Shayndel laughed.
The dining hall was louder than usual as the men teased each other and boasted about their performance in the morning exercise classes, but there was an undercurrent of anxiety beneath the bravado. Rumors were flying about spies in camp, and about the possibility that the Iraqis would be released before anyone else.
The Poles sitting at the table behind Zorah were complaining bitterly about that theory. “We’ve been here for weeks and they just arrived. It is intolerable. Where are our advocates? Where are all those heroic Jews who are supposed to rescue the remnants?”
“How can you tell that these guys are Jews at all?” someone asked with a smirk. “Did you see how dark they were? They look more like Hassan and Abdul than Moshe and Shmuel.”
“Listen to that asshole. You want to check their foreskins? What about you? I heard those new calisthenics teachers are here looking for spies. Maybe you’re a spy.”
“Who the hell would I be spying for, idiot? You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“How naive can you be? If these people knew what they were doing, we wouldn’t be stuck in this place. There wouldn’t be a prison for Jews in Eretz Yisrael.”
“No prisons? You don’t think there are Jewish thieves?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“The Yishuv knows what it is doing.”
Zorah composed brilliant responses to their nonsense, even as she silently mocked the way they all talked past one another. My people, she thought, rude and arrogant as fishmongers. Or Talmud scholars.
It struck her that while the men were talking nonstop, the women sat in little groups or paired beside boyfriends, quietly sipping and chewing like domesticated animals. Even a heroine like Shayndel rarely spoke up in mixed company, she thought. And I am no better.
The debate around her stopped abruptly as the doors opened and four prisoners from the locked barrack walked in, accompanied by four armed guards.
The men seemed curious and eager as they searched the faces in the room, but the soldiers were nervous. “Hurry up,” muttered one of the British soldiers, pointing at the platters that had been set aside for them. Tirzah appeared with a plate covered by a napkin, which the soldier ripped off.
“Biscuits,” she said haughtily in English, then switching to Hebrew muttered, “Horse’s ass.” The room exploded into laughter and echoes of “horse’s ass.” The Poles behind Zorah stood up and started practicing their Hebrew obscenities.
After they were gone, everyone sat down and the room grew as quiet as an audience waiting for the curtain to rise on the second act. After a few minutes, people returned to eating and talking, and then drifted outside.
Zorah wanted to talk to Shayndel, but she had not sat down at all during lunch, so Zorah slipped into the kitchen and found her staring out the back door.
“You have to tell me what is going on,” Zorah said. “I feel like a big storm is about to break over my head.”
“Don’t let your imagination get ahead of you,” Shayndel said. “I think everyone is nervous because there are so many guards and guns in the compound.”
“You are the worst liar I’ve ever seen,” said Zorah.
“I have nothing to tell you.”
“You can’t even look me in the eye.”
“Not now,” Shayndel said, as the two of them went outside, drawn by the sound of a loud, angry argument rising from a tight circle of about twenty men. They had gathered around Uri, Bob, and Francek, who was poking Uri in the middle of his chest, one jab for every word. “We demand that you get us out of here before those other men.”
“Look here, brothers,” said Uri, who tried to take a step away from Francek’s finger but was pressed forward by the crowd. “You have to be patient just a little bit longer, and then, I promise, you will all be free men in Eretz Yisrael.”
“We are not children,” Francek said, “and we do not acknowledge your authority, you asshole.”
Uri’s smile vanished and in a single deft move, he grabbed Francek’s hand, twisted his arm behind his back, and dropped him to the ground with his boot at his throat. After one breathless, shocked moment, the other prisoners closed in. Bob tried to run for help but he was tackled from behind and fell to the ground face-first.
All of this took place so quickly and quietly, Zorah felt as though she were watching a silent movie.
Shayndel pushed her way into the middle of the lopsided tussle, as ten men struggled to keep the two Palmachniks from getting away. “What do you think you are doing?”
“We have to take matters into our own hands,” Francek said, dabbing at his bloody nose. “Get them inside.”
It was no simple matter moving the two flailing men without alerting the guards. On the way to the barrack, Uri and Bob landed several hard kicks to their kidnappers’ shins and shoulders.