Джеймс Миченер - The Source

His present liberal views in these matters marked a sharp change from his youth in Gary, Indiana, where he had grown up in a Catholic neighborhood whose popular sport had been the seeking out of Jewish schoolchildren during the tedious afternoons. He and his friends would lurk behind fences, rock in fist, waiting for the occasional Jew in the district to come furtively home. With yells they would spring upon him, pummeling him harshly and shouting:“Jew boy! Jew boy!

Gonna crucify a goy.”

Once the truant officer had come to the Cullinane home with a warning: “Mike, your boy has got to quit picking on the Ginsberg kids.”

“A fine thing,” his father had stormed. “An officer of the law wastin’ his time over such a matter.”

“Mike, it’s gotta stop. The Jews is makin’ protests to the mayor.”

“Over what? They crucified Jesus, di’n they?”

Why did we do it? Cullinane sometimes asked himself in later years, and he found no difficulty in determining the answer. As each Easter season approached, the priest in his parish launched a series of sermons recounting the crucifixion of our Saviour, and his Irish brogue would hang almost longingly upon the terrible mystery of our Lord’s passion. Young Cullinane and his friends would listen in growing anger as they heard of the manner in which the Jews betrayed Jesus, forced a crown of thorns upon His brow, nailed Him to the cross, pierced His side, mocked Him in His agony and even bargained in selling His clothes. It was almost more than the boys could bear, and it infuriated them to think that descendants of those same Jews were roaming the streets of Gary that day.

It was not till Cullinane reached college that he discovered that it had not been the Jews who had done these things to Jesus; it had been Roman soldiers. He also discovered that no Catholic dignitary who had advanced beyond the stage of parish priest any longer proclaimed such views, but by then it did not matter. On his own recognizance he had discovered that an instinctive hatred of the Jew made no sense, and that a rational dislike could be supported by no evidence whatever. And he had changed so completely that now he could even contemplate marrying a Jew.

He found himself thinking about Vered a good deal, and one of the thoughts that recurred most often was a warning delivered years earlier by a French archaeologist in Egypt: “Many digs in the Near East have come to grief because God made little-girl archaeologists and little-boy archaeologists, and when you put them together in tents at the edge of a desert … the strangest things can happen. Now this is particularly true of digs organized by Englishmen, because somehow the Englishwoman, so proper at home, seems to go to pieces as soon as she sees a pickaxe plopped in the earth … in a nice way, that is.” In furtherance of this theory the English photographer was romancing with the kibbutz girls, and Cullinane didn’t blame him a bit.

In spite of the strenuous schedule laid out by Eliav, there was a good deal of social life at the kibbutz, and in the long summer evenings the group used to gather for folk dancing. Word had gone out that Big Boss was a bachelor, and some very pretty girls hauled him onto the floor while the accordion beat out folk music and partners swept through beautiful old dances, some from Russia, others from the steep hills of Yemen. Cullinane found the kibbutz girls too young for serious attention, but he did confess to one change of opinion, which he shared with Tabari: “In America I always thought that folk dancing was for girls too ugly and too fat for modern dancing. I stand corrected.”

In July he became uncomfortably aware of the fact that at the kibbutz dances Vered Bar-El usually preferred to dance with Dr. Eliav, and they made an attractive pair. His lank frame moved with masculine charm through the peasant steps, while her petite body had a lively grace, especially in those dances where girls were required to pirouette, their petticoats flying out parallel to the floor. Tabari also arranged evening excursions to historic sites like Tiberias on the Sea of Galilee or the poetic ruins of Caesarea, King Herod’s ancient capital, where Cullinane saw Vered standing in the moonlight beside a marble column that had once graced the king’s gardens, and she seemed to be the spirit of Israel, a dark-haired, lovely Jewess from Bible times, and he had wanted to run to her and tell her so, but before he did, Dr. Eliav moved beside her; he had been standing behind the pillar, holding her hand, and Cullinane felt like an ass.

And then one night in mid-July as he inspected the dig in moonlight he was alerted by someone moving along the northern edge of the plateau, and he suspected it might be a worker out to steal a Crusader relic; but it was Vered Bar-El, and he ran to her with a kind of release and caught her in his arms, kissing her with a vigor that astonished both of them. Slowly she pushed him away, holding on to the lapels of his field jacket and looking up at him with her dark, saucy eyes.

“John,” she laughed warmly, “don’t you know I’m engaged to Dr. Eliav?”

“You are?” He brushed her hands away as if he were afraid of them.

“Of course. That’s why I came on this dig … rather than Massada.”

He’d wondered about that in Chicago: Why would Bar-El pass up a sure thing like Massada to work with me? He became angry. “Damn it all, Vered. If he’s engaged to you, why doesn’t he do something about it?”

For just a moment she looked as if she had been asking herself the same question, but quickly recovered and said lightly, “Sometimes these things …”

He kissed her again and said most seriously, “Vered, if he’s held back this long, why not marry a man who means business?”

She hesitated, as if inviting him to kiss her again, then pushed him away. “You mean too much business,” she said softly.

“How long have you been engaged?”

Standing apart from him, she said, “We were in the war together. I roomed with his wife before she was killed. He fought beside my husband. These are things that bind people …”

“You make it sound like patriotic incest.”

She slapped his face, with all her force and all her anger. “These are serious matters. Never, never …” Then she threw herself into his arms and sobbed. After a while she whispered, “You’re a man I could love, John. But I fought desperately for this Jewish land and I’d never marry anyone but a Jew.”

He dropped his arms. Her statement was archaic and somehow offensive. It was inappropriate for this moment when two people were groping for love. If the Jews of Europe had gone through what they did in order to build a state in which an attractive widow of thirty-three could talk like that … “You’re no farther along than the Irish Catholics I used to know in Gary, Indiana. ‘You bring a Polack husband into this house and I’ll horsewhip the both of you.’ That was my father speaking to my sister.”

“I didn’t ask you to kiss me,” Vered pointed out.

“I’m sorry I did,” Cullinane snapped.

She took his angry hands and held them to her cheeks. “That’s an unworthy remark and you know it. I’ve watched you working in the trenches, John. You want to know every fact there is and no prejudice diverts you. All right, you’ve been digging in this trench and you’ve uncovered something you don’t like … a Jewish girl who has seen so much terror that there’s only one thing in the world she wants to be. A Jewish girl.”

The force of her words made Cullinane respect what she said, but he could not rationally accept it: if he understood anything about human relations, he knew that Vered Bar-El was not going to marry Dr. Eliav. She gave no impression of being in love with him and he no sense of being hungry for her. Like the Israel of which she was a part she was caught in historical cross-currents, rather than in the emotion of love, and she betrayed her awareness of this unsatisfactory situation. With compassion Cullinane observed her uncertainty, then said, “Vered, I’ve spent the last twenty years looking for a wife. I wanted someone who was intelligent, not afraid of big ideas, and … well, feminine. Such girls aren’t easy to find, and I won’t let you go. You’ll never marry Eliav. Of that I’m convinced. But you will marry me.”