CHAPTER 8 - The Baron’s Visit and Malka’s Illness
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| Alex & the Damaged Truck |
In a dusty road outside the Aronson house the brothers have assembled around the damaged vehicle. The rhythmic sound of a mallet ringing on metal can be heard. A shower of sparks erupts from a primitive welding iron, a line of fierce, blue fire. A young mechanic welds a fresh steel plate onto the bullet scarred door of the pick-up truck, surrounded by a small group of onlookers.
Aron and Sara stand at the side of the pick-up while half the towns children are swarming around for a look.
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| Alex Fixing the Truck |
A pair of boots protrude from under the bullet-scarred vehicle and Alex emerges wielding a large spanner.
“A real mess!” he frowns, “ But she’ll soon be as good as new, I promise”.
An excited voice shouts from the house: “Come! Come and see - ”
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| The Baron's Invitation |
Everyone looks up. Rifka comes running excitedly from the house holding out a cream-coloured envelope of above average size, with a red wax seal, a five-arrowed crest and insignia, as if it were extremely precious.
“An invitation!” she smiles. “To Aron. From the Baron!”
Brother, Zvi, now in his thirty’s, conservative, bearded, dark, carrying a briefcase, has also come outside - he looks quizzically at the fancy envelope.
Aron opens it, revealing a beautifully engraved, parchment card inscribed in English, French and Hebrew: ‘Aron Aronson’s presence is requested at Baron Edmond de Rothschild’s reception in celebration of the new vintage.’
Alex whistles at Aron, in mock admiration. Aron shrugs and peruses the back of the invitation. “We are all invited,” he says - and to Alex, “They want you to to take a film of the event.”
Aron who had long thought of the need to make documentary movies with which to persuade wealthy American connections to help the Jews in Palestine, has waited for this moment. Alex looks disbelieving and for once is silenced.
“Perhaps we shall find you both husbands at the reception,” says Aron to his sisters.
Rifka giggles, hugging the invitation to her chest.
Sara looks doubtful but a small smile breaks out on her face. Perhaps indeed, this is the beginning of all their dreams coming true?
Alex swings the sisters round and round in a mock waltz: “The Baron’s wish is our command!, The Baron’s wish is our command” he chants in a nursery-rhyme voice.
Rifka is only worrying about what to wear, but Sara says she will make them both new dresses.
Zvi, a man of few words, just smokes his pipe. His volatile family has taught him the useful lesson of silence.
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| The Zikhron 'Cavalry' Riding to Meet the Baron February 1914 |
Riding on horseback, dressed in formal wear, all the young men of the Zikhron Ya’akov farming colony come down from the mountain at seven in the morning, to the neighbouring village of Tantura on the shore of the Mediterranean, five kilometres from their home. It is late February 1914 and the world is about to explode. The young men are riding to welcome an honoured guest: Baron Rothschild, the great Zionist benefactor who has sponsored and developed the colony. The horse riders are soon enveloped in a cloud of dust as Aron’s newly washed, restored truck overtakes them. The green, planted slopes of the Rothschild vineyards, stream by. Workers of all ages, Arab and Jew, labour amongst the vines, carrying heavy, wicker baskets, laden with grapes and proving Aron’s point: the two tribes can work together. Children wave as the truck passes. Rifka waves excitedly back, Sara sits with her hands in her lap, smiling in her quiet way. The brothers follow, also on horse-back but unable to keep up with the truck. Everyone is wearing their smartest clothes despite the heat of the day. The indigenes, however, look unsmiling, ragged and dusty. The truck draws up at the huge wine cellars carved into the mountain, surmounted by the ubiquitous five-arrowed crest and insignia.
It’s a baking-hot day on the little beach at the ancient harbour of Dor, home of the Sea Peoples of old and site of dozens of shipwrecks over the aeons. A black and white photograph records the arrival, capturing forever the somewhat surreal sight of Baron Edmond de Rothschild, scion of the great family, philanthropist and chief founder of Zikhron Ya’akov, as well as several other villages on this forlorn, some would say, forgotten bit of coast. The Baron is dressed immaculately in white hat, pressed, tropical suit and deep red, Edwardian bow-tie, as he disembarks from his private boat - a sturdy steamer which has come all the way from Marseilles via the Suez.
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| Baron Edmond de Rothschild |
The Baron steps firmly onto the rudimentary, swaying jetty on this remote, wind-swept, sweltering shore, with its ancient harbour which as has been stated, the Arabs call ‘Tantura’. He has a very decisive tread despite a slight stoop and his shoes are buffed to a mirror-bright sheen by his personal batman and butler, Joseph. His hair and beard are already quite white and neatly trimmed by his personal barber, a Turk called Momoo, who the Baron likes to joke could cut the throat of this son of the Rothschilds with one careless movement of the razor. Despite Momoo’s repeated entreaties he does not hold with the new fashion for brilliantined hair or for concealing his age with hair-dye. His eyes, though, are black and piercing, youthful and wise, astute and compassionate, all at the same time. When his feet touch the quay in their soft, Parisienne leather he feels as though he has come home.
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| The Baron's Arrival at the Quay at Tantura |
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| Baron Edmond and Baroness Adelaide arrive at Tantura |
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| A Scalding Afternoon at the Winery |
By the afternoon everyone has walked the scalding distance to the Bottle Factory - a folly in the sand of grand proportions - built by the Baron, as a bottle-producing factory for his pièce de résistance, the wine to be produced from Zikhron’s vineyards. A fine, double-volume Ottoman-style building surrounded by an avenue of imposing palm trees soars in front of the guests, built under the supervision of Meir Dizengoff, a French-Jewish glass specialist of future fame. Dizengoff planned to use the fine sand from the shore to manufacture glass bottles for the fledgling wine industry, dozens of workers were hired, and three ships were purchased to transport raw material and bottles.
A number of failures followed in quick succession. The fine sand, was not suitable for the making of said bottles, which unfortunately were prone to cracking in the furnace, and soon after establishing the winery the grape vines succumbed to phylloxera, a persistent and destructive parasite. American-grafted seedlings resistant to phylloxera were introduced and by the time of the visit, the winery was indeed, flourishing. The wine cellars carved into the mountain are still in use today as part of the Carmel Mizrahi Winery, a large commercial cellar where very pleasant, New-World wines are produced and enjoyed in its charming restaurants and tasting rooms of that name.
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| The Baron, his Agent & other Dignitaries |
The Agent is at pains to explain - in rather more detail than those hot and bothered guests might like - that the factory has overcome the disastrous glass problem by importing bottles from France. He does not elaborate on the great cost of such measures but continues to show the Mayor, other notables and their over-heated and over-dressed wives around the dusty site. The Arab workers are lined up patiently in the heat, the French foreman bossing them around like a fussy rooster, manages to engage his boot with the linen cloth on the long tea-table and a number of gold-rimmed cups - engraved with the five dynastic arrows of the Rothschild empire, crash unceremoniously to the ground. Shattering in front of the horrified and heavily sweating foreman who lashes out at one of the labourers, very incorrectly, accusing him of deliberately tripping him. The poor man crouches in the dust, arm raised in expectation of a blow that fortunately never comes. The Agent’s grimace conveys his feelings about the locals, both Muslim and Hebrew, in no uncertain terms. Primitive, histrionic and stubborn, is his considered opinion, and perhaps he is right on some of those accusations. This is followed a few minutes later by one of the ladies, sun parasol in hand, falling to the ground in a heat-induced swoon, not helped by her tight corset and apple-green, velvet jacket, which results in further consternation and the necessity of both smelling salts and vinegar from the much harassed Doctor, who luckily, is present with his bag, in the VIP party - and is no less than the husband of the afore-mentioned lady whose name as we have reported, is Rivka, the same name as Sara’s beloved sister.
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| The Baron accompanied by his Agents & Townsfolk |
Later in the day, a black carriage emblazoned with the Rothschild arms, accompanied by a guard of six young men, mounted on a motley collection of feisty, if somewhat, scruffy horses, trots down Zikhron’s main street. Baron Edmond waves from the carriage window, like the Kaiser Wilhelm, the second, some years previously. It is a splendid sight and one many will never forget, particularly as the youngest member of the self-appointed Civil Guard, a red-headed boy of about sixteen, the Mayor’s grandson, Izi, gives a loud cowboy-style whoop as he rides into the square and tossing his hat onto a lamp post, promptly falls off his horse, trying to retrieve the said hat. The Agent glares at the young guard and the mortified townsfolk are soon silenced by the Baron’s dignified stepping down from the carriage and the blast of a trumpet played by one of the mounted horsemen, which thankfully is fully in tune and results in no further incidents.
The whole town has gathered, the Aronson’s and just about everyone else, the town Elders, incongruously dressed in old-fashioned top-hats, which have not seen an outing since the previous century - lead by Izi’s grandpa, Mayor Meir, Rabbi Kornveld, Dr. Yaffe, the town’s doctor, just mentioned, and his wife, Rivka, in a Parisian inspired gown. She has just recovered from her unfortunate fainting fit and has had, with great regret to loosen her Valenciennes lace corset ordered from a catalogue from Paris and abandon her very fetching, much too hot, green velvet jacket which the much-put-upon Dr. Yaffe is forced to carry over his arm for the entire event which lasts well into the late evening.
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| Zikhron Townsfolk |
Among the crowd, four beady-eyed middle-aged women, industrious housewives and lovers of Zion: Tsipporah, Adele, Gita and Perl, whom everyone knows as ‘The Gossips’, dressed like rapacious ravens in rustling black taffeta, eye Aron and Sara with evident, but unexplained, malevolence. They, with their very prominent husbands Misters Appelbaum, Lerner, Goldstein and Blumenfeld, are part of the Doctor’s circle and big wigs in the little community. When Aron did not propose Dr. Yaffe for a promotion, at the local hospital, things came to a head. No love was lost between them and in the not too distant future the Doctor’s camp would come out staunchly against what will become known as the ‘Nili’ group.
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| A Crowd Gathers to Celebrate the New Vintage |
In the crowd people yell: “Welcome to the Baron! Father of the Community!” and “Three cheers for the New Vintage!” as well as “Damn and blast the Baron's Agent” from Izi, the young man with flaming red hair, whose hat is still perched on the brand new, gas-fired lamp post. Also a gift due to the Baron’s generosity. The French-style lamp posts, not the hat.
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| The Rothschild Winery Night |
In the evening, it has cooled a little, as night falls the winery is lit up like a Christmas tree and inside the vaulted cellars the group of dignitaries trip over each other in their haste to taste the new wine. Sara with pretty Rifka, regards the elegant women in their Edwardian dress - Dr. Yaffe’s wife, among them, who chat and preen like noisy peacocks, holding unaccustomed wine glasses with little fingers outstretched like question marks.
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| The Baron's Guests |
Aron next to Baron Edmond is confidant and charismatic. Among the group are the afore mentioned Zikhron notables as well as Zvi, his wife, Toba’s sister, Sarah Hinda, and the officious Agent, whom Aron studiously avoids, their last meeting, having ended in an undignified slanging match.
Alex proudly takes movie footage with his new ciné camera bought on his American visit.
Our view changes to the flickering projection of an early black and white film. A prism through which we may, if you wish, view the proceedings. A filmic device, a meta element, of which Alex would thoroughly approve. It makes great propaganda and indeed acts as encouragement to the fervent donors, just waking now, in their Long Island country houses and Manhattan penthouses.
Baron Rothschild - still in jerky monochrome - on the grape leaf, decorated platform, made specially for the purpose, makes a long speech and urges the the residents of Zikhron to: “Work hard, get along with your Arab neighbours for they are our ‘relatives’ and it is better we are beside them and not against them.”
Naturally, being a silent movie, the generous donors must read a rather badly translated subtitle, but they get the gist. Power and influence and a just cause.
The Baron is not averse to telling the lengthy history of the Rothschild’s wines: Nathaniel de Rothschild purchased a Château in the Médoc district of Bordeaux and renamed it Château Mouton Rothschild. Not to be outdone by his relative, Baron James de Rothschild, father of our own Baron, bought the neighbouring Château Lafite, of premier cru fame. An affirmation of Francophone aspiration for one born in the Frankfurt ghetto. The Baron himself, whose full name, Abraham Edmond Benjamin James, pays homage to a number of illustrious ancestors, and is known as ‘The Benefactor’, was quick to establish the local wine industry with two wineries, one in Rishon-Le-Zion and the other in Zikhron Ya’akov. The vine cuttings came from Kashmir. Soon there were over two thousand hectares under vine, producing twenty million bottles a year.
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| The ‘Societe Cooperative Vigneronne des Grandes Caves’ |
But now the Baron’s Agent is moving on to his many successes. Numbering bottles and vats, gallons and litres, troubles and successes.
“Since the loss of our vines, to parasites, we are happy to use Californian-grafted seedlings. And our winery is flourishing like the grapes on the vines! ”
Everyone applauds and the Baron turns to Aron: “So Aron, America solves all our problems!”
“ I think we shall have to solve our own problems, M’sieur le Baron.”
The Baron responds: “Indeed. I have here a letter from the Ambassador in Beirut. They are offering you a Chair at the University of California.”
Aron having already heard the news, is not surprised, but a little embarrassed to have it announced so publicly. Also he has not yet made his mind up about taking the post.
The Baron raises a glass to his lips and proclaims: “To Aron! To America! To the future!
Everyone joins in the toast: “To the future!”
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Aron's house, the salon. Aron and Sara say farewell. In the background leather suitcases. Aron is torn between staying and going, not wanting to leave his sick mother. Sara insists he must go. Aron agrees. He needs American money for the Station’s work. Rifka will go with him.
“I intend to keep her out of trouble’s way” he says. “But what about you?”
“I can deal with trouble”, she says calmly. “My place is here - Mama needs me -
Aron nods, and silently wonders if he will see his dear mother again.
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Sara waving as Abu Farrid roars off with Aron and Rifka clutching her violin, waving from the truck window and a large amount of luggage in the back.
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| ‘One of the most interesting, brilliant and remarkable men in Palestine’ |
While Aron was ignored in Palestine and in some cases actively threatened by his rivals, having become the object of HaShomer’s most bitter hostility - he was already known in America as ‘one of the most interesting, brilliant and remarkable men in Palestine’ - at least, by Justice Louis Brandeis, initially a secular Jew with no truck with Zionism, who was among his greatest supporters. Thanks to his official connections, Aron, as we know, met a number of America’s most important Jews.
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| US Justice Louis Brandeis |
It was Brandeis, who was to be one of Aron’s greatest fans. Aron's discovery of wild wheat had brought him to the attention of both agronomists and politicians. The Zionist Journal, the ‘Maccabaean’, wrote with great admiration of his discovery, its value to humankind, his Jewish Agricultural Station, his promoting of Zionism and his ability to recruit the crème de la crème of American-Jewish supporters. Aron's influence was a major factor in Brandeis conversion to the Zionist cause. But that is another story.
During his first stay - there were to be several others as we have heard - his Agricultural Station at Atlit was incorporated with a number of American directors, including Henrietta Szold as secretary, and Julius Rosenwald, noted philanthropist, who part owned the Sears Roebuck company. The directors and their friends advanced twenty thousand dollars for startup costs and promised ten thousand dollars annually for the running expenses of the Station. They were joined by Jacob Schiff - banker, railway builder and philanthropist and Nathan Straus - the latter, also a famed department store owner - two of the wealthiest Jews of the time.
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With promises of money from his new-found friends Aron would return home to continue his experiments and make new contacts with agriculturalists all over the world. He corresponded with professors, agricultural experts and government agents in America, Ceylon, South Africa, Egypt, Germany and Hawaii. His many connections led to a burgeoning seed-exchange that encouraged the new science of international agriculture, and Aron made sure that each letter he wrote, was emblazoned with the logo: ‘The Jewish Agricultural Station in Palestine.’
In May, 1910 the New York Times reported that Professor Schweinfurth, ‘the king of botanical explorers,’ considered Aron’s work to be ‘the most important botanical discovery of our lifetime, and one which scientists all over the world are saying may result in untold benefit to humanity in the indefinite increase it promises in the world's supply of wheat.’
Aron replied to those compliments with fierce Zionist pride but little personal vanity: ‘I am very proud that for the first time since prehistoric times, man has again tried sowing the prototype of wheat, this work has fallen on Jews escaped from the ignoble massacres of Russia, Jewish workers working on Jewish ground, the historic cradle of the race...’
By early 1912 word of his work spread like wildfire through America and in January of that year, Louis Brandeis was introduced to Aron’s work through a lecture given by Julius Rosenwald. Brandeis wrote to his brother: ‘the talk is the most thrilling and interesting I have ever heard.’
Following this accolade came others and a flurry of invitations: one by the Canadian Minister of Agriculture to attend a conference in Alberta. This visit to North America would last almost a year, during which Aron would lecture on behalf of agriculture, fund-raise for his Agricultural Station, promote Zionism and meet Brandeis for the first time.
The New York Times announced the visit as a major success, reporting on the historic and technological importance of Aaron’s discovery. ‘By cross-breeding,’ the Times notes, ‘the young discoverer hopes to find a hardier and better type of wheat.’ Following this success, Aron visited British Columbia, Oregon, Washington, California and Arizona, meeting agricultural experts and farmers and being wined and dined wherever he went.
In Chicago he was hosted by Judge Julian Mack who was to become one of Aron’s best friends in America. Judge Julian’s 17-year-old daughter even fell in love with him! The press followed his every action as if he were a celebrity of note: On January 6, 1913 Julius Rosenwald hosts a lunch in his honor at the luxurious Blackstone Hotel. Several hundred prominent Chicagoans gather to hear Aron speak, including the Dean of the University of Chicago. On January 7, Aron lectures at the Chicago chapter of Sigma Xi Society; on January 27 he speaks at a Hadassah gathering in New York; on February 19, he joins a commission of civic leaders sponsored by Julius Rosenwald; on March 3, he lectures to the Chicago Hebrew Institute, where Rosenwald calls him ‘one of the greatest leaders of the Hebrew race in the East.’ On March 15, Aron travels to New York where he is hosted by Judge Mack and Felix Frankfurter. The next day the trio lunch at the Art Club in New York with Robert Bacon, US Ambassador to France and Theodore Roosevelt, now Fellow at Harvard University. Aron spoke for one hour and forty minutes - noting in his diary that henceforth he would be known as the man who kept Roosevelt, quiet for a hundred and one minutes. His diary records that he spoke about the importance of the Jewish presence in the Holy Land. Following the talk, Bacon invited Aron to speak at Harvard.
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| New York Times Detailing Aron’s Discoveries |
The Sunday Magazine of The New York Times, as we have heard, carried a two-page spread detailing Aron’s discoveries which had reached the ears of even President Wilson, including the importance of cross-breeding and possibilities of enhanced food production with higher nutritional value for the American Public. While Aron addressed scientists in the main, he never failed to put in a word for Zionism and an impassioned portrayal of the importance of Jewish colonists to Palestine.
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Rifka sends Sara every article she can find, and Sara pastes newspaper cuttings and photos into an album - Rifka winning a prize at the Conservatoire, Aron at the University of California giving a lecture, receiving a prize from the American Agronomy Society, on a lecture tour of the mid West, opening a botanical garden, shaking a Senator’s hand.
Sara’s face as Dr. Yaffe enters from the bedroom, with his bag.
“She has cancer of the breast - she may last a year, no more - ”
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| Malka in her Sick Bed |
Malka, tired and ill, propped up in a chair with pillows, as Sara shows her pictures from the album.
“He‘ll be back very soon darling mama, I promise you.”
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Sara writes to Aron about their mother’s illness urging him to come home to see Malka one last time. The days waiting for him are filled with housekeeping duties, pots of clear broth - all the mother can eat in her weakened condition and preparing small, tasty meals for the father - who eats nothing. In all this Ayla is at Sara’s side.
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Aron,
as we have heard from the Baron, has been offered the Hilgard Chair of Agronomy at Berkeley. This, he declines on learning about Malka's ill health. He returns to Palestine, ruddy-faced and stocky as ever, more so, since adding American milkshakes, hot dogs and hamburger to his diet, and full of the joys of his recent successes. But his happiness is soon tempered by seeing his ailing mother.
A touching and humorous scene takes place at her bedside. Aron holding Malka’s hand kisses her with tears in his eyes.
Malka, summoning the last of her strength and some uncharacteristic humour, says:
“I’m not dead yet. You must get back to your work and take Sara with you, she’s been fussing around me for far too long! She must see the Station at once!”
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| The Crusader Castle, Atlit c 1914 |
Beneath the ruins of the foreboding Crusader fort, chosen too for its inaccessibility, a modern horse-shoe shaped building has been built. At its feet stretch carefully laid out fields of new wheat and barley, well tended vegetable gardens and an orchard.
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| Arab & Jewish Workers at the Station |
Workers, it should be noted, they are Jew and Arab, dig in the soil with its rows of new vegetables. The employment of Jewish and Arab workers was the subject of much contention, as we have already heard. A battle of ideologies, subject of much controversy, within Zionist circles. The debate centred on what was called Kibbush HaAvoda - ‘the subject of labour’: Should Arab workers be hired to work on Zionist farms and factories or should Jews get their hands dirty in the soil and work their own land?
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| Avenue of Palm Trees and Carriage at the Station at Atlit |
A freshly tarred road lined with those twin rows of Washingtonia palms and red bougainvillea, runs from the main road to the Station Gates. Aron hoots as the truck reaches the wrought-iron gates surmounted with a sign: ‘The Jewish Agricultural Experiment Station, Haifa, Palestine - Managing Director, Aron Aronson.’ An Arab worker opens the gates. In the grounds, a massive water tower, a tall weathervane, stables, a dovecot, the Station carriage with it horses grazing nearby, as the truck enters the grounds.
A row of cypress and new pecan trees greets them like sentinels, the rest of the sandy grounds are covered with an army of Sabra cacti, those ugly succulents, whose tender, honeyed hearts bely their hostile, spiky exterior. Just like the new nation. Tough exteriors, soft hearts.
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| The Agricultural Research Station at Atlit |
Sara and Aron get out of the truck. A giant bull mastiff jumps up to greet them, nearly knocking Sara off her feet. She pats the huge watch dog whose name is Goliath, as Aron walks her around his domain. Sara’s view of the interior built on three floors; upstairs, a tower with two bedrooms on the second and third floor and that crucial balcony, with view over the coastal plain and sea. Downstairs, Aron’s library and office - lined with some of his vast collection of books. Shelves contain examples from his collection, seeds of all sorts, in brown paper packets, all labelled in Rifka’s neat hand. His desk has framed family photographs, mother, father and his sisters, a brass compass, telescope and set of tiny scales.
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| Laboratory & Herbarium, Atlit |
On the lower floor, a glass-house herbarium filled with carefully categorised plant specimens, a kitchen and small laboratory where a dark-haired young man with his back to us, files a pile of letters from American donors, Rachel Yanait, a neat bun pinned haphazardly to her head, wearing a drab dress and the glasses of a Russian intellectual, drops a pipette of liquid fertiliser onto tiny green seedlings in a tray, a third, curly haired Reuven Schwartz with a short, Trotskyesque moustache, is doing the books. He greets Sara warmly, they are, after all, cousins as well as friends - Reuven’s mother is Sara and Aron’s aunt - father, Fischel’s sister.
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| Reuven Schwartz |
Reuven is born in Zikhron, a bright boy, he studied as they all did, at the local school and then learned commerce, bookkeeping, English and French, working for some years as a commercial agent in England and in Egypt. When he returned home he married Leah Albert - her image taken from their wedding portrait, depicts a tough pioneer woman with genes well used to hardship - they have two boys, Emanuel and Ashael, the second, who will later change his surname to Shavit. At the time of our story, Reuven works at the station in Atlit as accounts manager and bookkeeper. His portraits depict an aquiline profile with a long sharp nose and piercing eyes. His father Rav Haim Ber is one of Zikhron’s founding fathers. A dedicated farmer and innovator of agricultural methods, who introduced new crops to the local community. A man devoted to tradition, religion and heritage, fulfilling the commandment of pilgrimage, by making the week-long walk to Jerusalem - on foot - which took him another week to return to Zikhron Ya’akov.
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| Rachel Yanait |
Rachel is a socialist through and through, born in the Russian Empire as Golda Lishansky, she quickly changed her name to a Hebrew one, a young agronomist who studied in France, member of the HaShomer organisation, and active in the Poale Zion party. She and Aron are unlikely collaborators; ideological differences will always separate them, but they are well-matched professionally and personally. Aron admires her passionate love of the Land and of Nature - both with a capital letter. Her understanding of all things plant-related and her botanical research is unmatched in the whole Yishuv, and no man, comes close.
Rachel greets Sara, they are acquaintances, not quite friends, although that will come. Sara admires Rachel’s professionalism and her ideas about women. And Rachel admires Sara. Two strong women on opposite sides of a political divide united by their protofeminist aspirations and their love of the Land of Israel.
The young man with his back to us gets up from his work - it goes without saying he is Avshalom. He looks at Sara with a faint smile, quizzical, as if appraising her. She doesn’t drop her gaze, unfazed she lifts her hand to shake his, but instead he kisses her hand deeply. “Miss Aronson,” he says, softly. Aron doesn’t notice, already marching along to show her the next thing, happy Goliath at his side.
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| Avshalom Feinberg |
‘Yes, I am apparently ‘the handsome, dark young man with unshaven upper lip’. Or so my author has designated me. The Uber narrator to my own telling of this tale. As such, our voices may merge, other times they may diverge - sometimes I am spoken of in the third person, other times in the first. Such devices have been used before. Pronouns and tense having lives of their own. Time moving backwards and forwards as memory does. Sometimes I look down from high above, at that poor skeleton beneath the date palm. I am that pile of bones that was once a living, breathing man. At this particular time, when I am still nicely ensconced in human form, I am tasked with meeting Aron’s various American guests who come to see how we are doing and if their money is being well spent.
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| Aron, Absa & Mrs Rosenwald at Atlit |
One such guest, the diminutive but stocky Mrs. Rosenwald from New York, wife of philanthropist, manufacturer and multi millionaire company owner, Julius, comes to visit as evidenced by a rare photo of Aron and I, walking this New York lady through the litter of sand, insects and cactus thorns to survey our domain. Aron, also stocky, wearing his ubiquitous felt hat, pulled low over his brow - the sun scorches like a blow torch, but Mrs. Rosenwald is not daunted and manages to keep up remarkably well - despite her stature, unsuitable shoes and the shocking Middle Eastern heat. I face the camera, my worker’s cap throws a deep shadow across my face.
My future is still unknown. But Sara is definitely a part of it. And so again from first person singular to the third, my/his perspective shifting like my author’s. Chronology, like memory has its own logic, and is not necessarily bound by the conventions of time. A point of view with its own agency which meanders like a river, with its own innate rules across terrain, sometimes rough and sometimes smooth...’
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