Israel by Fred Lawrence Feldman Page A

devastating effect on the previous majesty of the ancient western gateway to Jerusalem.
    â€œTerrible, isn’t it?” clucked the slightly built passenger seated across from Haim. He was the only other person in the coach who was awake. “It looks like a tarboosh.”
    â€œExcuse, please?” Haim understood most of the otherfellow’s rattling Hebrew, but that last word escaped him.
    â€œA tarboosh? Means a fez. You know, those hats the Turks wear.”
    Haim shrugged. “All right, but I don’t understand the reference.” The diminutive man had a short black beard and a head full of closely cropped black woolly curls. He had long thin arms and hands so incongruously large that they looked like shovel blades attached to the fellow’s pencil wrists. The man was no older than Haim, but like a monkey he could in repose appear old, gnarled and wise.
    â€œThe clock was built to celebrate the thirtieth birthday of some sultan,” the fellow was saying. “Anyway, it went up just last year. I always thought there was more to it than the Turks giving a birthday present to a sovereign. They wanted to show that Jerusalem belongs to them, that it’s Turkish, see? So they put a big fez on it.” He sat back, a proud smile stretching across his bearded face.
    Haim shrugged. “When the city is ours we’ll tear down the fez.”
    â€œI see you’re just off the boat. Never mind, you’ll get the hang of things soon enough.” He stuck out his oversized hand. “My name is Yol Popovich. I am from Poland, but for the last two years I have been a halutz,” he added proudly.
    â€œMe, I’ve been here only for a few hours, but already I have battled a Turk,” he grinned, something about the brash good nature of the monkey-man drawing him out.
    â€œThis I’ve got to hear about,” Yol Popovich laughed. The coach began to slow and the change in rhythm set the other passengers to stirring and yawning and stretching. “All out,” the driver called as the coach came to a stop.
    â€œCome, I’ll buy you your first Zionist breakfast,” Yol offered as he waited for the driver to hand down his suitcase, “and after you throw up you can tell me all about your adventure.”
    Haim’s new friend took him to an Arab stall beneath the shadows of the ruins known as the Citadel of David. At Yol’s suggestion they carried their meal to a nearby cypress looming over a bent fig tree. The halutz pointed at two mounds between the tree trunks.
    â€œGraves,” he said, his brown, beady eyes full of mirth. “Hope you don’t mind.” He peeled off his cotton shirt to spread it out on the grass for a blanket. “I don’t know who is buried there, but the Arabs say it is two lovers from feuding families. Makes sense, yes? Oh, I forgot, you wouldn’t know. You see, the trees? Well, the Arabs take the fig tree as a symbol of the female principle and the strong, tall cypress to represent the male.”
    â€œBut they are merely trees.” Haim shrugged. The least he could do for this funny fellow was be polite. “You are fond of the Arabs?” he asked, munching his breakfast.
    Yol nodded. “They are clever and full of quirks—entertaining, the way I knew people to be in Lublin. A nice change from all the serious, dull Zionists.”
    Haim was too shocked to reply. He lowered his eyes and concentrated on his food.
    â€œHow do you like it?” Yol asked, gleefully watching Haim eat. “You’re doing well. I couldn’t stomach that stuff for weeks.”
    Haim shrugged again. “I’ve had worse. What is all this, anyway?”
    â€œThat flat bread is called pita , and the mush you’re dipping it into is a crushed pea called humus . The salty stuff is za’atar ; I don’t know how they make that.” He paused. “You’re sure you’re not going to throw