was this?’

  ‘At Kfar Ha’Emek.’

  ‘What was he doing there?’

  ‘He said he was surveying the region for potential projects. He wouldn’t tell me exactly what.’

  ‘Of course, he wouldn’t tell you. Sverdlov gives nothing away for free. Yet he wants you to tell him everything. Did you notice his eyes? The way he looks at you?’

  ‘Yes. Very unsettling.’

  ‘Some say he hypnotizes people into giving him information. Like some kind of Rasputin. Did you tell him anything?’

  ‘Nothing. No-one, apart from my brother, knows why I was there.’

  ‘Good. With Sverdlov sniffing around, we need to act secretly. And quickly.’

  ‘He says he has an important proposition to make to our Anonymous Donor. Something to the benefit of the whole of Palestine.’

  ‘He means something to the benefit of Gregory Sverdlov. Go on.’

  ‘He will make his own approaches to our benefactor. But he wanted you also to know.’

  Sammy shrugged. ‘To know what?’

  ‘That was all.’

  ‘See. He tells you nothing. Just stirs things up. That’s what Sverdlov does. Stirs and stirs away. Like Rasputin. No wonder I have a headache.

  Twenty-one

  IT WAS AS IF JULIUS CAESAR HIMSELF had landed. Or King George of the Great British Empire. Or even the Messiah. The Anonymous Donor had arrived in his yacht just a few miles south of Haifa, at the Arab fishing village of Tantura. Lev had gone down with Sammy to witness the great man’s disembarkation, managing with much pushing and elbowing to find a viewing point from a hillside overlooking the bay. Lev had never seen such crowds before with their bunting and their banners, their picnics and their good cheer. A longboat was rowed inshore from the yacht, manoeuvred expertly through a space in the rocks, then tied up to a jetty bedecked with flowers. The Anonymous Donor stepped out first to stand on the wooden platform alone. With his white pith helmet, (reminding Lev of the High Commissioner, Herbert Samuel), a full white beard, spectacles reflecting the sunlight, dark suit, bow tie and cane, the man still trim and spry despite his almost eighty years. The crowds were held back to allow this solitary figure, this ‘Sultan of the Jews’, as the Arabs called him, to find his shore-legs, to quietly express his gratitude for being able to return to this blessed land, to look up to the hillsides where his vines were planted and now thrived.

  A band of horns and trumpets broke the spell with a martial melody that Lev had never heard before. ‘The French national anthem,’ Sammy told him. It was followed by Hatikvah, the Jewish song of hope. A young girl was ushered forward to present a bouquet. The Anonymous Donor knelt to her level to receive the gift, a gesture greeted by affectionate cheers and clapping. This was a sign for senior officials to move into action, to surround their esteemed guest, who became no more than a bobbing white helmet as he was guided to the waiting automobile that would take him the five miles of bumpy road to the settlement that several years ago had been named in his honour. Built on a former rock-strewn, malaria-ridden plateau overlooking the Mediterranean, this colony had been financed by the Anonymous Donor until it not only boasted vineyards but also main streets, a ho
spital, a bank, a makeshift fire station and one of the finest synagogues in the land. But most importantly, a venture always close to his heart as well as to his sophisticated palate, it had its own winery. With its cool underground cellars carved deep into the mountainsides. Of course, the wines produced here could not match those of his own famous French vineyards but he was looking forward to a glass nevertheless.

  A few hours later, Lev sat with Sammy in the upper hallway of the Anonymous Donor’s administration building set at the edge of the colony. It was a spacious room with ceiling fans and tall windows that framed a veranda, then beyond to the sea and the stately yacht anchored in the bay. Within the building, all was busy now the Anonymous Donor was in town. Side-doors opened and closed, secretaries clipped by from office to office, their heels tap-tapping their code of efficiency across the tiled floor, message boys came and went. But outside in the streets all was quiet. The eager crowds had followed their grand visitor on his inspection of the colony, then filed into the synagogue to hear his address to the citizens. There, he would exhort them to work harder, admonish them for their idleness, inspire them to be good Jews, reflect with them on the remarkable achievements of the last thirty years. However, their munificent benefactor, one of the richest men in the world, would not listen to their complaints, their petitions for endorsements, their pleas for loans and investments or even their requests for a blessing. That was the job of Chaim Kalisher, outside whose office Lev and Sammy now waited.

  The fans struggled to do the best they could with the warm air but it remained hot, very hot. A dampness hung over everything, making even more slippery the polished wood of the bench on which they perched. Lev longed to take off his jacket, wrench open his shirt collar. Sammy sat next to him, his panama hat covering one knee, the other knee vibrating nervously. The plants across the windowsill sagged in their pots. A secretary brought out a tray of glasses and iced water. They had been waiting for over an hour.

  Perhaps it was the heat mixed in with the clack-clack-clacking of typewriter keys coming through an open door but Lev began to think of Ewa Kaminsky. On a summer’s day not unlike this one, her body close up beside his on the piano stool they used for his lesson, her bare arms with their fair down, the wonderful tingling sensation caused by her nearness, something almost animal about her, her heat, her smell, the way she hovered over him as if she could turn round at any moment and bite or scratch. He could almost hear the precise ‘ting’ of the carriage on the Kanzler 1B as it came to the end of a line, that same clack-clacking of the keys. He wondered what had happened to her. What had happened to his father. And whether they had received Amshel’s letter requesting an invitation to come to stay with them in America.

  He leaned forward for a glass of iced water, gulped down the cool liquid, and was just about to return it to the tray when the door to Chaim Kalisher’s office swung open. But it was not Kalisher himself who stepped out but a stocky figure already familiar to Lev. The empty glass slipped out of his hand to smash on the tiled floor. A splash of sound echoed around the room, then silence.

  ‘Mazel tov,’ Sverdlov shouted in his commanding voice, like the hearty greeting of some operatic tenor to his fine stage-fellows. ‘Mazel tov, mazel tov, mazel tov. To break a glass is to bring good luck.’

  This was surely not the thought of the secretary who ran out from one of the side offices, held a hand to her mouth, then raced away again. It was not Lev’s thought either as he crouched down to pick up some of the larger pieces. Sammy was brushing off tiny shards from his suit trousers as Sverdlov strode over to greet him.

  ‘Sammy, Sammy, Sammy,’ he said. ‘Why am I surprised to see you here?’

  Sammy rose from his chair. ‘It is I who am surprised to see you. After all, Gregory, this is the organization that employs me.’

  Sammy shook an outstretched hand that boasted a large gold ring strangling one thick finger. Sverdlov wore a cream suit, a pink flower in his lapel. His thick hair remained untamed by whatever cream he had applied. Lines of moisture sat in the troughs of his permanent scowl. He glanced at Lev, then ignored him as he went on talking. ‘Still the idealist, Sammy? Believing this can be one happy homeland for both Arabs and Jews.’

  ‘I remain optimistic.’

  Sverdlov chuckled, threw a confiding arm around Sammy’s shoulder. ‘There is no use trying to save the Arabs from their unhappy fate. PICA will soon align with the Zionists, you’ll see. Your Anonymous Donor is becoming more and more sympathetic to the nationalist cause as he gets older. That’s what happens to all of us, Sammy. The closer to death, the more determined we become to leave a legacy. And what better legacy than a Jewish state, eh? Isn’t that right, Lev?’ Sverdlov turned on him with his fierce eyes. ‘Or are you too young to possess such fears in the face of mortality?’

  Lev was surprised to hear that Sverdlov remembered his name, never mind the question directed towards him. ‘I think I am too young,’ he stammered. ‘And I cannot speak for our Anonymous Donor.’

  ‘Well, I can,’ said Sammy. ‘I sincerely believe he has never wanted one people to triumph over another for this land.’

  ‘Ah, Sammy. How I envy your naive faith in the righteousness of human beings. Great struggles lie ahead. I can feel the strains already, can’t you? I can even smell it. It’s in the air. And it stinks like… like what? Like petrol. One match and “pouf” it will all go off.’ Sverdlov blew out an imaginary candle with his fat, rosy lips. ‘And then where will PICA and its settlements be without the protection of the Zionists? Do you think the British will look after you, eh?’

  Sammy shrugged off the question. ‘And where does Gregory Sverdlov fit into all these struggles?’

  ‘Hah! Me? I am an engineer. I have no interest in your ideals or your politics. I am only interested in great projects. Yes, projects on the grandest scale.’ And with that last remark, Sverdlov slapped Sammy on the back and walked out of the hall, careful to avoid the kneeling secretary in her search for pieces of glass.

  Chaim Kalisher was an extremely tall, broad-shouldered, solid-looking man. Like a giant wardrobe, Lev thought, dwarfing the room and the rest of its furniture with his massive presence. Not surprising really for the person who was the Anonymous Donor’s second-in-command in matters concerning Palestine. His protector, his gatekeeper, the human shield behind whom the Anonymous Donor could be hidden from view. But despite his size, Kalisher was an elegant man with his grey hair sleeked back from a thinning widow’s peak, the clipped moustache, the shimmeringly expensive suit, the white cuffs, the trimmed nails. He moved smoothly and effortlessly as he came out from behind his desk to greet Sammy like an old friend. He shook Lev’s hand too, the clasp soft and smooth as if Kalisher had powdered his palms in advance of the meeting. Lev was motioned to sit down, as was Sammy. Kalisher returned behind his desk, pinched the cloth of his suit at the knees, then sank down into his leather chair. The window was open yet the smell of cigars lingered.

  ‘Schnapps?’ Kalisher asked. ‘Our patron’s finest brandy.’

  Sammy nodded, as did Lev. Kalisher filled up three shot glasses from a crystal decanter, pushed two of them towards his guests. ‘L’chaim,’ he toasted, knocking back the drink in one gulp, then slamming his glass down on the table. Sammy did the same. Lev, who initially had only taken a sip of this smooth, warm liquid, was forced to imitate the gesture. Kalisher poured out another three glasses but left them on the desk.

  ‘It is good to see you, Sammy. You look… you look anxious.’

  ‘Our Anonymous Donor’s presence always makes life a little more intense here, don’t you think?

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘All the extra paperwork.’

  ‘You prefer the feel of the soil between your fingers, Sammy. That we know. How are our settlements here in Palestine?’

  ‘I have prepared the usual report,’ Sammy said, handing over a file he had extracted from his briefcase.

  Kalisher took the documents, placed them aside. ‘Anyt
hing special I should know about?’

  ‘It is still early days. Conditions are harsh. Always the demand for more money. But seeds are being sown, shoots are sprouting. It will all take time. But I think we are moving in the right direction.’

  ‘Ah, Sammy, as usual, you tell me nothing.’

  ‘The figures speak for themselves.’

  Kalisher lifted the front leaf of the file, let it drop again. ‘You have to admire these settlers for their courage. Their tenacity. And their beliefs.’ Kalisher brought his fingers together in a steeple, sighed as he looked out of the window. A small black-and-white bird was pecking at some dried-up dates that had fallen onto the veranda. ‘I wish I knew the names of birds. Do you know this one?’

  Sammy leaned forward on his chair to get a better look. ‘It is a white wagtail. It’s very common here.’

  ‘A white wagtail, is that it? I’ve just started to notice the birds, Sammy. Strange, isn’t it? All these years they have been sharing this world with me. And I was hardly ever aware of them. What about you, Lev? Are you a bird man?’

  ‘No. I am like you, sir. I rarely notice them myself.’

  ‘What do you notice? Girls, I suppose. The female of the species. With whom we also share this world.’

  ‘I saw Sverdlov in the hallway,’ Sammy said.

  ‘Yes, yes. You know what Gregory’s like. He is in and out of here like… like what? Like the tide, I suppose. Full of grand schemes and bluster.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘The usual. Land and money. Money, mostly.’

  ‘What are his plans for the Jordan Valley?’

  Kalisher swivelled his chair away from the window, back to his visitors. ‘You know about that?’

  ‘Lev met Sverdlov up there on one of his survey missions. Let me guess. He wants to build a hydro-electric power station.’

  ‘That would be a good guess.’ Kalisher opened up a wooden box on his desk. ‘Cigar? Sammy? Lev? No? Well, if you don’t mind, I might just indulge myself…’