The fig tree stood in the center of the courtyard. It was small but shapely, with a supple trunk covered in light brown bark. The branches grew in a graceful, almost symmetrical configuration, and its leaves — as large as Rose’s face — were a fresh, soft green.
Rose had first seen it when she’d come to this hospital in Beersheva to deliver her babies. Now she was here not to give birth, but because of a persistent, hacking cough and fever. The doctor — a precise European with manicured nails and wax coating the tips of his moustache — had diagnosed her with double pneumonia. She would need medication, monitoring and rest. Sinking into the narrow bed, she disappeared down the rabbit hole of sleep.
By the second day, the new wonder drug, penicillin, had started to work. Stanley came, clearly exhausted, from the kibbutz, to visit when his shift at the dairy was over. As he sat in the wooden chair at the side of her bed, his eyes closed and his chin came to rest on his chest. The soles of his shoes were caked with cow manure. The smell had become so familiar that Rose no longer minded it.
She stared at Stanley, willing him to wake up. She wanted to ask about their twin sons, now two, who were back on the kibbutz. Was Dov getting enough to eat? Had Rafi’s rash cleared up? Did they miss her? The boys lived in the children’s house, like all kibbutz babies.
Stanley...
Subscribe now to keep reading
Please enter your email to log in or create a new account.