Authors: J David Simons
I
T WAS AS IF
J
ULIUS
C
AESAR 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 hospital, 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. ‘Anything 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…’
‘What do you think, Chaim?’
‘It’s a very exciting proposition,’ Kalisher said as he snipped the end off his cigar. ‘As Gregory says – it will be for the great benefit of Jews and Arabs alike. As if the Arabs are going to take kindly to the Jews damming up their rivers and controlling the water. Are you sure that I cannot tempt you? These are specially made for our esteemed employer. All the way from the Dominican Republic. And who needs a humidor in this climate? Sammy?’
‘No, thank you. Tell me about Sverdlov.’
‘He showed me all the plans. You have to hand him that. He’s very well prepared. The Zionists are extremely interested, so he tells me. But I personally know money has dried up for them here. Ever since our Jewish friends in America began channelling most of their funds to our poverty-stricken communities in central Europe. As for the British, they would be delighted to see electricity in the north of the country. But they can’t be seen to favour a Jew over an Arab in this respect. They would prefer a joint venture. Which Sverdlov does not.’
‘What does he want from PICA?’
Kalisher lit his cigar with a long match. The first wisps of smoke floated out of the window. Lev watched them go. ‘He wanted to know our land holdings in the area. And if we are prepared to invest.’
‘And are we?’
‘I need to speak to the great man himself. But I’m sure he will be interested. In theory, he loves these grand projects. The mills. The glass works. The wineries, of course. He is even talking of an airstrip. Putting them into practice is another matter. Sverdlov’s proposal could be years in the making. What are our land holdings in the Jordan Valley, around the rivers?’
‘We have just the one settlement. A young
kibbutz
. Kfar Ha’Emek.’
‘I thought there would be more.’
‘That is actually the reason for this visit. There is another area I want to bring to your attention.’