"How about the other American students?"
"Well, they're not the kind I'd hack around with in the States. I can tell you." Roy said. "Besides, they're in the same boat, so what's the point? It's like a bunch of wallflowers at a dance trying to make out with each other. It's even worse for the girls. The guys here act like they're doing them a favor if they say hello. Me. I hang around with the Arab students mostly." he added casually.
"The Arab students?"
"Yeah. Don't sweat it. Dad. It's the in thing right now.
Make friends with an Arab. Matter of fact, a lot of the Israelis take the point of view that they're a lot closer to the Arabs than they are to us. since they're Israelis, too."
"I see." his father said. "So that's why you're unhappy."
"Well, you know, I was like on a kind of down cycle when I wrote Ma. I was homesick and dying for a hamburg or a pizza or a first-run movie, and I was alone here—"
Dan was glad of the opening. "But I'm here now," he said.
"Sure, and don't think it doesn't make a difference. And these trips you're planning, maybe I could go along and help out with the driving?"
"But your school—"
"Oh, everybody takes off. sometimes as much as a month. It's kind of expected. How about it. Dad?"
It was a tempting picture, the two of them taking long trips together, putting up at small hotels for the night, stopping at out-of-the-way places to eat, and talking, confiding in each other, making up for the years of separation. He might even be able to influence his son, reorient his thinking, mold his character, do for him what a father should do for a son. He smiled. "Roy. you’ve got a deal." he said, and in spite of his efforts to control it. his voice was tremulous.
Chapter Thirteen
By the time they had unloaded the car and unpacked their bags, night had fallen. It came suddenly as it does in the tropics, and the air became chilly. They were tired and hungry, and Miriam suggested they go to a restaurant.
"A restaurant? It is an unnecessary extravagance." said Gittel. "There are stores— a grocery right across the street. We can buy what we need, prepare it, and serve it before a waiter in a restaurant would even take your order. Besides, what would we do with the child?"
Since the rabbi had carried Jonathan in from the car fast asleep, undressed and put him to bed still asleep, the point seemed well taken.
Gittel made further plans and arrangements for them. "Tomorrow morning we must go shopping for the Sabbath, Miriam— because on the Sabbath all places are closed," she added to indicate that her interest was secular rather than religious. "I will take you to a large market not far from here where you wheel a little cart around and pick whatever you wish, just like in America. But first, we will arrange for Jonathan to go to school. There is a kindergarten around the corner—"
"I hadn't thought of him going to school." Miriam objected.
"So what else would he do? All the children are in school. If he doesn't go, there will be no one for him to play with and you would be tied down all day. Certainly, you will want to be doing something while you are here. Now, I have a friend in the Social Service Department of the Hadassah Hospital, and she is always crying for volunteers. It is work I am sure you will enjoy. I will arrange an appointment for you."
She told them that she wouldn't think of leaving until she had seen them properly settled, but she was sure she could manage everything in the morning. Fortunately, there was another bed in Jonathan's room, although she assured them it was no great matter. In Israel one could always make do; she could have bedded down on the sofa or even the floor, if necessary.
She told them of her work in Israel, of her son Uri, Miriam's cousin, who was in the Army. "Tall and handsome he is, like his father. The girls are all crazy over him, and when he comes home on leave, I hardly get to see him."
She noticed that the rabbi's eyes were half-closed. Instantly she was contrite. "Here I talk and you people are dying to go to sleep." And with a kind of wonder. "And you know, I am a little tired, too. We will all go to bed now, and tomorrow we will make our arrangements."
The rabbi got the feeling that only because he was a rabbi, and perhaps because he was not a direct relation, did she refrain from deciding what he was to do during their stay in the country. But he did not object to going to bed, and he had no sooner put his head to the pillow than he fell fast asleep.
He was awakened suddenly by a loud thud. It was dark, and he pawed for his watch on the night table and then for his glasses to see it by. He switched on the tiny bed lamp and saw it was twelve o'clock. Beside him. Miriam stirred uneasily, but she turned over and snuggled into the bedclothes, and presently he could hear her slow rhythmic breathing once again. He switched off the light and tried to get back to sleep, but after he had tossed about for a few minutes, he realized it was useless. He was wide awake. In bathrobe and slippers he padded into the living room, took a book from the bookcase, and settled down to read. It was almost four o'clock before he returned to bed. Miriam and Gittel were preparing to go shopping when he awoke the next morning. It was late, after ten. The women had already been out and dropped Jonathan off at the kindergarten and arranged for him to go every day.
As they were leaving, he called after them. "Don't forget to get wine for kiddush."
"We've got it on our list." said Miriam. "And what are you going to do?"
"I'll just walk around and look over the city."
By the time he had finished his morning prayers and eaten breakfast, the sun was already high in the heavens. It beat down in a hard glare on the white stone of the city so that he found himself squinting; he made a mental note that he must buy a pair of sunglasses. Still, there was a chill in the air as on a pleasant April morning at home, and he was glad he had thought to put on a light raincoat.
As he strolled along leisurely, he was strangely out of tempo with the others he saw walking along the street, mostly women returning from their morning's shopping, carrying their groceries in string bags. Even though the streets through which he walked were residential, some of them splendid with new apartment houses, here and there were tiny shops tucked away in semi-basements— a grocery, a coffee shop, a bakery, a laundry.
Ahead were a pair of civilian guards, middle-aged men. who. like him. were strolling leisurely. They were in a uniform of sorts: green armbands and berets and long military coats much the worse for wear. The trousers that showed beneath were obviously of civilian cut and material. One carried an old rifle and the other a steel rod about two feet long with which to prod suspicious packages left in trash barrels. Rabbi Small wondered idly if they took turns with the rifle. They were holding a heated discussion, gesticulating extravagantly. As he came near, he heard one say "So Agnon is not so much a Hebrew writer as a Yiddish writer who writes in Hebrew. There is a difference." The guard broke off when the rabbi stopped beside them and looked at him suspiciously.
"Can you tell me please if I am heading toward the center of the city?" the rabbi asked.
"Where do you want to go?"
"I am new here." the rabbi explained. "Where are the shops, the business district?"
"He wants Zion Square. What do you want to buy?"
"I don't want to buy anything. I just want to see the city."
"Ah. well, right ahead is King George Street. If you turn left, you'll come to Ben Yehuda Street. That is the business district."