The Land Agent Read online

  ‘To thank Mickey for my teeth.’

  ‘Wait.’ Lev played with the pages of Ewa’s letter on his lap. ‘There is something else.’

  ‘More bad news?’

  ‘What happened between you and Sarah?’

  Amshel sniffed hard. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘It was years ago.’

  ‘Answer me, Amshel.’

  ‘You know something, Lev. You were always like this. Even when you were a child. Like a little dog snapping, snapping, snapping away at my ankles. Refusing to let go. Tell me this, Amshel. How do you do this, Amshel? What do I do now, Amshel?’

  ‘I want to know about you and Sarah.’

  ‘What difference will it make?’

  ‘I just want to know.’

  ‘She was sleeping with everyone. They all were. The situation was unusual. Conditions were primitive.’

  ‘Answer me.’

  ‘All right then. Yes. Something happened between us. Are you happy now?’

  Lev got to his feet, faced his brother. ‘I want you to leave Celia alone.’

  ‘Has the sun boiled your brains?’

  ‘You heard what I said.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that to you.’

  ‘It didn’t stop you with Sarah.’

  ‘I didn’t consider Sarah forbidden fruit.’

  ‘Swear it then.’

  ‘I can’t believe you don’t trust me.’

  ‘Swear it.’

  Amshel spat into the dry earth, turned his back, started to walk down the path away from the monastery.

  ‘That’s just like you, Amshel. Always leaving.’

  Without turning round, Amshel gave a dismissive wave, continued down the track.

  Lev didn’t make any conscious decision, his actions just came from pure emotion. He ran after his brother, flew at him, grabbed him around the shoulders, forced his knees into the back of his legs, so that the two of them fell forward on to the ground. ‘Swear it!’ he shouted as he pummelled his fists into Amshel’s back. ‘Swear it.’

  He had Amshel pinned down face-first but still his brother managed to twist his head around. He saw his mouth open and close in a gummy emptiness, his dentures knocked out from the fall. He kept beating on his bucking back as Amshel tried to push him off. But somehow Amshel found the strength to turn himself round, forcing Lev over and on to the ground. And before he knew it, Amshel was on top of him, one hand against his throat, the other scraping around in the dirt for his teeth. There was blood on Amshel’s forehead, a gash across his nose, his lips white with dust. He was mouthing toothless words Lev couldn’t understand.

  Amshel didn’t seem to know what to do from his position of strength. He faked a punch, then grabbed a handful of loose dirt, smeared it across Lev’s face. Lev felt the scratches across his cheeks, the loose stones being forced into his mouth. It was his turn to buck and heave but Amshel was too strong for him. Always had been.

  Suddenly, where there had been blue sky and raw sunlight, there was now shadow. Lev saw a set of hands grasp Amshel’s shoulders, pulling him back. Then a voice that was not his brother’s. A gentle, soothing, coaxing tone. Amshel calming, gradually lifting his weight. Lev wriggled free, pushed himself up onto his feet. Amshel opposite, held back in the loose grip of a man dressed in simple brown robes. Lev spat out the dirt from his mouth, stared at his brother. Amshel gulped in air, wiped his wrist across his lips, was about to say something but the man intervened.

  ‘Walk away,’ the monk told Lev firmly. ‘Walk away.’

  Lev half-walked, half-ran down the track. He had somehow hurt his knee in the fight and his left leg kept buckling under him. There was an ache in his chest that could have been a physical injury or just all the hurt that had arisen inside of him. He found it hard to breathe. But he kept going, walking off the pain, down off the hill and back through the residential streets of the German Quarter, ignoring the looks from those he passed, until he reached PICA’s offices. There at an outside tap in the back court, he flushed the dirt out of his mouth, drank away his thirst, cleaned himself up. His cheeks were grazed, the back of his shirt torn and bloodied. He would tell Madame Blum he had got into a fight with some Arab youths.

  He went upstairs to the empty offices, sat by the window, looked out at the sea, stayed there for hours until the light started to go out of the day, and his anger with it. He rose from his chair, switched off the fan, passed by Sammy’s room, the unopened letters still on his desk. He thought of the shut-up cottage, the broken plant pots, the missing key on the lintel.

  Twenty-nine

  IT WAS DARK BY THE TIME Lev arrived at the cottage. He knocked on the door. No answer. He eased himself around the side of the building, stepping in sandy beds, through low bushes, tapping on the windowpanes. Still no answer. He returned to the front. On the entrance step, the small pile of earth and pot shards he had scraped together on his previous visit remained untouched. He tested the door again. He would have to break in. But he would do so through one of the side windows where the cedars stood thick and tall, concealing his entry from any neighbours. He picked up the broken base of one of the plant pots, slid back around the outside wall, the branches of the trees scraping against his already torn shirt, treading carefully until he came to a small window. Sammy’s bedroom. He tried to push it open but it was snibbed shut. He wrapped his knuckles in his handkerchief, inserted his fist into the pot base. He was lucky. It was a snug fit. He didn’t have much space to arc back his arm but he did what he could to gain some leverage before giving the pane a short sharp jab. The glass shattered easily. He waited to see if any noise came from inside. Or even if there might be a shout from a neighbour. But all he could hear was his own breathing. He twisted in his arm, released the catch but the window wouldn’t budge upwards. He had no choice but to tap the pot against the remaining window shards until the area was clear. He then wriggled himself through into the darkness.

  It was the stench that hit him first. He unwrapped his handkerchief from his fist, placed it over his nose and mouth. He waited for his stomach to settle, his eyes to adjust to the very little light that crept into the room from the outside. Sammy’s was one of the first properties in the town to have its own electricity. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. He prayed that it would, if he could only find the switch. He felt his way around the bed, then over to the doorway, where he searched blindly for the nipple of a switch. He clicked it on. He had light.

  He pushed open the low door into the hallway. The fetid stink was too much. His stomach turned and he choked up the bile into his handkerchief. He ran back to the broken window, sucked in the clean air, steeled himself to try again. He crossed the bedroom floor, out into the hallway, trying not to breathe. He had three doors to choose from. He found it hard to focus on them. His face burned, his eyes stung from his sweat as he tried to concentrate. It had to be Sammy’s study. He moved towards the door, turned the knob. It was locked. He shook it again, and again. He took a few paces back into the bedroom, then ran shoulder-first at the study door. The wood around the lock snapped away easily and he was inside.

  Thirty

  LETTER 14

  Kfar Ha’Emek, Jordan Valley, Palestine

  My dear Charlotte

  As always, it was so wonderful to receive your letter and to hear all of your news. I want to thank you for visiting my parents. I am pleased to hear that while they may be frail they are still in good health. I worry about them so much.

  I worry about you too. I fear you may be getting far too involved in the temperance movement. I can understand your campaigns against the demon drink but is it necessary to want to close down other venues of recreation as well? What is wrong with the ice-cream parlours? I am sure you remember those sunny days when we walked through Queens Park together for an ice-cream and some confection at that lovely Café Moderne on Pollokshaws Road. Surely that wonderful parlour cannot be considered a den of iniquity in t
he same breath you speak of Glasgow’s public houses? I am surprised you hold such extreme views these days against public entertainment when I remember you as a young woman so full of outward joy and mischief. Has something happened to you, Charlotte? What are you not telling me? As for me, ice-cream parlours could not be further from my daily existence. The raids by bandits from across the border are becoming more frequent up and down the valley. Although we have not experienced any direct attack ourselves, we must remain very vigilant and our all-night guard duty continues.

  Since our land deal with the Bedouin has fallen through, we can no longer draw any water from the river, even in emergencies. Our crops are dying in the fields and water for our personal use is being severely rationed. The first priority is for drinking purposes. Water for cooking is next priority. We may wash our hands prior to eating but full body showers are now restricted to once a week. As for our laundry, well there is little chance of that. My skin constantly itches from the lack of a good wash and from the dirt and sweat on my clothes.

  On top of these problems, we have suffered great conflict among ourselves. We are so lacking in manpower and the extra guard duty has only added to our burden. The citrus fruit needed to be picked or it would die on the branch but we had so few people to do the work. We usually ask the Bedouin to help us in exchange for some produce and medical services but as we are not on speaking terms this was not possible. Consequently we had to hire Arab workers from the nearby village of al-Dalhamiyya. This arrangement did not sit well with the most fervent Zionists among us who demanded we should hire only Jewish workers from Tiberias to carry out Jewish labour. This was not a financially viable option as Jewish workers want higher wages than the Arabs. (The reason this is so would require another letter altogether.) This inequality was not acceptable to the socialists among us. In the end, after endless meetings, meetings and more meetings, necessity prevailed and we brought in the Arab workers. That caused a fight to break out in the fields between our Zionist and socialist members as the Arab workers watched on. I was so embarrassed and disappointed I could have raced back to Haifa and taken the first boat back to Scotland. I really don’t know why the Arabs worry about the Jews. They should just leave us alone until we end up killing each other. Then they can walk back in and take back all the land they want.

  If this was not enough, we experienced an earthquake here a few days ago. The centre was in Nablus which is about fifty miles away, and many people were killed there. Here, we felt only the tremors. It is a frightening experience when all the ground around you is shaking and there is nowhere to run. Even when it finishes and everything settles down again, the world doesn’t quite feel the same as it was before.

  I stole away from the kibbutz after the quake with Amshel the Storyteller. He had heard there were huge splits in the ground further south in the valley and wanted to see them for himself. It was quite a little adventure and I felt as if we were children running away from school but it was good to get away for a while, even for just a few hours. Amshel is good company too, with all the tales he has to tell. He is also much more handsome now he has had his teeth fixed. On our little day trip, we came across these great cracks in the ground and were told that some cattle had fallen into the chasm. We could still hear one poor beast bellowing from down below but there was nothing we could do to help the farmers pull it out. In the end, someone had to shoot the animal.

  As for Amshel’s brother, Lev, I have not heard from him since I returned from Haifa. Perhaps that is just as well as I worry he might have over-estimated my feelings for him. He did send Amshel a telegram asking him to go down there immediately and that is where Amshel is now. He hopes Lev has heard from their father in America. That is all Amshel ever talks about. America, America, America. It is very good for the Jews there. Amshel says there is so much empty land you can buy an acre for the price of a postage stamp.

  Men. It is hard to know how to deal with them these days. I live here together with so many of them in such close proximity yet the relationships do not seem to be intimate in a man-woman kind of way. Perhaps it is because we are just so tired and busy all the time. It is almost as if we are sexless, just relating to each other as human beings where gender does not seem to matter. I know this should be a good thing, a socialist ideal. But I do miss the excitement of being as a woman to a man. It would be so good to talk to you about these things.

  I must go now. It is late and I have guard duty to do.

  All my love

  Celia

  Thirty-one

  THE VERDICT FROM the British police doctor had been straightforward. Suicide by a bullet through the mouth into the brain. Cold words on a medical certificate that did not mirror in the slightest the scene Lev had encountered when he shouldered open the study door. At first, he wasn’t even sure what kind of tableau he had been looking at. A body and head flung back in a chair, it was almost as if Sammy had been laughing at something uproariously funny. But the top of his cranium was gone, blood and brain and bone matter spattered against the wall, down the sides of his face, his mouth a burnt and blasted mess. The flies. The smell. Lev dry-retched then collapsed to his knees. ‘Oh no,’ he mouthed over and over again. ‘Oh no.’

  He managed to drag himself away from the study to sit outside on the front step, his head in his hands, he did not know what to do. He was aware there were duties he should attend to, people he must speak to. The police, a doctor, a rabbi, Chaim Kalisher at PICA. He lacked the strength to do anything. A neighbour found him sitting on the same spot an hour later. Lev recognized the face looking down at him. An ex-British officer who had decided to retire to the warmth of the Middle East rather than return home. A military man, Colonel George Henderson, he was just who Lev needed. Someone to take control, someone to give orders, someone who was used to death. Mrs Henderson helped take Lev back to Madame Blum’s. A tall, fragile, considerate woman, who wore a wide-brimmed hat, moved gracefully, spoke beautifully and smelled of roses. He wanted to hug her, cry into the shoulder of her silk blouse. Instead, he allowed her to support his arm with her spindly fingers as they walked slowly together along the lanes to his home, she guiding him around the dead dog lying in their path, both of them feeling awkward at the sight of the maggot-infested flesh. She deposited him into the care of Madame Blum who unfortunately was hopeless for the task. She had screamed at the news, retreated to her bedroom, leaving Lev to sit silently with Mrs Henderson, side by side on the sofa, until Mickey arrived home.

  The Jewish cemetery in Haifa was close to the sea, a breezy enclave set back from the cranes and the diggers working on the new port. Sammy had picked out a plot many years before, located on a slight westward-facing slope that would allow him to look out to the wide, blinding-blue horizons of the Mediterranean. Young palms close to his site would grow tall over the years to provide much-needed shade as Sammy never really liked the sun. Lev thought it was an unusual choice for Sammy not to look back at the land that had so defined him. After all, Sammy was king of the soil. Land is land is land. Why not look on it in death as in life? But perhaps Sammy was sick of all the squabbling over territory. Better to find peace in the elusive incorporeal nature of the sea.

  Even with the delay caused by the autopsy, the funeral remained a small affair. Sammy had no family in Palestine. Apart from Lev, only Mickey, Chaim Kalisher from PICA, Colonel and Mrs Henderson, a few other neighbours and some shop owners were in attendance. Madame Blum was too stricken with grief to make the short journey to the cemetery though she was keen her home should host the reception that would take place afterwards.

  It was a beautiful day for a burial, if there could be such a thing. The sky was cloudless, the temperature not too warm, a pleasant onshore breeze gently lifted the palm fronds, if not the mood. Even the usual sound of metal gouging out earth for the port construction suddenly ceased for the ceremony. The local rabbi reluctantly conducted the service, muttering a few hastily prepared words about a man he didn’t know, trying
to conjure up something good to say from the one fact he did. A sin according to the Talmud, for it was up to God to put to death and to make to live. There was even discussion that Sammy’s dedicated plot could not be used and he would have to be buried at some remote corner, far away from those who had died properly at God’s will. Lev insisted other scholars should be consulted to argue the point but in the end the rabbi agreed Sammy’s sin could be forgiven on the grounds he was suffering from some kind of mental illness at the time of death.

  Sammy was not a religious man anyway, attending the synagogue only when he felt like it. He was not an atheist, he just considered religion as being for the most part some kind of personal vanity. ‘I believe God has better things to do with His time than look after the private interests of Sammy Ziv,’ he often declared. Sammy had a lot of wise words to say. Lev would miss him terribly for that. Sammy was the father I never had, he thought, as he stood over the open grave. For that reason he accepted the honour of being the official mourner in the absence of any son or other male relative. But as he recited the Prayer for the Dead, he felt regret for the death of his real father too, that sad figure whose demise was symbolic of a man so out of place in the modern world. He slowed down his recitation, fixing it in his thoughts that his words were intended for both of their departed souls. He then scattered a shovel of earth onto the thin-wooded coffin. The gravediggers did the rest.

  Back at Madame Blum’s, it was the neighbour, Ida, the one with the husband that worked at the mayor’s office, who ended up hosting the small reception, happy to hand out the blintzes, the strudel, the black tea and the brandy along with a bit of gossip. Madame Blum herself was back in her bedroom, too overwhelmed with grief to carry out her duties. Lev, who was just emerging from his own shock at the tragedy, was surprised she had taken the news so badly.