Cheers erupted. Seligman—the kibbutz administrator who was rarely seen without his clipboard—pursed his lips and waited until they settled down.
“‘Wednesday, close to midnight, the interned refugees at
the Atlit camp broke out with the help of forces from the Jewish settlement. One hundred and eighty-two immigrants who went through the horrors of the concentration camps were imprisoned in Atlit; in addition, there were thirty-seven refugees from Iraq and Syria, who had received deportation orders, leading to high tension in the camp.
“‘A Christian woman died from suffocation while she was tied up.’”
Zorah glanced over at Leonie, Tedi, and Shayndel, who stared intently at their plates.
“‘Toward morning, large police forces surrounded Kibbutz Beit Oren and Kibbutz Yagur. When the news reached Haifa many workers and youth left work and school and rushed to assist the besieged farms. Thousands of people returned to Haifa from the Carmel.’”
“Thousands?” someone shouted. “There were maybe six hundred people here. You can’t believe anything you read in the newspapers.”
“‘A crowd of four thousand people gathered on He’-Halutz Street. Speeches were made emphasizing that the workers of Eretz Yisrael and the Settlement are ready for a long battle with any decree against immigration.
“‘All of the factions expressed sorrow at the losses suffered by the police. The British officer Gordon Hill was killed. Twenty-two years old from Avedon, with a master’s degree in law from Aberdeen University, he attended an officers’ course before joining the police force of the British Mandate.’”
“Gordon?” Tedi whispered to Shayndel. “Was he the young sergeant from Atlit who worked in the commandant’s office? The blonde boy who spoke Hebrew?”
“I don’t know.”
After the kibbutzniks headed off to work, Leonie moved closer to the others and whispered, “They made her death sound like an accident.”
“So be it,” said Tedi. “No name was given, did you notice? It has already been forgotten.”
Zorah shrugged. “I don’t know what you are talking about.” Seligman approached their table, rifling through the papers on his clipboard. “Eskenazi, Shayndel?” he asked.
Shayndel raised her hand.
“Do you know someone named Besser?”
“I knew a Shmuley Besser,” she said, remembering how he used to hold the camera as though it were made of glass. “But he is dead.”
“This is from a Yeheskiel Besser,” he said and handed her an envelope.
She took the letter, which had been opened and carelessly refolded. “It’s from Shmuley’s uncle,” she said. “He writes that I am to join him at Kibbutz Alonim. Is that far from here?”
“Not far,” Seligman said. “Close to Haifa. I have many friends there. They will be sending someone for you tomorrow.”
“What do you know about my friends here?” Shayndel asked.
“Names?”
“Dubinski,” Leonie said.
“Dubinski, Leonie. You are going to Kibbutz Dalia.”
“That is also near Haifa, isn’t it?”
“How did you know that?” Tedi asked, impressed.
“I think that is where Aliza’s uncle Ofer lives. I wonder if she had anything to do with this. Is that possible, Monsieur Seligman? I worked in the infirmary with Mrs. Gilad. Nurse Aliza Gilad?”
“I have no idea how these assignments were made.”
“What about me?” said Tedi. “Pastore.”
“You are going to Kibbutz Negba. That’s in the south,” he said. “And you should go and pack your things. They’re coming for you this afternoon. You may have to stop overnight somewhere; Tel Aviv if you’re lucky.”