The Nature of Blood

'Tell me, what will be the name of the country?'

Israel. Palestine. He knew of no such country. As yet, none of them did. Only in their minds. But at least he asked questions. And I answered. 'The fruit is on the trees. You may take it straight from the branch.' Moshe looked up at me as though I were holding something back; as though there were some awful secret about this imaginary country that I was refusing to share with him. But there was nothing. I was tired, for it had already been a long day. In fact, it had been a long two months. Tomorrow, at dawn, I would be returning to Palestine. But I was hiding nothing from Moshe.

'Do you have an army?'

I had heard this question before. From others who were newly arrived and, as yet, untouched by emissaries. So many of these young people were ready to fight. Determined to prove that, given a gun and a uniform, there were things that they too could do.

'Yes there is an army, and it is organized and well disciplined. It will be extremely important once we have a free country.'

Moshe looked up and adjusted his position in the sand. Now he was interested, his face radiant and alive. I worried about these young men and what they might do with a gun. Even some of the women, too. Luckily they seemed to understand that here, on Cyprus, the British were not the enemy. These reluctant soldiers were captors. They inflicted no punishment, and there was neither torture nor killing. The British were bored. Bored with their Mr Bevin, bored with Cyprus, bored with Jews. They couldn't care less about breaking the power of the 'Hebrew Resistance Movement'. The war was over and they wanted to go home. But Mr Bellow's 'orphaned and unattached' were acting as though their war had yet to begin.

Moshe stretched his legs and I could now see that his trousers stopped some way above his ankles. I looked and smiled, but tried to do so surreptitiously, hoping that Moshe would not notice. But I failed, because he quickly folded his legs back underneath himself and then looked into the fire. Suddenly there was an awkward silence between us and I found myself consumed with guilt. I chastised myself for my clumsiness, and searched desperately for some mollifying phrase. And then Moshe rescued me.

'Do you think I will find a wife?'

I laughed now.

'Moshe, you will be able to choose from hundreds of pretty women.'

'Do you have a wife?'

'No,' I said. 'At least, not any more. She is in America with my daughter.'

'Why don't they come and live in Palestine?'

'Well, that is a long story, Moshe. At present, my future lies over there.'

With a swift movement of my head I nodded in the general direction of the sea. Moshe looked out over the water as though he might see something.

'You see, that is my country now. The country over the water.'

I paused for a moment and tried to picture my country. And then I realized that Moshe was staring at me. My country?

'I, too, was in the army before I became a doctor. But, Moshe, the army is not everything. Hagannah is not everything. A wife and child, now that is something.'

I smiled at Moshe, for the moonlight was now illuminating his face in a manner that made him appear painfully young.

'Like you, Moshe, I too once left a country behind.'

I twisted myself around in the sand, and then gazed up the hill towards the floodlit camp. The boy turned and looked.

'Many of those people have come from my old country. Now, they have nothing. I remember many things about my old country. People. Places. Suddenly you couldn't do this, you had to do that. Then you couldn't do that, you had to do this. I left early, but even before I left there were people begging in the streets, respectable people. I remember the fear. But I do not have to tell you any of this. You have seen it, yes? You remember? It was the same in your country?'

Moshe continued to stare up at the illuminated vision that was the camp on the hill. He nodded, almost imperceptibly, for his mind was clearly lost in reverie.

'You will marry a beautiful girl and have wonderful children. And, sure, you will join the army if you wish.'

Moshe turned from the camp and looked at me. I tried to make him understand.

'The old world is dead. The survivors are here. Up there, gathered together on a hillside in Cyprus. The new world is just beginning, Moshe. And you are a part of it.'

I took the boy's hand and held it between my own. I felt we had become friends, the fire between us, the camp on the hill, the other volunteers scattered across the beach, the British in their uniforms, the young men and women distributing wood, the sea murmuring to us, our new country hidden beyond the dark horizon.

I could smell food and I now wanted to eat. Not this food. I wanted to eat the food that my wife would cook for me when I came home from the university at the end of the day. Waiting for me with our small daughter. In the old country. Before Palestine. Before America. In the old country, sitting with student friends in one of the small bars near the apartment. Drinking the full-bodied beer. Eating spiced sausage. Food. Drink. Not on a beach in Cyprus. We had a country into whose life we slipped like a hand into a glove. I remember. Desks were rearranged. We now had to sit at the back, near the door. Soon after, there were young men in strange new uniforms. Saluting each other. Bright new flags. And now. Fruit on the trees. An army. Beautiful women. A new country to build. After two months in Cyprus, I was leaving at dawn. To go home. To go where? Away to the south. Away to the east. How much should I tell this boy? Truly I felt ashamed, for I had not described my country. I had described the country that might be his. The country that might belong to his children. The country that might belong to his children's children. My country? At dawn, going back to beautiful trees laden with fruit. But what about the joy of swirling snow on a cold winter's morning? And what about the thrill of being assaulted by an icy wind that charges its way towards you, down a narrow frost-ravaged street? And then, come springtime, the self-conscious flamboyance of impatient buds that burst into premature life. Watch me while I flower. No, watch me. In the parks, lakes and ducks and marching bands. And still the occasional chilly night, which requires a collar to be flicked skywards and the neck to be bandaged in a thick wool scarf. And then the sun- drenched courtyards of summer. And then later, in the autumn, a rose begins to unhinge its petals, and an apple lets go of its branch. In the old country. I left behind my brother and his dreams of our partnership. (Why create another home? We can set up in practice together. The brothers Stern. We might become the richest doctors in the country.) But Ernst, our lives are getting smaller. Shops and businesses are closing. You must go. (To this primitive British colony of Palestine? I have dutifully bought the stamps to pay for the land that you buy from the Arabs. I have done my duty. Enough of this foolishness.) But Ernst, America is not a golden land. They work like horses. It is difficult to make money. And Ernst, have you thought of your two girls? And if not the golden land, then where? Ernst, where are you taking them? And now in Cyprus. Where are they? Up on the hill with the rest of the refuse from old Europe? A futile and self-corrosive guilt. Wondering what else I might have done. Memory. That untidy room with unpredictable visiting hours. I am forever being thrust through the door and into that untidy room. Yes, my friend, the army will provide you with a port into which you might ultimately dock. Yes, the army. And the army will make sure that you continue to have a home. I was hungry. I wanted to eat now, but not in Cyprus. And not in the new country. How could I explain? Imagine any day of my old life. Walking on stone. Solid and secure. But now I walk on boards. Will they snap beneath my feet? A new world of boards. No stone. Nearly eleven years in Palestine. Two whole months in Cyprus. Boardworld. Imagine. Imagine. I still carry within me the old world that I once cast aside. (She is in America with my daughter.) And my two nieces. Dear Margot. Dear Eva. A world that I can never put down to rest. A world that, even now, I seem incapable of surrendering. Moshe, imagine. The snow. The full-bodied beer. The impatient buds. The stone beneath my feet. The icy wind of winter.