“I thought that the Jewish Agency was sending a real rabbi.”
“I heard they weren’t doing anything. No prayer books. No rabbi. Nothing.”
“Who told you that?”
Zorah had kept her distance, watching the proceedings and discussion from behind a small group of women who had come to pray. But one of the men caught sight of her. “Who is this lovely lady?” he crowed, grabbing her arm.
“Zorah, is that you?” said one of the regulars from Arik’s Hebrew class. He licked his lips. “Don’t you look nice? See how the old shoe is turned into a glass slipper.”
“Too bad no one can turn a donkey into a handsome prince,” Zorah replied, and walked away as slowly as she could, pretending not to hear the hoots and whistles at her back. As soon as she was out of their sight, she ran back to the now deserted barrack, where she loosened her hair, put on her own shirt, and left
the white blouse, neatly folded, on the foot of Leonie’s cot.
“I hope Tirzah won’t be angry that we took so long,” Shayndel said, as she and Tedi hurried toward the kitchen.
“I guess not,” Tedi said as they opened the door on a scene of cheerful pandemonium. The kitchen was crowded with far too many kibbutzniks, elbowing past each other and chattering as they piled platters with salads and casseroles, fruit and bread, and enough cookies and cakes to fill a pastry shop. In the dining room, the tables had been draped with white cloths and set with wineglasses, bowls of apples, and centerpieces of pine boughs and wildflowers.
Shayndel tried to pick up a plate, but it was grabbed out of her hands. “I work in the kitchen,” she explained.
“Not tonight,” said a girl with a mass of curly black hair barely restrained by a green-print kerchief. “Tonight, you will be served by your comrades from Kibbutz Yagur and Kibbutz Beit Oren.
“Do you know which kibbutz you’ll be going to?” she asked. “I’m at Yagur, just over the hills. Maybe you’ll come to us?”
“No, no,” said a thin boy with buckteeth. “It’s too hot there. Today up in Beit Oren, we were wearing long sleeves all day. Little Switzerland, we call it.”
The doors to the dining hall thundered with the sound of pounding fists as the residents of Atlit, dressed up and hungry, whistled and shouted for their dinner.
Someone improvised new lyrics to an old love song: “Tirzah, my darling, I perish for the sight of your chopped salad. I cannot bear being separated from your noodle soup for even another moment.”
The kibbutzniks laughed and looked toward Tirzah. She shrugged and waved her wooden spoon like a scepter, and the doors were unlocked.
After a stampede into the dining hall, there were ooh’s and aah’s about the tablecloths and flowers.
“Who is getting married?” someone shouted.
“All I need is a groom!”
“Here I am.”
The noise rose to a crescendo as people took seats and expressed opinions about the decorations and the kibbutzniks who lined the walls of the room. “Where is our dinner?” shouted one of the young men who was juggling the apples at his table. Anschel, the religious fanatic, leapt up and cried, “Quiet. Be quiet, all of you. It’s time to bless. What’s the matter with you?”
Voices fell as a soft “shhhh” made its way from table to table.
“Who is blessing lights?” Anschel demanded. “Where are our candles?” He glared at the kibbutzniks. “What are you people, gentiles?”
One of the girls ran into the kitchen and returned with matches and a pair of candles. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
A woman wearing a headscarf stood up and lit the candles. She cupped her hands and floated them above the flames in slow circles—once, twice, three times—before covering her eyes with her fingers and murmuring the prayer.
Anschel lifted a cup above his head and glared around the room, waiting for others to do the same. Around each table, the men eyed each other and silently determined which one would stand for the blessing. As they raised their cups, he began, “Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe.” The piercing nasal drone of his voice held everyone in thrall at first, but then others joined, creating a baritone jumble of melodies and accents that conjured a congregation of absent fathers and grandfathers. Tears flowed as the goblets were emptied, but Tirzah gave them no time to mourn, banging the door open wide with a tray piled with golden loaves of challah. She was greeted with applause and chatter, which continued through the brief blessing for bread, which was passed and devoured.
The apples were sliced, dipped into honey, and fed by girls to boys and by boys to girls amid an orgy of unambiguous finger licking. Leonie nudged Shayndel and pointed at Ilya, a notorious Revisionist who was making eyes at Masha, the rabid Communist, now batting her lashes back at him.
“A miracle,” said Shayndel.
A roar greeted the appearance of chicken and potatoes and Tirzah was dragged out of the kitchen for another ovation. Even though the portions of meat were small, there were no complaints in the dining hall. Shayndel called that a miracle, too, though Leonie thought it had more to do with the wine and homemade schnapps, smuggled in by the kibbutzniks.
“Please” and “thank you” were used as never before. And while the conversation was lively and loud, there was barely any political argument or gossip. “More miracles,” Leonie shouted to Shayndel, who was sitting right beside her until David squeezed between them and held out his hand.