“So now I am Jewish? Like Jacob?”
“Yes,” Zorah nodded, knowing full well that her ruling would not sit well with the rabbis; perhaps not even with most Jews. So she said, “There is no need to ask anyone else about this matter, ever again. If someone asks you about your family background, you look him in the eye and say, ‘I am a Jew.’”
“I am a Jew,” Esther repeated.
“Jacob is lucky to have you as his mother.” The word slipped out of Zorah’s mouth, but she did not wish it back. Sometimes “luck” was just another word for “creation,” which was as relentless as destruction.
Esther would love Jacob no matter what happened. Jacob would sing “Ha Tikvah” whether Zorah joined him or not.
“I understand why you have been so quiet,” Zorah said. “But now you must learn the language.”
“I’m afraid it is far too difficult for someone like me.”
“Someone like you?” Zorah said. Changing from Polish to Hebrew she asked, “Are you not the mother of Jacob Zalinsky?”
“Yes,” Esther replied slowly, in Hebrew. “Yes, I am the mother of Jacob Zalinsky.”
III October
October 6, Saturday
Shayndel was washing the tables in the mess hall after breakfast when Tirzah called her into the kitchen. She pointed at a brick of what looked like beige cheese on the counter. “You said you’d never tasted halvah. This comes from a place where they make the real thing, the best. Try it.”
Shayndel was startled by the gesture. It might have been a reward for her recent assignment, updating the schedule for every guard in Atlit, but it also felt like a friendship offering from this unfailingly distant woman.
“Thank you,” she said, and took a big bite. The texture, somehow oily and grainy at the same time, made her feel like she had a lump of sand in her mouth. She couldn’t decide if it was sweet or salty, and tried not to grimace. “It’s made from sesame seeds, right?” Shayndel asked as she poured herself a glass of water.
“It looks wonderful.” The voice came from the doorway, where Colonel Bryce stood as if waiting for an invitation to enter.
Shayndel had never been so close to the camp commander. At this range she could see how slender he was and the gray hair at his temples. His uniform was faded, though pressed and well fitted. He removed his hat and tucked it under his arm.
“You may have some, if you wish,” Tirzah said. “She doesn’t seem to like it.”
He pinched off a corner between his thumb and fingers. “Lovely. Very fresh,” he said, in Hebrew.
“Languages are a hobby of mine,” he explained in response to the shock on Shayndel’s face. “Is that the correct word, Mrs. Friedman?” he asked Tirzah. “Hobby?”
“Yes, sir.”
Bryce took a few more crumbs of the halvah and smiled at Shayndel. “I remember the first time I tried this stuff; I thought it tasted like dirt.”
“Never mind,” Tirzah said coldly.
“Thank you anyway, I mean, thank you so much,” said Shayndel. She realized that she had never addressed Tirzah by name. “It was nice of you to think of me.”
Tirzah shrugged and crossed her arms while Bryce put his hat on the counter and began tapping his finger as though he were working a telegraph. After a moment, Shayndel realized that they were waiting for her to leave. She pulled the apron over her head. “If you don’t mind, I think I will go see what the new physical education instructor is up to. Good morning, Colonel.”
“Good morning,” he said.
Tirzah was rattled by Bryce’s visit to the kitchen—something he had never done before. The whole camp was doubtless buzzing about it already. “To what do I owe this honor?”
“I have gotten word from Kibbutz Kfar Giladi,” he said. “On the Lebanese border. I believe you have cousins there.”
They both knew she had no family that far north. “Yes?” Tirzah said.
“There was a rather large incursion of Jewish immigrants late last night; maybe sixty or seventy Jews from Iraq and Syria. The British were there in some numbers, as I understand it. The Palmach was also in force and things got messy. Shots were fired.”
“Casualties?” she asked.