off were the twenty refugees from Atlit who had stayed in Beit Oren. The mothers with little ones lifted their toddlers high and shouted their thanks. “Todah rabah,” they cried. Zorah was the loudest of all.
When she caught Tedi watching her, Zorah dropped her hand and said, “You know, Todah rabah does not just mean thank you. It means great thanks. Big thanks. Many thanks. Thanks of rabbinic proportions and of all-encompassing magnitudes.”
Tedi put a hand on her shoulder and said, “Thank you, professora.”
Shayndel and Leonie decided to explore the kibbutz grounds before dinner. They walked slowly, careful of Leonie’s sore feet.
“We’re like a couple of old ladies,” Leonie said, remembering the story Shayndel used to tell about their lives lived side by side in Palestine.
“I know,” said Shayndel, wondering if they would ever stroll the Tel Aviv boulevards together.
A short bleat disturbed their thoughts. “Did you hear that?” Shayndel asked and pointed. “It sounds like it came from over there. Come on.” She dropped Leonie’s arm and raced ahead.
When Leonie caught up with her, she was inside a pen, scratching a small white goat between the ears.
Leonie said, “I’ve never seen you look so happy.”
“I don’t know what it is about goats.” Shayndel laughed. “I like them better than dogs. Do you want to come inside and pet her?” Leonie wrinkled her nose. “I’m sure she’s very nice, but no.”
Shayndel kissed the goat on the nose and latched the gate behind her.
“I do feel much better,” Shayndel said shyly, as they started back. “When you found me in the woods this morning, I was exhausted. But today, after what just happened, I have hope again. How can I help but hope among such people? And what about you? Aren’t you glad we finally got out of that miserable Atlit?”
“Of course,” said Leonie. “But unlike you, I did not grow up thinking of myself as part of this project, this Palestine. I have so much to learn, it’s a little—”
“There you are,” Tedi cried, running toward them, breathless and beaming. “They’ve put out a lovely meal for us. And oh, my dear, dear friends, there is ice cream!”
In the dining hall, a tall girl brought over a platter of bread and hard-boiled eggs. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but it seems that the salad is gone.”
Tedi and Leonie burst out laughing.
“Forgive them,” said Shayndel. “Some of us are amused about the local passion for chopped salads morning, noon, and night.”
Nina came to their table with a bowl of vanilla ice cream. They each took a spoonful, but passed it along so that Jacob could have the lion’s share.
He sniffed it cautiously and asked Esther, “Will I like this?”
“Don’t tell me you have never had ice cream before,” Tedi gasped.
After one tentative spoonful, he smiled at the five watching women and said, “This is good.”
He inhaled the rest while they interrupted one another debating the merits of flavors he had yet to taste: chocolate, strawberry, coffee, caramel.
But after he licked the bowl clean, Jacob declared, “This is my favorite, forever.”
They sat in the dining hall long after everyone else had finished eating, until there was no one left but the people mopping the floors. Jacob fell asleep with his head on Esther’s lap. Their conversation meandered from ice cream to the beauty of the mountains to the courage of the people who had filled the kibbutz that afternoon. They worried about Leonie’s feet, but they said nothing about what might happen tomorrow, and eventually they stopped talking and fell to sighing.
“I can’t believe I woke up here this morning,” said Tedi. “It feels like a week ago.”
“Last week we were in Atlit,” said Shayndel.
“That was yesterday,” Zorah said. “We were in Atlit yesterday. Last night, in fact.”
They stared at each other, shaking their heads in disbelief.
“I wonder if we will ever be together like this again,” Tedi said sadly.
“Maybe,” said Leonie. “Do you remember Aliza, the nurse in the clinic? She was always telling me what a small country this is. She says that she runs into people from her childhood all the time, even people she hasn’t seen in years.”