Ana spoke for ten minutes. No arguments about her point of view. Unity forever.
Tolek Alterman was on his feet. Dear God, please don’t let Tolek get wound up, Andrei thought. But Tolek was wound up. He was distinguished by a head of bushy hair, a leather jacket, and a leftist point of view. Tolek was the manager of the Bathyran training farm outside Warsaw. He had been to Palestine with a Poale Zion group and, like all of those who had been to Palestine, he had a holy arrogance about it. “We who have actually been there” was one of his favorite and most-used phrases to press an argument.
“War or no war,” Tolek was chanting loudly, “we are banded together because of mutual belief in a set of principles.”
Now, Andrei thought, he’ll ask us what those principles are.
“And what are those principles?” Tolek said. “They are the principles of Zionism. Poland and Russia are the wellsprings of Zionism because of the desire of our people for a homeland after centuries of persecution.”
Oh, for Christ sake, Tolek—we know why we are Zionists.
“To remain Zionists, we must continue to function as Zionists.”
He’s snaking into his weird traps of logic.
“The farm is living Zionism. We must continue to keep the farm going to train our people for their eventual goals—war or no war.”
Tolek then shifted into second gear. There was no denying that he had done a great job as manager of the farm. Before he took over, Andrei thought, we couldn’t grow weeds. Since then we’ve trained three groups of youngsters and they’ve established successful colonies in Palestine. If only he wasn’t so flushed with his sacred mission.
“Having been there myself ...” Tolek said.
Talk, talk, talk, talk.
Now it was Susan Geller’s turn to talk. “The Bathyran Orphanage in Zoliborz is one of the finest in Poland. We take care of two hundred youngsters. All of them are prospective colonists for Palestine. War will bring us more orphans. Nothing on earth is more important than our children. ...”
Tolek wants his farm, Susan wants her orphanage, Ana wants unity forever. Each one argues for his own self-interest. Well, Ervin is yawning. Good old Ervin Rosenblum. Our secretary for information and education hasn’t anything to say, thank God. Rosy is a social Zionist; he joined us looking for intellectual company—mostly Susan Eller’s. I wonder if they’ll ever get married.
Did I tell Styka about Batory’s left front hoof? It was a little tender after the last patrol. I’m certain I told him to have the veterinarian look Batory over. Maybe I didn’t. My leave came so suddenly.
“So, what do you think, Andrei?” Alexander said.
“What?”
“I said—don’t you want to add your opinion?”
“Sure. If the Germans come, we go into the forests and fight.”
Tolek Alterman’s bushy hair flopped as he thrust a finger up and said that Andrei had no restraint. Andrei didn’t care to argue today—not with Tolek or Ana or Susan or Ervin or Alexander.
“Who can make plans? Who the hell knows what’s going to happen!” Andrei said.
Alexander Brandel stepped in quickly and with his great gift for mediation averted the clash of philosophy spurred on by the gushing rivers of words. He pronounced a few well-chosen, all-conclusive benedictions about the great wisdom of Zionism in which everyone’s point of view was vindicated, and the meeting broke up on a note of unity, unity forever.
When they were all gone, Andrei remained in the home of his closest friend. He and Wolf Brandel, Alex’s sixteen year-old son, engaged in a chess match while Alex worked at his desk.
“As a cavalry officer, I shall show you how to use your horses,” Andrei said, moving his knight against Wolf’s bishop.
Young Wolf lopped the horse off. Andrei scratched his head. It was no disgrace to lose, for the boy was a chess wizard.
Alex looked over from his desk. “Wolf tells me you commit your horse to battle without proper support. You are a bad officer, Andrei.”
“Hah ... today, schmendrick, you are going to get a lesson.”
The mild and graying Brandel smiled and went back to his papers. Being general secretary of an organization with twenty thousand members and a hundred thousand sympathizers kept him busy night and day. Administrator, fund raiser, recruiter. He was overseer of the orphanage, the training farm, and the publication Kol Bathyran—Voice of Bathyran.
More than anything, Alexander Brandel was the philosopher of pure Zionism.
There were many types of Zionism, each with its own variants. Alexander Brandel said there was a different type of Zionism for every Jew.
The largest single philosophy, labor Zionism, emerged from Poland and Russia after terrible massacres of the Jews at the turn of the century. Labor Zionism called for self-sacrifice by a dedicated Jewish labor force as the key to the redemption of Palestine.
The second of the major philosophies was that of the revisionists or activists. These were angry men whose mold demanded retribution. Often super-nationalistic and military-minded, they wanted the injustices of anti-Semitism atoned by “an eye for an eye.” From the ranks of the revisionists came many of the terrorists who fought British rule in the Palestine Mandate.
Alexander Brandel’s Bathyrans, formed by a small group of intellectuals, were a third group. Their concept was Zionist purity. They believed in a single principle: the establishment of a Jewish homeland was a historic necessity, as proved by two thousand years of persecution.
While the other groups agreed that the Bathyrans indeed had idealism to spare, it was impossible to put ideology into practical use without dogma.
Brandel countered charges that the Bathyrans were an antiseptic social club by taking the best of all the ideas and putting them into practice while being bound by none of them. He did not agree with the restrictions on the individual demanded by the Labor Zionists, nor did he believe in the dedication to force of the Revisionists as a complete answer. Some force and some restrictions—yes, but not completely.
When he had quit his job as an instructor of history at the university to assume leadership of the Bathyrans, the group was struggling and floundering. From chaos he developed concepts and philosophies which brought it into respect.
He lived in abstraction in his personal life. His income was always modest, his person disorganized in a scholar’s absent-minded way. The light always burned late in the Brandel flat, for even beyond duty to the Bathyrans, Alexander Brandel was a Polish historian of note.
Wolf knocked off Andrei’s second horse when Sylvia, Alex’s wife, came in with a pot of tea and some cookies. She was six months pregnant and starting to show very much. Bathyran humor had it that Alex had come home only twice in sixteen years and both times made Sylvia pregnant.
She was the personification of the “good Jewish girl.” Plain, pretty with dark and plumpish features, she was sharp in mind and the clever homemaker who created ideal conditions which allowed Alex to pursue his work.
To Sylvia, a Zionist from birth, Alex had achieved the pinnacle of accomplishment for a Jewish man. He was a writer and teacher and historian. Nothing could be greater than that. She had attended her first Labor Zionist meeting in her mother’s arms before she could walk and she was completely dedicated to her husband’s work. She never complained that they were poor or that he was gone half the time.
In his own lackadaisical way Alex loved Sylvia very much. Almost as much as she loved him.
Alex thrived on work. Only once in a while did he seem to need the comfort of a warm bed and his woman’s arms and soothing voice. While the world revolved around him in haste and anger and frustration, he never seemed to vary his pace, never raised his voice, never panicked, never seemed torn by those inner conflicts of other men.