“At least the Arabs are friendly,” Ari said. “They are Christians.”
“They are Christians who need a bath.”
They stopped once more at Kafr Kanna at the church where Christ performed His first miracle of changing water to wine. It was set in a pretty and timeless Arab village.
Kitty was trying to digest all that she had seen in the past few days. It was such a small land but every inch held ghosts of blood or glory. At certain moments the very sacredness of it was gripping; at other moments exaltation turned to revulsion. Some of the holy places struck her speechless with awe and others left her with the cold suspicion of one watching a shell game in a carnival. The wailing Jews of Mea Shearim and the burning refinery. The aggressive sabras of Tel Aviv and the farmers of the Jezreel. The old and the new jammed together. There were paradoxes and contradictions at every turn.
It was very late afternoon when Ari turned into the gates of Yad El. He stopped before a flower-bedecked cottage.
“Ari, how lovely it is,” Kitty said.
The cottage door opened and Sarah Ben Canaan ran from it. “Ari! Ari!” She was swept into his arms.
“Shalom, ema.”
“Ari, Ari, Ari…”
“Now don’t cry, ema … shhhh, don’t cry, don’t cry.”
Kitty saw the massive Barak Ben Canaan rush out and throw his arms about his son.
“Shalom, abba, shalom.”
The old giant clung to his son and slapped his back again and again, repeating, “You look good, Ari, you look good.”
Sarah studied her son’s face. “He is tired. Can’t you see how tired he is, Barak?”
“I’m fine, ema. I have company. I want you to meet Mrs. Katherine Fremont. She is going to work at Gan Dafna tomorrow.”
“So you are Katherine Fremont,” Barak said, taking her hand in his two giant paws. “Welcome to Yad El.”
“Ari, you’re such a fool,” his mother said. “Why didn’t you telephone and say you were bringing Mrs. Fremont? Come in, come in … you’ll take a shower, you’ll change your clothes, I’ll make a little to eat and you’ll feel better. You’re such a fool, Ari.” Sarah put her arm around Kitty’s waist and led her toward the cottage. “Barak! Bring Mrs. Fremont’s luggage.”
Jordana Ben Canaan stood before the newly arrived Exodus children in the outdoor theater. She was tall and straight, with a statuesque carriage and long shapely legs. Jordana, with red hair hanging free below her shoulders, had a striking and classic beauty. She was nineteen years of age and had been in the Palmach since leaving the university. The Palmach assigned Jordana to Gan Dafna to head the Gadna
unit which gave military training to all children in the village over fourteen years. Gan Dafna was also one of the prime places for biding arms and smuggling them to the Huleh settlements. Jordana also worked on the mobile Voice of Israel secret radio when it transmitted in the Huleh. Jordana lived at Gan Dafna, right in her office.
“I am Jordana Ben Canaan,” she said to the Exodus children. “I am your Gadna commander. In the next weeks you will learn spying, messenger work, arms cleaning and firing, stick fighting, and we will have several cross-country hikes. You are in Palestine now and never again do you have to lower your head or know fear for being a Jew. We are going to work very hard, for Eretz Israel needs you. Tomorrow we will have our first hike. We will go over the hills north to Tel Hai. My father came to Palestine through Tef Hai nearly sixty years ago. It is the place where our great hero, Joseph Trumpledor died. Trumpledor is buried there, and a great stone lion near the graveyard looks down upon the Huleh just as the statue of Dafna looks upon the Huleh. On the lion are written the words … ‘It is good to die for one’s country.’ I might add to that: it is good to have a country to die for.”
As Jordana entered the administration building later she was called to the telephone. She lifted the receiver, “Shalom, Jordana here.”
“Shalom! This is emaf Ari is home!”
“Ari!”
Jordana ran from her office to the stable. She mounted her father’s white Arab stallion and spurred him through the gates of Gan Dafna. She galloped bareback down the road toward the village of’Abu Yesha with her scarlet hair waving in the wind behind her.
She galloped full speed into the main street of the Arab village, sending a dozen people scurrying for safety. The men at the coffeehouse turned and sneered. What a disrespectful prostitute this redheaded bitch was to dare ride through their streets wearing shorts! It was fortunate for her that she was the daughter of Barak and the sister of Ari!
Ari took Kitty’s hand and led her through the door. “Come along,” he said, “I want to show you some of the farm before it turns dark.”
“Did you have enough to eat, Mrs, Fremont?”
“I’m ready to burst.”
“And the room is comfortable?”
“I’m just fine, Mrs. Ben Canaan.”
“Well, don’t be too long, dinner will be ready when Jordana gets down from Gan Dafna.” Sarah and Barak stared
after them, then looked at each other. “She is a beautiful woman. But for our Ari?”
“Stop being a Yiddische momma. Don’t go making a shiddoch for Ari,” Barak said.
“What are you talking, Barak? Can’t you see the way he looks at her? Don’t you know your own son yet? He is so tired.”
Ari and Kitty walked through Sarah’s garden on the side of the house to the low rail fence. Ari put his foot up on the rail and looked out over the fields of the moshav. The water sprinklers were whirling a cooling spray and the orchard trembled lightly in the evening breeze. The air was scented with the fragrance of Sarah’s winter roses. Kitty watched Ari as he looked out at his land. For the first time since she had known Ari Ben Canaan he seemed to be at peace. They are rare moments for him, Kitty thought, remembering that brief period of peace in Jerusalem.
“Not much like your Indiana, I’m afraid,” Ari said.
“It will do.”
“Well … you didn’t have to build Indiana out of a swamp.” Ari wanted to say much more to Kitty. He wanted to talk about how much he longed to be able to come home and work on his land. He wanted to beg her to understand what it was for his people to own land like this.
Kitty was leaning over the fence gazing at the beauty and proud achievement that Yad El represented. She looked radiant. Ari was filled with a desire to take her in his arms and hold her, but he did nothing and said nothing. They turned away together and walked along the fence until they came to the barn buildings, where the cackle of chickens and the honk of a goose met their ears. He opened the gate. The hinge was broken.
“That needs fixing,” he said. “A lot of things need fixing. I’m away all the time and Jordana is gone too. My father is away at conferences so much. I’m afraid the Ben Canaan farm has become a village liability. The whole moshav has the responsibility. Someday we are all going to be home together … then you’ll really see something.” They stopped by a hogpen where a sow lay panting in the mud, as a dozen gluttonous pigs fought to get at her teats. “Zebras,” Ari said.
“If I wasn’t an old zebra expert I’d swear I was looking at pigs,” Kitty answered.
“Shhh … not so loud. There might be someone from the Land Fund eavesdropping. We aren’t supposed to raise … zebras … on Jewish national land. Up at Gan Dafna the children call them pelicans. At the kibbutz they are more realistic. They are spoken of as comrades.”
They walked beyond the barn, chicken house and machinery shed to the edge of the fields.
“You can see Gan Dafna from here.” Ari stood behind her and pointed to the hills near the Lebanese border.
“Those white houses?”
“No, that’s an Arab village called Abu Yesha. Now look to the right of it and farther up where those trees are, on the plateau.”
“Oh yes, I see it now. My, it’s really up in the air. What is that building behind it on top of the hill?”