Artur Mandelkorn
Be’er Yaakov, Israel
March 1947
I finally received permission to leave the kibbutz and travel to Be’er Yaakov. It took a while to find it on the sprawling map pinned on the wall of the kibbutz cultural centre. Yet there it was: a tiny red dot south of Tel Aviv near the town of Ramla. Although Ruti was supposed to come with me, she had to bow out at the last minute because she had promised to help her sister sew a dress for her upcoming wedding. As Ruti put it, it was useless trying to argue with a hysterical bride-to-be. Luckily, though, Dudu stepped in to take her place, happy for an excuse to get away from the kibbutz for a little while. He recently began reading Martin Buber’s I and Thou and was complaining that the kibbutzniks lacked “a spiritual consciousness.” This, he imagined, could be found elsewhere—especially in the big city cafés and tearooms where artists and intellectuals gathered. The fact that we would be passing through Tel Aviv on the way to Be’er Yaakov was enough to fire up Dudu’s enthusiasm for the trip.
Early on a humid morning, while the dew was still heavy in the fields, Dudu and I set out. Once we were settled on the bus, I felt positively giddy to be embarking on this journey. One might think that after wandering through Europe, I would have completely lost my wanderlust. But this was different. Then, I was being hunted.
Now I was free to roam as I pleased. Our first stop was Hadera, where we had to get off the first bus and wait for another to take us as far as Tel Aviv. With an hour to spare, we decided to explore the town sights, even though the grimy storefronts were hardly appealing. Several blocks away from...
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