Chamsin

By Barry Spillberg

Chamsin are the fifty days of hot winds from the Arabian desert that bake the Middle East during the change of seasons.

Completing his service in the Air Force during the Vietnam War, Ben Asher, is sent to Israel for one last mission. Delayed in accomplishing his task, he travels to Kibbutz Susita, a quiet place of solitude and desperation tucked away beneath the Golan Heights. There he finds romance and adventure, peace and war.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barry Spillberg
• Release date: Sep 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476102344

Barry Spillberg

I'm on my fifth career (or is it my sixth?). I am one of the last children born in Boston's old West End before they tore it down in the early 1950s to build the Charles River Apartments complex. I grew up in Milton, just over the Neponset River from Boston and went to the Milton Public Schools. I also attended the Hebrew Teachers College in Brookline. My mother wanted me to become a rabbi. I had other plans. I graduated Syracuse University with honors and a major in Zoology. Because my draft lottery number for the Vietnam War was 61, I volunteered for the Air Force and completed AFROTC while in graduate school. In graduate school, at Syracuse, I was working on a doctorate in biophysics. Never finished. Lived in Israel with my wife Ruth in the mid-1970s, on a kibbutz near the Lebanese Border. Our daughter Keren was born at the Nahariya Military Hospital. Upon our return to the States in 1977, I changed careers and became a telecommunications engineer. I worked various corpororate jobs and finally with some friends established the first of two telecom consultancies, FMS Telecommunications. At the same time, I taught Telecommunications Technology at Northeastern University's State-of-the-Art Engineering Program. I retired from telecom in the mid-2000s. Grew bored sitting home, took the teacher certification tetst in science and I now teach biology, chemistry and physics at a high school in suburban Boston. I had always wanted to write. I originally went to Syracuse with the intention of majoring in literature and creative writing. Not liking the program I switched to science. The 64-Bit Waltz is my first novel.

Book preview

CHAMSIN

by BJ Spillberg

Copyright 2012 by Barry Jay Spillberg

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Also available on Smashwords : The 64-Bit Waltz, The Lady in the Rotunda, October Hunt, Runaway Lightning.

CHAPTER I

What struck Ben Asher first was the smell and then the heat. The sanitized air conditioned atmosphere of the airport reception hall disappeared as soon as the glass doors opened and he pushed the luggage cart onto the melting asphalt. The air smelled of diesel fuel and body odor. And the sun. It was not yet eight o’clock in the morning and it was hot, searingly hot. Here he was, back in a tropical climate with the familiar heat but the smell was different – no rotting fruit, no dampness.

The line of people leaving reception kept stopping as each emerging person or group was swamped and surrounded by waiting family and friends. Every person seemed to have a dozen or more people waiting, crowding against the metal railings, every person except him. He looked around at the crowd. Men with beards, men without. Old women who looked strikingly like his grandmother. Young women in low cut blouses. Every person surrounded by a crowd of all ages. He put on his gold-rimmed sunglasses and his flight cap. Ben pushed his way through to the taxi stand. People stared at him.

Slicha, slicha, Ben said loudly trying to be heard over the crowd noise.. Excuse me, please. The luggage cart did not steer very well under the weight of his gear; a barracks bag, a saxophone case and his aluminum camera case. He kept checking under his arm to ensure that his leather binder was still there. He reached the curb and was accosted by the taxi drivers.

Ben picked a driver from the mob of waiting men all gesturing to him to come to his cab.. Tel Aviv, he said to his selection, a short burly man wearing a sweat-stained undershirt and shorts, the American Embassy. The driver opened the trunk of his taxi, a diesel powered Mercedes, and attempted to heave the barracks bag into the car. It took the two of them to maneuver the bag into the trunk along with the two cases.

On HaYarkon, no problem, the driver answered. The taxi pulled away from the curb nearly colliding with another cab. The driver made what seemed to be a rude hand gesture and accelerated away.

You like the weather? the driver asked.

Ben shrugged. It seems pretty hot.

It is the Chamsin, the hot winds blow off the Arabian desert and bake us. It will blow for fifty days until the season changes.

Something to look forward to, Ben answered. They sat in silence for a few moments.

What are you? the driver asked looking at Ben through his mirror. They had left the airport. Ben gazed at the palm trees lining the road.

Excuse me? What am I? He was having trouble understanding the gruff, guttural accent. It was not what he was used to.

You are some sort of soldier? I don’t recognize the uniform.

Ah, Ben said. I’m an American Air Force officer.

Air Force? Are you a pilot?

Oh no. I don’t fly. I’m in Security. Well, sort of in security, Ben thought, but he was not a policeman. Security covered a wide range of activities.

Oh, the driver said, his curiosity momentarily satisfied. He lit a cigarette. The smoke added to the smell. His curiosity came back. You stationed at the embassy?

The guy was getting nosy. But there were no real state secrets here. No, not really, he answered. The road traffic was heavy. A passenger in the car next to the taxi stared, a young woman. He smiled and waved. I am here to visit relatives. I’m on a vacation but I have to report into the embassy first before I can take off.

You’re Jewish?

Yes, I am. You sound surprised.

Sorry. I didn’t think there were many Jews in the American Air Force.

There are a few. Not many Jewish pilots, mostly lawyers and doctors and a couple of oddballs like me. The taxi left the highway and entered city traffic.

Where in Israel is your family?

Way up north in the Galilee, near Tiberius.

Tiberius? Really? I have never been there.

Well, well, neither have I. They both laughed.

The taxi lurched forward, slowly meandering its way down one street and then another. Ben hoped the driver was taking a direct route and not giving him the grand tour so as to up the meter. The sidewalks were crowded. It reminded him of the Lower East Side of New York, only the signs were in Hebrew.

The embassy travel office had booked him on an overnight El Al flight from Frankfurt. Despite his diplomatic credentials and military uniform, Ben stood in line like everyone else waiting to go through a security inspection. A bearded, elderly man standing in front of him in line struck up a conversation.

American military? the man asked. Obviously he was an orthodox Jew, the fringes of his talis katan, the prayer shawl that orthodox men wore all the time, were showing beneath his shirt. He wore a New York Yankees baseball cap. His English was good though heavily accented.

Yes, sir. American Air Force.

Where are you from?

Originally? Boston. I’ve been stationed in Germany the past year.

Boston is a nice place. I have spent time visiting relatives in Newton. Ziavi Goldberg.

I don’t think I know him, sir.

The old man laughed. I’m sure you don’t. I was in the US Army in World War II, in the Pacific. Lived in Queens, New York for many years. Now I live in Israel, Nahariya.

Where is that? Ben’s knowledge of Israel geography was not very detailed. he knew where his relatives lived and where Tel Aviv was and that was about it.

North of Haifa, right below the Lebanese border on the coast. A very pretty place. You should come and visit.

I’ll do that, sir. I will be staying on a kibbutz near the Sea of Galilee. Kibbutz Susita.

Under the Golan Heights above Kibbutz Ein Gev, the man said nodding. Also a very pretty place. Strange place for an American Air Force officer.

He shrugged. I have family there. My brother’s widow and his daughter and two sons.

Widow? What happened? the old man asked with deep concern.

It was always painful to remember his dead brother. Why had he mentioned that Batya was a widow? Now he had to explain and dredge up more painful memories. My brother, Gary, was a major in the Israeli Army. He was killed about this time three years ago on the Suez Canal during the War of Attrition. I was in Vietnam and couldn’t make it to the funeral. I’ve never met her or the kids.

The old man paused for a moment or two in thought and then seemed to change the subject. I see you’ve seen some action. Ribbons for the Silver Star and the Bronze Star. And, what’s this? Two, no three purple hearts. How long were you in Vietnam?

Twenty-eight months. I was a path finder. Operated behind enemy lines and called down air strikes. That had been his official duty but for most of his time in Nam, he had done other things, but he did not like talking about those things.

And now you’re going to Israel?

I have ninety days of leave coming. I’m resigning from the service in mid-November.

Not going to be a lifer?

No, no, sir. I’ve pretty much had enough of the military life. Going back to school next fall. And going back to being a regular human being, Ben thought, or a reasonable facsimile of one.

Very nice. Well, if you ever get to Nahariya, look me up. The old man reached into his shirt and handed over a business card. One side was in Hebrew, the other in English. Shmuel Goldberg, Precious Gems. I’m in the diamond trade; a little wholesale, a little retail. The address of my shop is listed on the bottom of the card. Who knows? You may be in the market for a diamond one of these days.

Ben laughed. That seems hardly likely given my sorry luck with women. He pulled out a small, leather cardholder. He had been promoted to captain just three months before and had new business cards made up. He gave one to Goldberg.

Benjamin Jacob Asher, Captain, United States Air Force Reserve, Goldberg read aloud. Are you Jewish, Captain Asher?

Yes, sir, I am.

Do you speak Hebrew?

Asher reddened and shrugged. A little, Mr. Goldberg. My Hebrew is pretty rusty. Been speaking mostly Vietnamese and German the last several years. Ben paused and then continued in Hebrew, I am a graduate of the Hebrew Teachers’ College High School in Boston. My biblical Hebrew is okay. I am afraid that my modern Hebrew is poor. I know all the correct grammar but I do not have the vocabulary.

Your Hebrew is very good, Goldberg exclaimed. I’m sure that when you are on the kibbutz, it will improve quickly. However, you must try to speak only in Hebrew.

Ben laughed. Thanks. Well, we’ll see.

At that moment a security guard gestured Ben over to her table. The guard was a young woman with long dark hair pulled back in a pony tail, dark-eyed with olive skin. She wore a white, open collared shirt and dark pants. Her security pass hung around her neck on a chain.

She said to him in Hebrew, I heard you speak to the old man in Hebrew. Would you prefer we continue in Hebrew?

We’d probably be better off in English, Ben said.

Okay, she paused and then continued in English. This is a security check. I am going to ask you a series of questions. This is for your safety and for the safety of the passengers on this flight.

I understand completely, he nodded.

Why are you traveling to Israel?

Ben had been briefed at the embassy on how to respond to security questions. I am a US military officer on diplomatic service with travel orders sending me from our embassy in Bonn to our embassy in Tel Aviv. He opened the leather binder he had been carrying under his arm and handed her a copy of his travel orders. She glanced at them. Ben wasn’t sure if she had read them or not, not that it made any difference. She handed the piece of paper back.

Did you pack your bags yourself? Have they been in your possession since they were packed? He nodded yes. What’s in the bag? she asked.

The barracks bag contains clothing, uniforms, boots. I probably should show you this. He dug into his pocket and retrieved a key chain. He unlocked the padlock on the barracks bag and pulled out a bulky cloth. Within the cloth was a leather holster containing a .45 caliber pistol. He handed her the gun butt first. My personal sidearm. It’s been properly secured for travel.

She carefully inspected the gun. Do you have the authorization paper?

Yes, I do. Ben extracted a second sheet from his leather binder. She read this paper with much more care. She stamped it and wrote something under the stamp in Hebrew. She handed him back the paper and the gun. He returned the paper to the binder and then carefully put the gun back into the holster, rewrapped the holster in the cloth and placed the bundle back into the bag. He closed the padlock with a sharp click. Passengers and other security guards were staring at him. He smiled back.

What are in the other two cases? she pointed.

In this long one, Ben turned the case toward himself so he could open it, are George, Oscar and Louise. He unlocked the case, opening and turning it towards her so she could see. Louise is the flute, George is the tenor saxophone and Oscar is the clarinet. He opened Oscar’s compact case to show her the clarinet. He then proceeded to open the compartment under Oscar to reveal boxes of reeds, a saxophone strap and a container of cork wax.

You give your musical instruments names?" she said laughing.

Ben shrugged, closed and locked the case. The other case contains my camera gear. The case, a hard body metal case, was secured with two combination locks. He opened the case and showed her. The top compartment contains film. The bottom holds the cameras and lenses.

Do the cameras work? she asked.

Sure, he pulled out one of the lens-less camera bodies out of its cushioned cradle, pushed down on the shutter, heard the click of the shutter closing, pushed the film advance lever and made the camera click again. He demonstrated the same procedure with the other camera body. Returning the cameras to the case, he locked both clasps. The security guard placed stickers on all three pieces.

Where else are you going in Israel?

I’m visiting family on Kibbutz Susita.

Oh, I have a friend there, Dafna Rosenzweig. We were in the army together. You can’t miss her. She almost as tall as you.

Okay, Ben said. He was 6’4". This Dafna must be a very big girl.

Tell her she owes Talya Karni a letter.

Talya Karni. I’ll remember that, he said smiling and placed his baggage and cases back onto the luggage cart. Another agent directed him to an open ticket counter. As he was placing the barracks bag on the luggage scale, he realized that Talya Karni was still looking at him. He smiled and gave her a little wave. She waved back and then turned away to inspect someone else’s luggage.

Ben checked in the barracks bag and the saxophone case, keeping the camera case for a carry on. He had brought no books to read as he intended to sleep on the plane. Check-in went smoothly. The ticket agent, a middle-aged man, issued him a colored boarding pass and wrote in his seat assignment, an aisle seat near the front of tourist class.

Ben discovered Mr. Goldberg waiting for him at the departure lounge escalator.

There’s a half-way decent bar near our gate, Goldberg said. I’ll buy you a drink.

Thanks, I need one, Ben replied.

Ben must have dozed off as he was startled when the taxi came to a stop and the driver announced that they had arrived. As he and the driver unloaded his baggage onto the sidewalk, a marine guard in full parade dress, sword and gloves came rushing down the embassy steps. The marine stopped five feet in front of Ben and saluted. Ben came to attention and returned the salute.

Ben paid off the taxi driver. He hefted the barracks bag onto one shoulder and picked up the camera case. The marine took the saxophone case. You can store your gear at our command post until you’re ready to leave, sir.

Thank you, marine, Ben replied. There was an office just inside the front door of the embassy. The two other marines on duty came to attention. He noticed the bank of television cameras.

May I have your military ID, sir? the second marine asked. Ben took out his wallet and handed over his identification card. The marine copied information into a log book and gave Ben a numbered visitor’s badge that clipped to the flap of his shirt pocket. When you leave, sir, just hand in the pass and we’ll give you back your ID.

Ben nodded. The first marine pointed him in the direction of a door at the far end of the entry hall guarded by another marine. Show him your pass, sir, and he will admit you. The Air Attaché’s office is on the third floor.

Ben looked around. There are a lot of people around here. Must be a busy day.

The marine chuckled. No more than usual, sir. The consular office is just off the hall over to the left. Lot of people applying for tourist visas to visit the States. The marine came to attention and saluted. Ben returned the salute.

Upon reaching the third floor, Ben removed his flight cap and tucked in his belt. A very pretty secretary directed him to the Air Attaché’s office.

He entered the office. Sitting at a desk at the corner was a small black man with a highly polished shaved head. Ben noticed the number of stripes on the man’s sleeve – a senior chief master sergeant – and the rows and rows of ribbons. The sergeant spotted Ben and stood up coming to attention.

As you were, sergeant, Ben said. I’m Captain Benjamin Asher to see the commanding Air Attaché.

Senior Chief Master Sergeant Randolph Brooks, sir. Welcome aboard. He held out his hand. Ben shook it noticing the very strong grip. The marine command post alerted us that you had arrived. Can I get you something to drink, Captain?

Something cold would be great, Sarge.

No problem, sir. We have cold grapefruit juice and Coca Cola. Ben saw a small refrigerator, the type used in college dormitory rooms, behind the desk.

A Coke would be fine, Ben answered. Brooks handed him a sweating can. He waved off the offer of a glass pulling the tab and taking a long swig. It felt good going down.

The Colonel will see you, sir, as soon as he is off the phone. The sergeant glanced at his telephone. Ah, he’s off. Come this way, sir. Brooks knocked on the inner office door and opened it. Ben followed him in.

The Colonel, a bird colonel, was standing behind his desk. Ben noticed the wings on his shirt, a pilot. On the credenza were models of jet aircraft, older models used in Korea. Ben came to attention. The Colonel waved him to a chair. That will be all, Brooks. The Colonel sat down on his desk chair. The sergeant shut the door behind him.

Have a good flight, Captain?

It was okay, sir. A bit cramped though. Military transports may not have the most comfortable seats but one gets a sufficient amount of leg room.

True. The Colonel started to rifle through a file on his desk. Ben realized that it was a copy of his personnel file.

Impressive record, Captain. Reads more like a green beret’s file than that of an Air Force officer.

I go where they send me, sir.

True enough. Did they brief you in Bonn?

About the project? Yes, sir, they did.

Good, but there’s been a delay. Our valued allies here won’t have resources available until after the end of the Jewish holidays in mid-October. So we will have to wait. In the meantime, I will want you to review the operational plans among other things. The Colonel handed over a manila folder stamped ‘secret’.

Ben opened it and gasped, It’s in Vietnamese.

You can read Vietnamese, right? the Colonel said in Hmong.

Yes, sir, Ben replied in the same language.

Good. The Colonel switched back to English. Both Sergeant Brooks and I have spent time in country. Anything you send me via the local post should be in Vietnamese. I want you to call in every seventy-two hours. Sergeant Brooks will supply you with the telephone numbers. Anything about the project will be said in Hmong.

Yes, sir. Ben was curious about the extra security precautions but knew better than to ask.

What time do you have to leave?

The direct bus to Tiberius leaves from the central bus station in about an hour, sir. If I miss it, I’ll have to route through Haifa and I’ll miss the last bus out to the kibbutz.

A long walk, eh? Wouldn’t want you to do that. The Colonel gave a harsh bark which Ben took for a laugh. He buzzed Sergeant Brooks on the intercom. Sarge, call the marines and arrange for a ride for Captain Asher to the central bus station. Oh, and Brooksie, talk to Mrs. Greer in the commissary about a decent picnic lunch for our aerospace warrior here. It’s a long ride to Tiberius. He hung up the phone. I’m sorry we can’t provide you with transportation all the way up to the kibbutz, Captain, the Colonel said. It’s the silly season. All our available transportation and drivers are carting around VIPs.

The bus is fine, sir.

Yes. So you are still determined to separate in November?

Yes, sir. I was already heading back to Boston to start grad school when this came up. Figured I could help out here and get to visit family whom I’ve never met.

The Colonel started to say something, paused and then continued. Something you should know. When your arrival was mentioned in yesterday’s staff briefing, the resident spook began salivating out of both sides of his mouth. We may be asked to lend you out.

Ben shrugged. I’ve been on blacks ops rides before, sir. Just another opportunity to excel.

Very good, Captain. And you did bring a dress uniform?

Yes, sir. The uniform was specified in my orders. What’s up with that?

The Colonel laughed. We have very few, tall single junior officers here on staff, and there’s a great demand for the suitable escort for a VIP’s daughter at some embassy function or another. Luckily for you, you’re going to be at a distance from Tel Aviv. However, you’ll still be expected at various formals and other events. So keep your mess dress cleaned and pressed.

Sergeant Brooks stuck his head in to report that Ben’s ride to the bus station was waiting at the front door. The Colonel shook Ben’s hand. The Sergeant handed Ben a piece of paper listing the call-in telephone numbers among other items. Ben took his binder, now containing the project plans, came to attention, saluted the Colonel, turned and went out the door.

At the marine command post, he exchanged the guest pass for his military identification. That’s your ride over there, sir. The marine pointed to a white jeep. Ben noticed his gear was stowed in the back. The marine came to attention. Ben returned his salute.

A marine corporal dressed in fatigues greeted him at the jeep. He handed him a shopping bag. "Your lunch, sir, compliments of Mrs. Greer in the commissary. Fried chicken, a couple of roast beef sandwiches, chips, some fruit and two pieces of chocolate cake. And two liter bottles of mineral water to wash it all down.

Holy mother... Enough to feed a platoon!! Give my complements and thanks to Mrs. Greer.

No problem, sir. Though we’d better shove off if we’re going to make that bus.

Right. The jeep pulled into traffic. The central bus station wasn’t far but the traffic was extremely heavy. The bus station itself was a medium-sized one story concrete building with a large parking lot adjacent where the buses picked up and dropped off passengers. The station was located in the middle of a busy shopping area with outdoor stall after outdoor stall; clothing, records, appliances. The corporal parked in a spot that was clearly marked ‘No Parking’.

No problem, sir. We’ve got diplomatic plates. Stay here with the gear and I’ll get your ticket. The corporal disappeared into the building. Ben looked around. For the first time, he felt that he was back in Vietnam. The hustle, the crowds, the noise. This could just as easily be Saigon.

Five minutes later, the marine corporal emerged. He handed Ben a slip of paper. This is your ticket, sir. Have to give it to the bus driver when you get on. He pointed to a bus, two lanes away. That one’s yours. The corporal hauled the barracks bag onto one shoulder and grabbed the saxophone case leaving Ben his cameras, his leather binder and his lunch.

The bus driver was taking tickets at the door. Ben explained in Hebrew that the corporal was not coming along, just helping him get his luggage on the bus. The driver nodded okay. The first ten rows were filled. The corporal picked a spot near the back and hefted the barracks bag onto one overhead and the saxophone into the one opposite. He pulled a piece of rope from his pants pocket and looped it through the saxophone case handle and the camera case handle and tied it around the overhead support bar.

Reinforced rope, sir. Nobody will cut through it quickly or easily. A little precaution we’ve learned.

Thanks, corporal.

No problem, sir. You speak the local lingo pretty good, sir.

Years of Hebrew school, corporal. Ben reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills in the local currency. He picked out a ten lira note. Can you find a newsstand and get me a couple of papers to read?

The marine took the money. No problem, sir. You get comfortable and I’ll be right back.

Ben sat down next to the window and placed the shopping bag with lunch on the adjacent empty seat. He opened the window to let in some air. It was hotter in the bus than it was outside.

The marine corporal came up to the open window and handed up three newspapers and change. That’s an International Tribune and a Jerusalem Post, both in English.I also bought you a Ma’ariv since you speak Hebrew.

Ben looked at the Hebrew paper and laughed. He doubted if he would understand one word in ten. Thanks, corporal. Thanks very much.

No problem, sir. The marine came to attention and saluted. Ben returned the salute. And the corporal returned to his jeep to find it being ticketed by a police woman. The American pointed to the diplomatic plates. The woman pointed to the no parking sign and handed him a ticket. He shrugged shoving the ticket into a pants pocket, waved to Ben and clambered into the driver’s seat.

Just as the bus driver was about to close the doors, three young women got on and sat opposite Ben, two in the seat adjacent and one behind. The three wore identical khaki blouses with very short skirts, off-green bobby socks and scuffed brown shoes. The famous Israeli girl soldier. All three were brunettes with fair skin, somewhat chunky and looked as if they were on their way to a high school function.

Ben smiled at them briefly and then dug into Mrs. Greer’s lunch. The smell of the fried chicken made him even hungrier than he believed he was. The bus pulled away from the platform and lumbered into traffic. It did not take long for the bus to reach an open highway heading north following the coast. He could see the blue, sparkling Mediterranean in the distance beyond rolling dunes of sand and grass.

Ben finished off the fried chicken and the chips and drained one of the liter bottles of mineral water.

To answer your question, he said in Hebrew to the three girls across the aisle, I am an American Air Force officer. Would any of you young ladies like a piece of chocolate cake? It comes from the US Embassy.

All three girls blushed. They had been chirping back and forth to each other in Hebrew speculating about his identity, how cute he was. Did he have a girlfriend?

Or how about an apple? He offered several from his bag. And, oh, I don’t have a girl friend but I think you girls are too young for me, don’t you?

Their blushes deepened. One of them muttered an apology of sorts. Grinning, Ben shrugged and turned to look out the window. The bus turned off the main highway and was heading in the direction of Zichron Ya’akov. To the north, he saw what he supposed was Mount Carmel. The bus skirted the mountain turning northeast and then finally east. The bus followed a narrow paved roadway through rolling hills and forests before entering another highway heading east.

Ben assumed that they were now in the Galilee. There were large, forested hills to the north of the road. The immediate scenery consisted of large rocks interspersed with burnt grass. The land seemed empty. While there was a fair amount of traffic on the roads, there were few buildings alongside.

The three girl soldiers had overcome their initial embarrassment and Ben learned that they were returning to their base outside Rosh Pina, a small village north of Tiberius, from a course in computer programming in Tel Aviv. All three girls were from the Haifa area and none spoke English well.

Ben went into the whole story of his leaving the Air Force and visiting his family at Kibbutz Susita. They wanted to know what all the ribbons were on his chest and the parachute badge and the two bars of his captain’s rank. And if he was in the Air Force, why wasn’t he a pilot or had something to do with planes? His Hebrew was getting a significant workout. Other passengers in the back of the bus became involved helping him find words in Hebrew when he became stumped. The girls ate his pieces of chocolate cake and most of the fruit. By the time the bus reached the bus depot in Tiberius, a miniature of the one in Tel Aviv, he had taken down all three girls’ phone numbers and addresses as well as the names, phone numbers and addresses of some of the of the other passengers. He had several invitations to Friday night dinner.

The bus driver helped take down his gear and pointed out the location of the bus stop for the bus to Kibbutz Susita. There was no bus yet so he sat down on a bench with his gear at his feet. He ate the last piece of fruit and drank the last of the mineral water. Several other people came over and waited. He saw his three new girlfriends get on another bus and they waved to him as their bus pulled out. He waved.

Eventually, a bus pulled up. Ben took up the whole second row of seats. There were few people on the bus. He looked at the Sea of Galilee as the bus headed south around the lake. Beyond the lake were a line of hills rising straight up, the Golan Heights. It was a surprisingly clear day and he could make out groups of buildings from across the lake. He thought he could make out Kibbutz Susita tucked up underneath the Heights.

At Kibbutz Ein Gev, the bus emptied out except for him and the driver. Ben and the driver struck up a conversation. The driver knew his sister-in-law, Batya, and her three children, Shoshi, Doron and little Garon. He had heard that the brother-in-law was expected for a visit. The bus climbed the two kilometers of paved road that passed through fields of hay and grape vineyards to the settlement. The bus entered through an open gate into a parking area full of trucks, vans and tractors. There were about ten people waiting for the bus. The driver helped Ben with his gear. The people got on the bus and they all stared at him. As the bus pulled away, he could hear the driver explaining to his passengers who the stranger in the strange uniform was. Ben looked at his watch. It was 1600 hrs.

Are you lost?

Huh? Excuse me? Ben turned around. The first thing he noticed was the legs. They were long and tanned. He looked up into dark blue eyes and a band of freckles across the nose.

Are you lost? she repeated.

She was very tall. You must be Dafna Rosenzweig.

She was taken aback. Have we met?

Oh, no, no, he laughed. I met a friend of yours at the Frankfurt airport, Talya Karni – works security for El Al. She described you to me and told me to tell you that you owe her a letter.

Talya Karni! She laughed. Funny, I just posted a letter to her this morning. She put both hands on her hips, But you still haven’t answered my question. Are you lost?

Well, no and yes.

No and yes?

No, in that I was heading for Kibbutz Susita, and this is Kibbutz Susita, so I’m not lost in that regard. But on the other hand, I am lost because I am looking for the house of Batya Asher and I haven’t a clue where she lives.

She took a hard look at Ben’s face and then glanced at the name tag on his shirt pocket. Oh my, she clapped her hands. You must be Gary’s brother, Ben.

Yes, that’s me.

She shook his hand. She had a firm grip. We’ve been expecting you. Batya will be so excited and the kids.

Ben smiled. The tall girl smiled back. She picked up the saxophone case as if it were a feather. Come this way. Batya is probably picking up the kids from their houses.

Ben shouldered his barracks bag and carried his camera case in his right hand, his binder in his left. He had left the newspapers on the bus. She waited for him to catch up. They walked on a cement sidewalk past fragrant bushes of flowers. Birds sang and swooped. Beyond the rim of buildings, he could see the lake and in the distance Tiberius.

Dafna kept up a line of commentary, explaining to him various points of interest. He was introduced to several people they encountered including Dafna’s father, a short, heavy set man with rock hard blue eyes. Ben didn’t remember all the names. They all seemed happy to see him.

They finally reached the children’s area, discernable by the multitude of swing sets, slides, sand boxes and other paraphernalia of young children at play. They met Batya escorting her two sons. Asher recognized her immediately; medium height, dark hair, large expressive brown eyes. She recognized him too. He put down his bags and they embraced. The older of the two boys wanted to know who this tall stranger was.

Ben knelt on one knee. I am your Uncle Ben, he said to the boy. And you must be Doron.

Yes, I am. Did you know my daddy?

Yes, yes, I did, Ben answered. Your daddy was my older brother. Ben felt tears welling up in his eyes. The other little boy, Garon, hid behind his mother’s legs. When he peeked out, Ben waved at him.

Ben stood up. And where is my niece?

Batya waved a hand in the air. The little princess is somewhere in the area riding her bicycle. She’ll be around later, I’m sure. Batya looked at Ben’s luggage. She walked into one of the house yards and wheeled out what appeared to be a cage on wheels with a handle. Here, put your bags in the wagon. It’s too hot to be carrying these things by hand.

Ben loaded up the wagon with Dafna’s help. He took off his flight cap and placed it on Doron’s head. It was, of course, a little big. Garon’s curiosity overcame his shyness and he came up to his uncle. Ben picked him up and sat him on his shoulders. Not a feather but a lot lighter than the barracks bag. The wagon handle was large enough for two people to push. With Garon on his shoulders and Batya walking alongside, he pushed the wagon with the tall Dafna Rosenzweig. She placed her left hand over his right hand. He looked at her. She smiled. Doron ran ahead announcing the arrival of his uncle to every passer by.

They reached Batya’s apartment. It was on one corner of a triplex. The front area was under the shadow of a grape arbor. Large bunches of grapes hung down overhead.

Well, Ben Asher, are you lost? Dafna turned to him.

No, I think I am well found.

Very good. She gave Garon a pat on the knee and mussed Doron’s hair. I suppose we will see you at supper.

I suppose.

She waved and something to Batya who just smiled. She then walked away. Ben watched her leave. As if on cue, she turned and smiled at him. He smiled back. He was well found, very well found indeed.

CHAPTER II

August –, 1973

1st Lt. Charles R. Cross IV

USAF

P.O. Box 15–

McDill AFB

Tampa, FL

Dear Chuck,

My Mom forwarded to me the mail that has been piling up at home. The package arrived here this morning. Yes, the here is not what you expected. This was a last minute deal. Uncle offered me the choice of immediately going back to school or an all expense paid visit to the Holy Land in exchange for a couple of dances. I’m still on schedule to separate in mid-November but I lay you odds I will get extended. Luckily, I do have in writing from the Secretary that I will be allowed to enroll next September so I can’t be extended forever. Just have to survive the dancing in the meantime, and as we both know, Uncle can dance a mean and dangerous tango,

So, I notice you’ve finally made it to a silver bar. Congratulations! It’s about time. I always thought you academy guys made it to one star after two years. So, you’re below the line. Better suck it up, cadet! It must have been one hell of a promotion party. Too bad I missed it. Well, hopefully, I’ll be near at hand for the next one.

Life must be tough down there in Tampa. I hear the o club there is a real jumping spot, especially on the weekends. A lot of availability and opportunity. Well, son, you just be careful. Neither Hank nor I are around to watch your back like we used to down at China Beach. And if things get too hot for you there, just let me know. Can always use another dead-eye. I’ll put in the good word.

I’ve been here all of four days. There seems to have been a problem with the orchestra and whatever dancing was to take place has been postponed. Just as well. Gave me the opportunity to come up here and spend some quality time with my family. It’s time I needed.

This kibbutz, this farming collective, is tucked away under the Golan Heights east of the Sea of Galilee. It used to be the border with Syria until the Six Day War. Because of its location, the Syrian artillery used to fire over them and hit the kibbutz – Ein Gev – below. I can see what my brother, Gary, used to love about the place. In the morning, you don’t see the sun coming up directly; it’s blocked by the escarpment. Rather, you watch the lake light up and the sun shine on Tiberius, the city on the other side of the lake. The whole area is in the shape of a hollow bowl. Sunsets happen quickly – the sun just seems to drop behind the hills of the Galilee.

There must be a million birds in the trees. I used to think it was noisy at the firebase but it doesn’t compare. The birds sing the sun up in the morning and mourn its passing in the evening. But despite the racket, it seems so serene. Despite the birds, the cows – the kibbutz maintains a large dairy operation – the sounds of tractors and the people, the underlying tone is that of peace, real peace and quiet.

My family is good. My sister-in-law, Batya, is really sweet. She looks after me better than my own Mom does. She’s in charge of the kibbutz laundry. Before you get any ideas, the relationship is purely brother and sister. I’ve been writing her for years and years and now I’ve finally gotten the chance to know her in person.

My niece, Shoshi, the eight year old, is incredibly bright. What a marvel! She’s taught herself to speak almost flawless English from listening to the BBC. I’ve taken over the task of putting her to bed every night. The kids here, even the babies, don’t sleep with their parents. They sleep in children’s houses with other kids their own age. Even in high school, one finds that boys will bunk with girls. As someone explained to me, if you’ve seen a person undress and pee all your life, there’s very little chance of budding romances. Kids growing up in the same children’s house are more like siblings than actual siblings within the same family. Well, anyway, I’ve been taking Shoshi back to her house at bed time. I brought her an omnibus book of fairy tales, in English, and I’ve started to read one tale per night to Shoshi and her bunkmates. She translates the stories into Hebrew for the ones who don’t know English. I’ve also discovered that she has a profound, intuitive math sense – she has already figured out the basic tenets of algebra. Definitely my brother’s kid.

The other two, Doron, 5, and Garon, 3, are normal little boys, full of mischief. Garon seems to be permanently attached to my shoulders. I think he enjoys being almost two meters tall. I brought them frisbees and those plastic log sets. We’re having a grand time making all sorts of weird shapes and the frisbees are a big hit. Garon, because of his age, goes to bed before supper in the dining room, and Batya and I put him to bed. Neither one speaks any English so my Hebrew is being taxed.

They’ve assigned me to work in the chicken coop. Yes, that’s right, another chicken shit outfit!!! I should feel right at home. The kibbutz raises upwards of three million, yes sir, million, chickens per year but not primarily for the meat but for the eggs. The chickens are some sort of special hybrid that produces more meat using less feed. The characteristic is passed on through the rooster so roosters are sold world-wide, even to Arab countries through some intermediary in Cyprus. But here’s the interesting part; they don’t actually ship the bird, they ship the egg containing the bird. And due to the potential for disease, the equal chance of getting a hen, and breakage, etc, they ship three eggs to sell one rooster. Each egg costs $35.- Wow!! Talk about your expensive omelets. They also grow fighting cocks just like the ones we used to see back in country. They ship eggs for them too, at about the same price. Quite the business.

There are six of us assigned on a daily basis to one coop complex. My boss is Moti Green, guy in his late 20s. Used to hang out with my brother. Has a degree in poultry science from one of the universities. Pretty good guy. Doesn’t speak much English. We also have Shlagerman, one of the kibbutz founders, who actually served in the US Army, 101Airborne, in World War II. I’ve been getting non-stop stories about the Battle of the Bulge for the last three days. I’m new meat.

We also have three so-called volunteers. All the kibbutzim maintain a guest work program. People can work until noon every day – the work week runs between 0600 and 1430 with breaks for breakfast and lunch – in return for free room and board and a small weekly stipend. This kibbutz has about thirty or so guest workers – volunteers – mostly from Europe, mostly in their teens and early twenties. They usually stay about six months. The kibbutz organizes trips and other activities for them. They live in shacks, three or four to a room.

Our three volunteers, Joachim, Dieter and Hans, are from Switzerland. Joachim and Dieter look to be in their early twenties. They have just finished their mandatory service in the Swiss army. Hans is just fifteen. He dropped out of school last year and came to Israel in the company of two other fifteen year olds, Beatte and Trixie, two young ladies who are here on the kibbutz as well. Joachim and Dieter are good guys. Solid, responsible. We speak German together. Our young Hans seems to be always drunk or hung over. Probably won’t be here much longer.

The day is pretty mundane. Up at 0530. Meet at the parking lot at 0555 and ride the tractor down to the coops. They let me drive the tractor today... Oh boy!! Have a cup of tea and go over the work for the day. We split up in teams – Joachim and I have been working together – and go out to assigned coops and feed the chickens. We have to fill the feeders by hand. Joachim and I have three coops. After filling the feeders, we collect the eggs. By now it’s almost 0800, so we get back on the tractor and go up to the central dining room for breakfast. After breakfast, we go back and do some sort of maintenance work. The standard work is turning over the shit, something I’m experienced in. The floor of the coop is covered with wood shavings. The chickens crap into the wood shavings. The shavings have to be turned over regularly to allow the dropping to dry out, preventing disease. So we turn it over with shovels. Reminds me of shoveling snow except the color is wrong and snow doesn’t smell.

The working conditions are nasty. We have these big fans going to keep the air temperature down and they kick up a lot of dust. Have to work with goggles and kerchief over the nose. But the worst is when the stuff gets wet. Yesterday, we came in and discovered that a rat had eaten through one of the plastic hoses that feed the automated watering troughs. The chickens were doing the breast stroke. We had to drain out the wet shit and put down fresh bedding. Man, the smell was unbelievable. I thought I was going to lose it. Hans did.

Anyway, we do these chores until almost 1200. Then we go back for lunch. After lunch, we lose the volunteers. In their stead we get some sixth grade boys and girls. In the sixth grade, the kibbutz kids get assigned to various areas of the kibbutz and will work in these areas until they go off into the army at eighteen. So we have four kids, three boys and a girl. All the kids want to work with me – I’m a novelty. I get two, Avi and Rachele, and we feed the chickens and collect more eggs. Because it is Friday, we also tidy up the work areas and sweep up. Both kids find the work physically hard though Rachele, because she is bigger than Avi, has an easier time. They are both still afraid of the chickens. You have to stick your hand into the hen houses to collect the eggs and sometimes the hens are sitting on the eggs. They will peck at your hand. Sometimes the hen will die laying and you’ve got to pull the hen out. The kids are afraid. They’ll get over it.

The biggest problem I have is with the roosters. When you bend over to collect eggs, they attack you. There’s this one, a runt, who tries to peck my balls. I swear, I’m going to nail him one of these days and have him for supper.

We quit at 1430 and head back to the kibbutz for good. I usually change out of my work clothes and go for a run. Have to keep in shape so I can dance the dance. It’s pretty damn hot in the afternoons. Most people take a nap. They see me out there and I’m sure they think I’m crazy. But at least, there’s no humidity so it’s hot but not oppressive. I’ve laid out a three mile course that takes me out to the Lake and back and I usually finish in under twenty minutes. Not bad for an old man.

They’ve given me fairly nice accommodations, the type that newly discharged soldiers or young married couples get. There’s an inner room for a bed, a stand alone closet and a small table. There’s a smaller outer room which has a few cabinets, a small sink and a small refrigerator. The bathroom is out on the porch. I’ve been attracting a lot of catcalls with that red silk kimono bathrobe I bought in Tokyo a couple of years ago. The hot water arrangement is a little special. The water is heated by electricity but electricity rates are cheaper at night. You have to remember to turn on the heating device before going to bed and remember to shut it off when you go to work. If you don’t shut it off, the thing burns out. Well, at least there’s hot water, a luxury after what we used to have back at the firebase.

I have a corner room. My next door neighbor, Yakobi, works in the fields. He’s been out of the army about two years. He’s banging one or two of the volunteer girls. The walls are paper thin and the beds are basically old army cots and make a lot of noise, as does Yakobi’s girlfriends. And, of course, once a night is never enough. Well, at least somebody is getting some action.

Anyway, after the run, I clean up and then go pick up the kids from their houses. Batya has put out some snacks and we eat and talk and play. Yesterday, we went with Batya’s next door neighbors, the Coopermans, and their four kids, down to Ein Gev for ice cream. The Coopermans are an interesting couple. David is from somewhere out on Long Island and has a master’s degree from Cornell in dairy science. Susan is from Buffalo, New York and has a BFA (Cornell ‘64). They met there and immigrated to Israel after he graduated. Susan is my niece’s teacher but she’s also an accomplished artist. Their kids are the same ages as Batya’s and they have a six month old girl, a cute little red head with blue eyes named Keren. David took one of the kibbutz’s tenders, a trunk with fold down seats in the back. I sat in the back with the kids. We had a good time. Sang songs. Splashed in the lake.

And now, here’s what you’ve been waiting for... A report on the female situation. Yeah, well, there are plenty of women of all ages, shapes and sizes here. The high school girls are off limits to everyone except high school boys. The high school boys are more interested in the volunteer girls and I’m given to understand that the volunteer girls are pretty free access-wise. David C. tells me that there have been some discussions in the kibbutz about terminating the volunteer program. A lot of guys seem to be marrying the volunteer girls and leaving the country.

Relative to girls closer to our respective ages – and I’m not talking about the thirteen year olds you seem to like (Those two young ladies at the Saigon Hilton come to mind.) – they are split into two groups. Those with boyfriends they found in the army and those without. The army seems to act as this big date machine. Many of the young marrieds I’ve been introduced to here, met in the army. For the most part, the girls here are fairly attractive. Must be the outdoor farming orientated life style. I get the feeling, though, that the girls are fairly tight-assed about access, as Jewish girls are prone to be everywhere, which is why the guys go for the volunteers.

As for me, well, it’s still the very early innings. There’s this one girl though I’ve been bumping into. She was the first person I met when I arrived here and we seem to run into each other a lot. She’s very tall, almost as tall as I am – long legs, blue eyes. Her father is the kibbutz secretary, the equivalent of the town mayor. She has four brothers, all of whom are zoomies in the Israeli Air Force. She seems pretty intelligent and she plays the flute. She’s just back from the army studying for her college exams. As I said, it’s way too early in the game to know anything yet but to tell you the truth, old buddy, this one has definite potential and I don’t just mean for a quick game of baseball. Don’t be surprised if one of these days you have to show up here in dress mess with a sword.

Speaking of dress mess, did have my termination physical just before leaving Germany. Everything went okay except the psyche eval. I’m still getting the nightmares though no where near as often as I used to, and I don’t remember getting them now. I just sometimes wake up in the middle of the night sweating in my rack. The Shrink at the hospital gave me the name of a friend of his at Mass General I should look up when I get back to Boston, supposedly a whiz at treating post-traumatic stress disorders. I think I’m okay but I suppose I am deluding myself.

I have to bring this to a close. It is approaching Friday evening. Time for the tradition. The more things change, the more things stay the same.

I don’t know with whom you are in contact but please let them know I’m here. Who knows? You may be invited to the dance. Bring your taps. I’ll teach you how to hora.

Regards.

BJ

Just as Ben sealed the letter, there was a knock on the door. Benya, are you in? It’s Dafna.

Wait a minute, please, he called. He was sitting at his desk in his boxer shorts. He pulled on a pair of chinos and reached into his closet for a clean, white shirt. He opened the door to find her standing there wearing a white cotton, short sleeve dress. Her hair was loose, falling below her shoulders. She smelled wonderful.

Hi, she said. My mother baked a whole lot of cookies and thought you might like some. She handed him a plate covered with a paper napkin.

Oh, yes, thanks. Ben took a cookie and tasted it. Some sort of ginger snap. Very nice. You must thank your mother for me. Would you like to come in? I was about to light Sabbath candles and say the Kiddush. He motioned her into the outer room. On the small table next to the sink stood two small silver candle sticks holding white candles, small pewter goblet, a Kiddush cup, a bottle of wine and a loaf of challah.

Dafna looked at the table and then looked at him. You light candles?

Sure, it’s Friday night. You sound surprised.

I guess I am. I didn’t realize that you were so religious. We normally don’t light candles.

He shrugged. No big deal. My parents always lit the candles and said the Kiddush. When my brother, Gary, was old enough, he said the Kiddush and when I learned enough, it was my turn. Used to do it every Friday night in University and even in Vietnam, weather permitting. As a matter of fact, it became a unit activity. The guys called it ‘the tradition’. They’d all crowd into my tent and sing the Kiddush with me.

They were all Jews?

No, I was the only Jew but it became a ritual. We would light the candles, say the Kiddush, drink the wine, bless and eat the bread. It was our way of giving thanks for having survived one more week in that hell hole. Even after I left and was transferred to Germany, the tradition continued. They knew the prayers by heart and said them every week. I was told that even after the unit was broken up and the men were transferred elsewhere, each person carried the tradition to his new unit.

He looked at her. Would you like to stay and say the prayers with me?

I don’t know them.

Really? It doesn’t matter. I do. You just stand there. He went to a drawer and pulled out a yarmulke and a box of matches. He placed the yarmulke on his head and lit a match. He lit the candles and closed his eyes, making a hand motion three times. He then said the prayer. He then unscrewed the top of the wine bottle and poured a little into the Kiddush cup. He sang the Kiddush, not too loudly. The whole time Ben looked at Dafna gauging the changes of expression on her face. He finished and took a sip. He offered her the cup.

I’m sorry that it’s not better wine. This is all the kibbutz store had.

I don’t drink alcohol.

Just a sip. It’s the tradition.

She took the cup and brought it to her lips. Ben wasn’t sure she drank any until she made a face. She handed the cup back. Ben placed the cup alongside the bottle of wine and broke off a piece of challah. He recited the blessing over the bread and handed the piece of bread to Dafna. He broke off another piece.

I forgot the salt. Suppose to dip the bread in salt before eating it. Well, next time. He ate the bread. She followed his lead.

Are there any other parts to the tradition?

Well, Ben said, my mom used to give each of us a kiss after saying the blessing over the bread. She’d start me with as I was the youngest and then my brother and then my father.

And you kissed your men?

Oh no. Ben laughed. We shook hands.

And which would you prefer, a kiss or a handshake?

I know what I’d prefer but I’ll leave it up to you.

Oh, I know. She stood close to him and he kissed her taking both of her hands in his.

Thank you, he said softly. They kissed again. He embraced her. They stood together for a few moments.

Good Shabbos, he said to her.

Good Shabbos, she replied. They kissed again.

I wish we could stand like this for a long time, he finally said still holding her, but we’ll be late for supper. I promised Shoshi I would walk with her to the dining hall.

I’ll walk there with you.

Okay, he said and then stopped. I have to put on socks and shoes. Give me a moment. He pulled on a pair of black socks and retrieved his shoes from beneath his bed. He threw the yarmulke onto his pillow.

I can see my face in the reflection, Dafna said holding a shoe up to her face.

Dress blacks. Ben took the shoe from her hand and put it on. He stood up and checked his gig line. He kissed her again. I could get very used to this.

Me, too, she sighed.

May I hold your hand in public?

Yes, she replied.

The walked over to Batya’s house. Shoshi saw them come up the walk and called to her mother. She turned