The Source: A Novel Page 8

  “Young lady,” Zodman said with respect, “I have never seen a person win a prize more deservedly than you have just done. That goes for you, too, gentlemen. But I would like to ask one additional question. Was this a hand-picked group? Do the other young people know the Bible as well as you did?”

  “Excuse me,” Schwartz interrupted, collecting the girl’s hundred dollars, for the kibbutz was run on a basis of pure socialism, “in Israel we all study the Bible. From our kibbutz alone we could have offered a team which would have done just as well.”

  “Amazing,” Zodman said, and that night before he went to bed he intended to tell Cullinane that he was thinking more kindly about Israel, even if the kibbutz didn’t have a synagogue; but he found his director sitting silent before the Greek hand with the strigil, so he did not interrupt, but when Vered Bar-El appeared he walked with her beneath the olive trees, confessing, “I’m afraid I was fairly stupid about your Israel.”

  “I was sure you couldn’t have been as ill-informed as you sounded yesterday,” she said.

  Next morning there was much energy at the dig, for Tabari had promised an extra ten pounds to any worker who turned up a significant find while Paul Zodman was on the premises, and before noon a girl at Trench B started crying, “I win! I win!”

  “Shut up!” Tabari cried, quieting the cries lest Zodman hear, but when he saw what the girl had unearthed—a Babylonian helmet and a spear point, bespeaking the days when Nebuchadrezzar had enslaved Makor and taken into captivity much of its population—he himself became excited and started shouting, “Hey! Everyone!” And in the confusion Zodman came running up to see the mysterious armor which must have struck terror into ancient Makor when its owner stalked into town. Cullinane sketched the find, then turned the trench over to the recorders.

  On his way back to the office he saw with apprehension that the team at Trench A was gouging out the earth with unscientific haste and no doubt destroying minor objects. He protested to Tabari, but the Arab said, “We’ve got ten years to impress scholars, and one morning to impress Paul J. Zodman. If I had a steam shovel right now, I’d use it.” And his scheme proved profitable when a boy from Trench A turned up one of the real finds at the tell:

  “What is it?” Zodman asked.

  “The most Hebrew thing we’ve found yet,” Cullinane explained. “The kind of horned altar they speak of in the Bible. This could date back to the time of King David. He may even have worshiped at it, although I doubt that he was ever here.” Zodman bent in the dust to study the old stone altar, so strange and barbaric, yet the foundation of so much of Jewish religion, the kind of altar at which the first sacrifices were made to the one god. Tenderly he patted the antique piece, then said, “I’m flying out tonight. To Rome.”

  “But you’ve been here only two days!” Cullinane protested.

  “Can’t give you any more time,” the busy man said, and on the way to the airport he observed to Vered and Cullinane, “These two days were worth two years of my life. I saw something I’ll never forget.”

  “The Vodzher Rebbe?” Vered asked, with just a touch of malice.

  “No. An Israeli soldier.” Silence. Deep silence. Then Zodman’s quiet voice: “For two thousand years whenever we Jews saw a soldier, it could only mean bad news. Because the soldier couldn’t be Jewish. He had to be an enemy. It’s no small thing to see a Jewish soldier, standing on his own soil, protecting Jews … not persecuting them.” More silence.

  At the airport Zodman assembled his staff and said, “You’re doing a wonderful job. Last night after I talked with Mrs. Bar-El I surrendered my sentimental interest in the castle. Go on down to bedrock. You’re a great team and you can do it.” He hesitated, then pointed at Tabari. “But this one, John, I think you should fire.”

  Vered gasped, but Zodman, without changing his austere expression, said, “Lacks the scientific attitude. Doesn’t pay attention to details.”

  “His Uncle Mahmoud …” Cullinane stammered.

  “Not only did the Orde Wingate Forest have two signs,” Zodman said, “but that first night, while you men were plotting in the tent, I took a walk on the tell and a guard cried, ‘You can’t go there,’ and when I asked why not, he said, ‘Because Mr. Tabari is keeping a piece of Greek statue buried in the sand so that tomorrow he can please some jerk from Chicago.’ ” And he was gone.

  As the plane roared off, its jet engines so reminiscent of the passenger they were bearing aloft, Vered Bar-El sighed, “In Israel there’s bitter discussion about why American Jews refuse to emigrate here. At last I understand. We couldn’t find room for more than one or two like him.”

  She looked at Cullinane quizzically, and he said, “America’s a big place. We can absorb all sorts of energy.” And on the long ride back to Makor he again asked Vered why she and Eliav were not married, and she replied cautiously, “Life in Israel’s not altogether simple. Being a Jew is not always easy.” On that subject she obviously preferred to say no more.

  Cullinane remarked, “You didn’t see the Vodzher Rebbe and his team, but you can imagine.”

  “I used to know the rebbe,” she said cryptically. “Side curls, fur hat, long cloak, frenzy, frenzy. That’s part of the burden we carry.”

  “Why do Jews make things so difficult for themselves … and others?” Cullinane asked. “What I mean is this. We Catholics are holding ecumenical conferences to minimize the archaic structure of our religion, while you Israelis seem to be doing everything to make yours more archaic. What’s the reason?”

  “You’re looking at the old Jews in the Vodzher synagogue. Why not look at the young Jews at the kibbutz? They refuse to fool around with archaic forms, but they know the Bible better than any Catholic you’ve ever met. They study it not to find religious forms but to discover the organic bases of Judaism. I think, John, that it’s in our young people we’ll find our answers … not in the old rebbes.”

  “I wish I were as sure as you are,” he said.

  Then, unexpectedly, he gained a series of rapid insights into kibbutz life and discovered for himself reasons that supported Vered’s belief that the salvation of Israel probably rested in the idealism and dedication generated by the kibbutz. It was a Friday night and he had returned to the dig after participating in the evening service at the synagogue in Akko, and as he sat at his table in the mess hall he saw coming out of the kitchen, working as a waiter, a man whose face he recognized. It was the strong, vital face of a man in his mid-forties. His steel-gray hair was cropped short in the German fashion and he had no left arm, his shirt sleeve having been pinned up tight with a safety pin. He was General Teddy Reich, one of the heroes of Israel’s War of Independence and now a cabinet minister. For two years he had been the Israeli ambassador to the United States and was well known in America, where he had proved himself a witty and successful diplomat.

  But more than soldier, diplomat or statesman, Teddy Reich was a member of Kibbutz Makor and from it he derived his strength. He had helped establish this communal settlement and had organized its economy and its rules of living; he owned not a penny’s worth of property in the world, only his share in the kibbutz, and frequently throughout the year he came back from Jerusalem to attend the policy-making Friday-night sessions. Whenever he did so, he worked in the kitchen, with one arm, to show the younger members what he had discovered in the long years when Jews had no homeland: that work, productive work, is the salvation of man, and especially of the Jew.

  He brought a platter of meat to the archaeologists’ table and said to Eliav, “Could I see you in the kitchen?” Cullinane noticed that Vered watched Eliav go as if she were an apprehensive mother hen, but when she caught Cullinane observing her she laughed nervously: “They say Teddy Reich’s backing Eliav for some important job.”

  “In the government?” the Irishman asked.

  “Ben-Gurion considered him one of our brightest young men,” she said, and Cullinane thought: She speaks of him as if he were her neighbor’s boy,
unattached to her in any way.

  In the kitchen Eliav and Reich spent some hours talking politics while the general washed dishes, but when the kibbutz meeting convened, Reich absented himself and came to the headquarters building seeking Cullinane. “Could we talk for a moment?” the one-armed cabinet member asked. Cullinane was pleased at the opportunity, and Reich said, “Mind if we walk back to the kibbutz? I want you to meet someone.”

  And for the first time, in summery moonlight, Cullinane actually visited the kibbutz at which he had been impersonally taking his meals. He saw the buildings which men like Reich had wrenched from the soil, the small homes for nearly fifteen hundred people, the wealth accumulated through years of communal work, the schools, the nurseries, the hospital. To walk past these living buildings occupying land that had lain barren for nearly seven hundred and fifty years was an experience that made the state of Israel come alive, and Cullinane listened attentively as Reich explained the rationale for this move or that, but finally the former general said, “What I really wanted to talk with you about is the possibility of getting my daughter into the University of Chicago.”

  “Can be done. If she’s a good student.”

  “I think she is. But I want you to judge.”

  “She live here in the kibbutz?”

  “Where else?” Reich led the way to a series of dormitory buildings, where he knocked on one of the doors, waiting for a girl’s voice that advised him in Hebrew to come on in. When the door was pushed open Cullinane saw a beautiful young girl of seventeen or eighteen, and like a schoolboy he pointed at her: “You won the Bible Quiz!”

  “Yes.” She nodded gracefully and indicated four iron beds where they could sit.

  Cullinane sat on one and told Reich, “You don’t need to worry about her getting into the university. In Bible she knows more than the professors.”

  “But does she know enough English?”

  Cullinane began speaking with the charming young woman, and after several exchanges, said, “Heavy accent, but she certainly knows enough to get by.”

  “I hope so,” Reich said. “I could have sent her to the Reali in Haifa. They offered a scholarship, but I thought it more important for her to know kibbutz life. Even if the school here isn’t first-class.”

  “It’s an excellent school,” the girl protested.

  “In academic subjects it’s rotten,” Reich said, and before his daughter could object he held up his right hand. “Rotten, but she’s found herself a good education, nevertheless.”

  He was about to discuss entrance requirements when the door burst open, admitting a rugged young fellow of about eighteen dressed only in shorts and with a face full of shaving lather. He seemed to belong in the room, for after apologizing to General Reich and nodding brusquely to Cullinane, he went to the bed next to the girl’s and fumbled about in a locker, looking for his razor. When he finally found it he handled it gravely, like a young man who has not yet shaved regularly, and after further apologies, backed out.

  “Your son?” Cullinane asked.

  “No,” Reich said.

  Cullinane was left hanging. Obviously the young man lived in this room. Obviously Reich’s daughter lived in it, too. He looked at her fingers, finding no wedding ring, and he must have blushed, for suddenly Reich burst into laughter. “Oh, the young man!” His daughter laughed, too, and Cullinane felt embarrassed at a joke which he failed to understand.

  “Here at Kibbutz Makor,” Reich explained, “we decided from the first that our children would be brought up outside the home. So while they’re still babies we take two boys from two different families and two girls from two other families and we put them together in one room. And they stay together till they’re eighteen.”

  “You mean …”

  “Yes,” the general said. “In this bed my daughter. In that one the young man you just saw. Where you’re sitting another girl. And over there another boy.”

  Cullinane gulped. “Till eighteen?”

  “That’s a natural stopping age,” Reich said. “At eighteen everyone goes off to the army. There the boys and girls meet other people their own age and they get married quite normally.”

  “They don’t …” Cullinane could scarcely frame his questions.

  “What you mean,” the girl said easily, “is that we almost never marry boys from our own kibbutz. We know them far too well.”

  Cullinane looked at the proximity of the beds and said, “I suppose so.”

  “As for the other problem that worries you,” the lovely girl went on, “I’ve lived here at Makor for eighteen years and in that time we’ve had only two pregnancies and one abortion. In our grammar school when I was in Washington we had ten times that many in one year. And the girls there were only fourteen.”

  Suddenly, in the small room, Cullinane could see his sister in suburban Chicago. The silly woman had three daughters and at thirteen each had become, under her tutelage, a premature Cleopatra, with lipstick, permanent and some pimply-faced teen-age boy as her steady date. The youth of his nieces had been a fleeting thing, and at sixteen each had begun carrying in her purse a flat tin box of contraceptives, in case her escort had forgotten. It was difficult for him to comprehend what Teddy Reich and his daughter were saying—that there was a different way of rearing children, one that worked at least as well as the preposterous system now being followed in America. His reflections were halted when the young man returned to his room, clean-shaven but still in his shorts. With some awkwardness he dressed and ran off to a meeting being held in the schoolhouse.

  “Tell them I’ll be along in a minute,” Reich’s daughter cried. Then she turned to Cullinane and asked, “Do you think I’m ready for Chicago?”

  “More than ready,” he assured her.

  “And you’ll help with my application?”

  “I’d be proud to sponsor you.”

  The girl left and the two men sat alone in the room. “Do you find it so incredible?” Reich asked. Not waiting for an answer from the stunned archaeologist, he said, “The results of our system are striking. No juvenile delinquency. None. A minimum of sexual aberration. Of course we have our share of adultery and backbiting, but our success in marriage? Far above normal. And when they become adults they have the sturdy drive we need in Israel.”

  “But living together … till eighteen?”

  Reich laughed and said, “I knew a lot of psychotics in America who’d have been much better off if they’d lived that way in their youth. Saved them from a hell of a lot of mental disturbances.” Cullinane wondered if Reich was alluding to him, a man in his forties and not yet married; perhaps things would have worked out differently if he had shared a room with girls in this normal way until he was eighteen. But these speculations were ended when Reich said, “We kibbutzniks represent only about four per cent of the total population of Israel. But we have supplied about fifty per cent of the national leadership. In all fields. Because we grew up with honest ideals. Solid underpinning.” He rattled off the names of Israel’s notable leaders, and all were old kibbutzniks.

  “And none of those men own anything?” Cullinane asked.

  “What do you own? Really?” Reich countered. “Your education. Your force of character. Your family. Do you really own the other things? Or do they own you?” But as they walked back to the archaeological headquarters Reich confessed, “Each year the kibbutz percentage of the total population diminishes. Today people are no longer interested in our ideals. Only in making a fast buck.” He shook his head sadly. “So much the worse for Israel.” And in a gloomy frame of mind he walked back through the buildings he had created with one arm.

  September came and the dig settled down to the great, serious work before it. The distractions of the Crusader castle were past; the wars between religions were silenced; Romans and Greeks had known their day in the dust; the Jews had built their horned altars; and now the archaeologists had come to those shadowy, those fruitful centuries when remembered history wa
s only just beginning. At last the two trenches operated at the same level, substantiating each other and turning up fragments of clay vessels broken by women not yet accustomed to kitchen utensils, while beds of flint called across the centuries their messages of men who knew no iron for hunting, but only the sharpened edges of stones and lengths of wood in which to fasten them.

  Now Vered Bar-El became the most important member of the team, for she alone could look at pottery and assure the men that they had dug through one civilization and were entering another; it was uncanny how she could identify the pieces, some no larger than a shilling, by their glaze, their decoration, the manner in which they were baked, their constituent clays, or whether they had been smoothed down by hand, a wad of grass or a comb. Her pert little figure, clad in a playsuit, could be seen darting into the trench each morning and huddled over her workbenches the rest of the day. Tabari and Cullinane ratified Vered’s findings by inspecting the thin layers of rubble in which the sherds were found; the tell contained seventy-one feet of accumulation laid down during eleven thousand years, and that meant less than eight inches added per century. But recent levels like the Crusader castle had accounted for much of the deposit, so that in the pre-Christian periods whole groups of centuries might be represented by only two inches of silt, but these two inches could contain records as easy to read as if they had been reported in the morning newspaper. It was hard to believe, unless one saw a thin band of soot extending uniformly from Trench A across to B, how the burning of the town—either by enemies or accident—could have left a record that was unmistakable; and when good samples of soot were found, say, a charred deer’s horn or a seashell brought to Makor by some ancient trader from Akko, they could be airmailed to Chicago or Stockholm, where scientists could analyze the carbon of the charring and wire back the date when the fire had taken place.

  For example, when Tabari found the two pieces of pottery marking Level XIII, he also came up with a good deposit of burned ram’s horn near them, laid down as part of a general conflagration which must have destroyed Makor at that time. Cullinane, listening to the deductions of Vered Bar-El, made his sketch and put down his estimate of the probable date. But at the same time he airmailed carbon samples to the laboratories in America and Sweden and awaited confirmation or alteration of his guess.