Page 37 of One of Them

Delia looked at the scrap of paper she’d carried with her since Paris, and she told him what was on it.

“Chatserim.” He grunted. “There’s a wagon.”

“Wagon? When?”

He shrugged. “You wait. I tell you.”

Delia sat down on a hard, uncomfortable metal bench.

She was hungry. Several people around her were eating sunflower seeds encrusted with salt, so she went outside, bought a bag from the man selling them from a small cart, and went back inside to eat them.

Soon there was a pile of shells in her hand.

Everyone else was just spitting them out onto the floor, but Delia couldn’t bring herself to do that; it seemed so crude.

Ten minutes passed, then twenty, then thirty.

Would this wagon really come? What would she do if it didn’t—take the bus back to Tel Aviv?

But just then the man behind the ticket counter called out loudly and in English, “Girlie! Wagon!” Delia got up and grabbed her bag and hurried over.

The wagon was a crude thing. In front of it stood a horse, an exhausted-looking creature too apathetic to shake off the flies that had settled around its ears and eyes.

It took Delia a few tries to climb up and position herself on the splintery seat.

Since the day had grown even warmer, she took off her coat and folded it under her as a cushion.

She was the only passenger and had to carve out a space for her feet and legs; the floor of the wagon was filled with burlap bags of what might have been flour or sugar, a large tin of what she thought was oil, flimsy cardboard boxes whose contents were unknown.

The man yanked on the reins, and they began to move.

The ride was bumpy and slow; occasionally the driver muttered something—was he talking to himself? To her? The horse? If it was the latter, the horse ignored him. The sun was beating down, and Delia rolled up the sleeves of her blouse. She wished she could have taken off her stockings too.

The landscape around her looked so alien, the earth parched and cracked, the sky bleached of the vivid blue she’d seen in Tel Aviv.

She sat quietly, and soon glimpsed a low building of some kind, an unadorned ocher rectangle covered by a roof that gave off a dull metallic gleam.

She stared at the building as it grew larger and more solid, and as they approached, she could see that around it were smaller structures with peaked roofs—no, they weren’t structures at all, they were.

.. tents. Yes, that was it. The building was surrounded by tents.

Was it possible that Sophie lived in a tent?

Sophie, with her Guerlain perfume, her net gloves, the leopard-print swing coat she’d worn with that jaunty maroon beret covered in beads? Delia still couldn’t picture it.

The driver stopped abruptly in front of a low, roughly fashioned fence.

The horse shook himself, lifted his long face up toward the sky, and let out a mournful neigh.

Two armed guards sat at either side of a gate; there was also a pair of dogs that looked like German shepherds.

One was sleeping, head resting on his crossed paws.

But the other sat straight up, ears pricked, gaze alert.

When he saw the wagon, he emitted a low, throaty growl that sounded like a warning.

The driver called out something, and one of the guards called out something in return.

Then the driver hopped down and extended a hand to Delia, who took it gratefully.

She watched while he lugged first the bags, and then the tin, inside the rectangular building, and when he came back out again, she handed him some of the boxes and took a few herself.

His face cracked into a smile—the first since she’d laid eyes on him—and he gestured for her to follow him into the building, which appeared to be a dining room.

Inside, sheets of oilcloth covered low wooden tables flanked by benches, and bare bulbs suspended from the ceiling gave off a low, staticky buzz.

Delia waited while the items from the wagon were taken away and a few of the people seated at the tables got up and came over to the driver.

One gave him a hearty slap on the back; they all seemed glad to see him.

Since their conversation was in Hebrew, she didn’t understand any of it.

Instead she looked anxiously around the room. Was Sophie here?

Then the lone woman in this small group noticed her.

She said something that Delia presumed was in Hebrew, and when Delia didn’t respond, she said, “Hello. I’m Esther, but here they call me Hadas.

Can I help you in any way?” She wore baggy canvas pants, a stretched-out sweater that might have once been black, and heavy lace-up work boots; her accent was British.

“I’m looking for Sophie Rossner. I was told that she’s living here now.” Even saying her name caused Delia’s heart to jump.

Hadas studied her carefully. “You look so much like her. Are you related?”

“I’m her daughter.”

“Her daughter? She’s never mentioned you.”

Never mentioned she had a daughter. How could Sophie have just erased her from her life?

Now Delia felt lightheaded, even dizzy, as if she might faint.

Looking at her watch, she saw that it was almost one o’clock.

No wonder she felt this way; apart from those sunflower seeds, she’d eaten nothing all day.

“Are you all right?” Hadas reached out a hand to steady her. “Here, why don’t you sit down? Can I bring you a glass of water? Lunch is going to be served in a little while. Do you want to join us?”

“Just the water,” said Delia gratefully.

“Thank you.” The room smelled overwhelmingly of cabbage, which, despite her hunger, Delia found revolting.

She sat down at one of the long tables, keenly aware that people were looking at her.

She looked away, and when the glass of water appeared in front of her, she drank it down quickly. There. That helped.

“Did you want me to go get her? She usually doesn’t get here until a little later, but I can try to find her now if you want.”

“Can’t I come with you?”

“Of course.”

There were baskets of rolls already on the tables, and when Hadas saw Delia eyeing them, she said, “Please help yourself.” So Delia took a roll and munched on it as she followed Hadas across the room.

She was eager to escape the stench of the cabbage.

But still, she looked up and noticed the muslin curtains that hung over the windows, pulled closed against the sun.

They had been embroidered, the coarse fabric a backdrop for brightly colored flowers and leaves.

How odd to find these panels in such a bare, unadorned place.

Then she realized that some of the panels had not been embroidered but painted instead, with bold, even raucous forms. They seemed familiar, and she realized they had been done by Sophie—she was sure of it.

And were those tiny initials in the corners Sophie’s?

She didn’t paint or draw often, but on occasion she had done both.

Delia stared at the flowers. They had been made by Sophie’s hand, she was certain.

“Aren’t you coming?” Hadas said.

“Yes, of course.” Delia fell into step beside her, finishing the last of the roll as she walked. Though she’d been ravenous, it sat like a sodden mass in her stomach, and now she was sorry she’d eaten it.

They went outside, passing tent after tent as they walked.

“Is this where people live?” she asked.

“Most people, though not the kids. A beit yeladim —a children’s house—was built for them.”

Delia couldn’t fathom how Hadas could tell the difference between the tents, which all looked the same, but she seemed to know exactly where she was going.

Hadas stopped in front of one of them. “Here it is.” Since there was no door on which to knock, she called out, “Sophie, there’s someone here to see you.”

“Come on in,” called a voice—Sophie’s voice, which Delia had not heard in years and had not thought she would ever hear again. For a second she was frozen at the entry, unable to take the next step.

Hadas looked perplexed. “I thought you wanted to see her.”

Delia hesitated for just a split second longer. Then she put her hand through the opening, pushed back the flap, and went inside.