On the Scaffolds

By Samuel Isban

On the Scaffolds, Samuel Isban's 1936 collection of short stories, translated from the Yiddish for the first time, offers a series of vignettes and character studies set in Mandatory Palestine during the 1920s.

• Language: English
• Publisher: the Isban Family
• Release date: Sep 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201695552

Samuel Isban

Samuel Isban (1905–1995) was born in Gostynin, Poland.His family migrated to Palistine in 1920 and  He emigrated to America in 1937. A prominent journalist and prolific author in both Yiddish and Hebrew, Isban published numerous novels and short story collections.

Book preview

A Halutz

Up on the wall Shimon forgot all about sleep. With a trowel in one hand, a polished rectangular slab of granite in the other, and a bucket of clay by his feet, Shimon set down layer after layer of bricks, marveling at his own handiwork and the speed with which the wall rose into the air. The fact that he’d not had a wink of sleep the previous night did not bother him. There was an energy simmering through his every limb, flowing through his muscles, invigorating him, assuring him that Shoshana was his, that she belonged to him, even if her father, the plantation owner, was against it.

In the warm morning everyone was on his side: the carpenters, the iron-benders, the masons, even the contractor. Behind him—Mount Carmel. In front of him—the towering beauty, whose reflection shimmered on the blue waves of the open sea. And, in his enthusiasm, Shimon would not have given up this spot for all of Haifa and its environs.

The energy in his shoulders and his legs did not allow him to stand still. He turned to the mason working on the adjacent wall, dying to divulge the secrets of where he’d taken his girl the night before; he was in seventh heaven. His tongue, however, did not move. He was sure that that shrivel-brained oaf would not understand. And so the glow remained on his own face alone.

Nakhman, a carpenter, sitting astride the wooden frame preparing the support for the concrete belt, removed the nail he’d held in his mouth, hammered it into a two-inch plank, observing Shimon all the while.

"What are you smiling about, my dear banay?"

I’m in love with a girl.

Is that so? said Nakhman, stretching his shoulder muscles, And do you think you’ll ever make a competent builder out of yourself?

What would you know, old man, Shimon glared at the carpenter, "You’re content to make it through the day drinking two glasses of laban, a bottle of seltzer-water and attending council meetings."

And what do you need, inflamed passions, is it? Nakhman smacked his peeling lips, "You’ll laugh, but I’m telling you: love, shmove—That stuff’ll go through you faster than any laxative."

Shimon! the mason on the opposite wall called out, Pick up that spirit-level would you? Your top layer isn’t straight.

That’s what happens when you work with a fever in your mind, the carpenter said, hammering another nail into the frame. If the engineer sees this you’ll be sent packing.

You hear this, comrade? said Giladi, an iron-bender, pointing a finger toward the palm of his hand. There’ll be hair growing here before he marries Shoshana.

Why’s that? The girl doesn’t love him?

Never mind the girl, it’s the father he has to worry about. I know that old Canaanite only too well. I know his ambition. He won’t be happy with anything less than the High Commissioner as an in-law.

When you have a daughter like Shoshana you can afford to hold out for a commissioner’s son though, eh? Isn’t that right, Shimon? he said, laughing right into Shimon’s face.

Down below, in front of the building stood a girl with a round figure. Her bare arms, her waist, her posterior—every part of her was fully padded such that the men on the scaffolding stared in open-mouthed appreciation at the pleasing spectacle.

The wind that had been blowing now from the left, now from the right, lifted the girl’s skirt for a moment, exposing her brown legs to above the knee. The carpenter’s mouth was practically watering. He closed his left eye, smacked his lips and poked Shimon in the ribs.

What do you say to that eh? That’d be the life if they ever let us live it.

Shimon’s blood began to boil. He was ready to pick something up—a bucket, a trowel, even a dozen polished stones—and hurl them at his colleagues’ heads if they didn’t stop. With suppressed rage he begged:

Drop it, fellas.

Drop it?Giladi went on. I’m only getting started. You hear me boys? Shimon didn’t come down in the last shower. He’s got an eye. To have the old Canaanite"—as they called him—as a father in law, now there’s an idea. A dunam of plantation farmland by Haifa Bay—no small potatoes, all that."

Slander, Giladi! The carpenter croaked down from above. I can swear that Shimon couldn’t give so much as a rat’s ass for the dowry, the plantation or any of it . . . he’d take his girl with nothing but the clothes on her back.

The boorish laughter from the quorum of open mouths offended Shimon so much that he sprang over his bucket of clay to give them a piece of his mind. It was not that they had insulted Shimon, but his girl. Who did those schlubs think they were? Besmirching Shimon’s reputation was one thing, but they should keep Shoshana’s name out of their filthy mouths. His rage did not subside. He clenched his fists, spat, and began to make his way down the wooden ladder.

Nakhman followed him.

Why get so hot under the collar, Shimon? Giladi is right. It doesn’t hurt to plan a little for your future? Where do you think we’ll be after ten years of working on building sites? We’ll be invalids. We’re talking not just about the prospect of financial gain, but also becoming part of the family, and having an influential father-in-law to turn to for support . . .

Shimon was already down on the street. Nakhman’s practical words did not convince him to return. He crawled through the rows of cement sacks which were lined up in front of the building, and he strode past the lime-pit. Two men leaning against the lime mixer looked over at him with an offended air. Shimon waved at them apathetically with a gesture that meant: I have nothing but contempt for you all.

He set off down the street, his pace quickening and his stride widening, only pausing when he reached the spot where the scattered granite buildings came to an end and the mighty desert began. Mount Carmel unfolded above him, separating into individual hills, some grassy, some of exposed rock. The contours of the mountains protruded like camel humps out of the flat expanse beyond. Shimon looked around. Where was he going? Did he really have to throw away his job just because the others were teasing him? And what would Shoshana say if she met him now?

Clear-headedness called him back, whispering that this was how a child would behave, not a grown man. Shimon turned away from the hills. The sun’s heat was blazing. He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts as he walked that he did not see what was in front of his eyes. Arabs on camelback, Arabs riding donkeys, taking the backroads which were paved with rounded cobblestones. On both sides of the road Jewish laborers—boney, sun-baked—were hard at work with pickaxes, burying thick water pipes underground.

A group of veiled Arab women arrived. With water jugs on their heads and painted hands holding them in place, they proceeded with the dexterity and ease of tightrope-walkers.

Shimon was already on Herzl Street. He was too ashamed to go back to the building site. They would laugh at him. The idea suddenly occurred to him that he could pay Shoshana a surprise visit. What would she say if he turned up out of the blue? The thought that he was dirty and wearing his work clothes held him back. And as he wandered, from one backstreet to another, not knowing what to do, he found himself standing in front of the Technikum Gardens.

The open terrace of the small house that lay just beyond the Technikum called to Shimon. Not so much the terrace as the open window and the hanging flowers next to it drew him, persuading him that Shoshana’s room was a hospitable place, ready to welcome him no matter the hour. Hesitating, turning one way and then back again, he soon stood outside the house.

Shimon sought a hiding place beside the climbing plants. He knelt down beneath an orange tree. He stepped over the young branches, eager to avoid being seen. In shame, he stood up once again and prepared to leave in haste.

A voice like a jingling bell sought him out between the bushes. The voice stopped him in his tracks.

Shimon?

You caught me! Shimon said, embarrassed, approaching the window.

Shoshana,  rigid and tall like a young eucalyptus, her straw-colored hair tied back with a silk green ribbon, stood in the open window like a portrait, wearing a tight-fitted red dotted dress. Curious as to what Shimon was doing there in the middle of the day, she leaned over out the window and saw him brushing the dust and dried mud from his shoes and trousers.

Are you not working?

I’m done with that job! Shimon said dismissively.

No, my boy, I don’t like that, her voice once again intoned.

What don’t you like? Forgetting that he was stained and dusty, Shimon reached out to touch her hand.

Shoshana doesn’t want her boy to be lazy.

Me, Lazy?

And how would you describe someone who skives off work in the middle of the day?

She reached forward and stroked his chin, leaning so close to him that a strand of her straw-colored hair fell into his face. She was entirely luminous:

Did you get into a fight with the other workmen?

Yes. About you.

Really? You got yourself worked up into this state on account of me?

Of course.

Then why do you let me be insulted at home?

Suddenly, as though burned by a hot stove Shimon sprang forward and hauled himself up to the window frame. Very delicately, as though she was made of porcelain, he put his arms around her waist.

Who insults you, your father?

Yes, she lowered her gaze. It’s beneath his dignity to let me marry a halutz.

I’ll have a word with him today, ok Shoshana?

Words aren’t enough, you need to do something.

What do you mean?

I mean if you’re audacious, and you love me . . . Something caught in Shoshana’s throat.

She looked at him, her lips pressed together like cushions, on the verge of tears, her eyes filled with a sad entreaty. I want us to go away together.

Bewildered, Shimon was all but driven wild with joy. Let’s go to your father then, he should be a part of this, come!

He jumped down from the window with the dexterity of one stealing a bride away an hour before the wedding. Shoshana followed him, feeling as though she were floating. Their path led to a porch leading up to a stairwell. Then a door. A corridor. Shoshana did not give him a moment to prepare. She pressed the doorbell. They now stood in her father’s room.

Her father, an overweight man in his fifties with fleshy shoulders, was sitting at his desk with a contract for a new plantation in his hand. He stood up as they entered. He adjusted the glasses on the end of his nose and peered at Shoshana, before approaching and pointing toward Shimon:

Who’s the halutz?

This is my man, Shoshana blurted out defiantly.

"What do you mean your man? His eyes twitched. You mean to tell me you’ve sought out a bricklayer as your intended?"

He placed the contract back on his desk and wiped his glasses with a white handkerchief, his piercing gaze aimed at Shimon all the while:

Today is the first time I’ve set eyes on you, but you better believe I’ve heard all about you. I’ll say this briefly: if you really believe you can compel me to give away my daughter you should know that it won’t be as easy as you imagined. Ussishkin was wrong: the will alone is not enough to succeed. And if you are thinking of using force, you should know I’m not to be trifled with. I’m a hard nut to crack! You’ll have to get past me, young man, past me, the Canaanite!

In that case I’m leaving! Shimon said, more out of resentment for his boss than out of fear. He made for the door.

I’m coming with you! Shoshana fell upon Shimon with outstretched arms.

Who’s going? You? Her father stammered, left speechless.

The sound of the door slamming snapped the old man out of his trance.

He rushed to the window and watched, through the garden gate, as Shimon carried Shoshana in his arms as one carries a sick child.

The Canaanite wanted to give chase, to bring back his daughter. He shook with rage,