Джеймс Миченер - The Source

On the trip back to the dig Zodman suggested that he ride with Tabari and Eliav for the first half and that he then change to Cullinane and Bar-El, and as the cars left the airport Cullinane asked Vered, “Well?”

“I’m impressed. He’s younger and smarter than I thought.”

“Wait till you see how smart he is,” Cullinane replied.

They were permitted to do so at the halfway mark, when Zodman jumped out of Eliav’s car and came to Cullinane’s. “Two excellent men,” he said as he climbed in. “I’d hire either of them for my stores right now. That Tabari’s a shameless charmer. Tried to snow me with flattery. Eliav’s the powerhouse. You paying them decent wages, John?”

“Starvation,” Vered replied.

“Well, if they’re as good as they look, after six or seven years raise them five dollars. That goes for you too, Miss Bar-El.”

“Mrs. Bar-El”

“This matter of wages on an archaeological dig is most perplexing,” Zodman said. “Since you’ve gone, John, I’ve had Miss Kramer get me the reports of all the important digs in this area—Macalister, Kenyon, Yadin, Albright …” He rattled off some dozen names.

“You’ve read those reports?” Vered asked. “The big folio volumes?”

“The big expensive volumes. I’ve spent almost as much on the books as I have on you, and, John …” He stopped, and there began that series of events which was to prove how stupid he could be. “Do you suppose I could see the trees?”

“What trees?” Cullinane asked.

“I gave eighty-one thousand dollars to plant trees in this country.”

“Well …”Cullinane mumbled.

Vered rescued him. “The forests are over there,” she said, waving generally toward the right, and to distract Zodman she began asking specific questions about the archaeological reports, discovering that he had not skimmed the books but was well versed in details.

“They never tell you what the expeditions cost,” he complained, “Correction—Macalister did say that to continue at Gezer would take about …” He took out his wallet and with no fumbling produced a slip of paper from which he read: “‘…at least £350 per mensem would be requisite; and this does not allow any margin for extra expenses.’ That was in 1909. And what was the pound worth in 1909? About five dollars? That’s $1,750 a month … eleven thousand dollars for a season. Now Makor’s a lot smaller than Gezer was, yet you’re charging me about fifty thousand dollars a season. How come?”

“Macalister had only himself and Tabari’s uncle and they hired their diggers for twenty-one cents a day. On our payroll…”

The car had turned in the direction that Vered had indicated, and Zodman asked, “Is this where the trees are?”

“Down that way,” Vered replied, seeking to sidetrack him, but soon the road turned “that way” and Zodman asked, “Now do I see the trees?” Vered assured them that they were somewhere ahead, and in this way they reached the tell, but when Cullinane started to describe the Crusader castle, Zodman said quietly, “You’re going to think it silly of me, but I’d like to see my trees. That castle died a thousand years ago. The trees are living.”

Tabari took Eliav aside and warned him, “Here we go again. You produce some trees, or we’re in trouble.”

Temporary relief was provided when Cullinane brought forth the gold menorah. “This is your Candlestick of Death,” he said, and for some minutes Zodman was lost in contemplation of that fateful object.

“Which was the candle where they cut off the king’s head?” he asked.

“The middle one,” Tabari assured him.

Eliav did not smile, for he was in trouble. Often before he had encountered this problem of the trees, for skilled Israeli collectors, crisscrossing America for the Jewish Agency, cajoled many wealthy American Jews into contributing dollars for reforesting the Holy Land. “Imagine!” the collectors wheedled. “Your trees. Growing on land where King David lived.” So when these donors reached Israel, the first thing they wanted to see was their trees. Paul Zodman had given half a million dollars for buildings, but he had no desire to see them, for he knew that plaster and stone look pretty much the same around the world, but a living tree growing from the soil of Israel was something which commanded his imagination.

Unfortunately, Eliav had found, a newly planted tree looked exactly like what it was: a wisp of potential growth with less than a fifty per cent chance of living, and amicable relations between the new state of Israel and her Jewish friends in America had been damaged by this inability to show men like Zodman where their contributions had gone. Eliav had several times tried taking such donors to mountainsides where millions of fingerlings had been planted, but from a distance of even twenty feet no living tree was visible. Some visitors never recovered from the shock.

“What we need is a ready-built forest,” he whispered to Tabari, whereupon the Arab snapped his fingers.

“We’ve got one! Relax. Our problem is solved.”

“What are you going to do?” Eliav whispered.

“Mr. Zodman,” Tabari announced expansively, “tomorrow morning you are going to see one of the finest forests …”

“You’re to call me Paul. You too, Mrs. Bar-El.”

“Tomorrow morning, Paul, I’m driving you to see your trees.”

“Could we possibly go now?”

“No,” Tabari said with firmness, and he was surprised at how easily Zodman accepted decisiveness. The Arab then took Cullinane aside and asked, “You got any quick-dry paint?”

“A little … that cost a good deal.”

“It could never be used for a finer purpose.”

“What purpose?” Eliav asked.

“I am going to convert, here and now, the Orde Wingate Forest …”

“Wait a minute! Those big trees?”

“Paul Zodman will never know the difference,” Tabari said, and that evening he painted an impressive sign:The

PAUL J. ZODMAN

Memorial Forest

After the paint had dried, the sign looked rather garish, so Tabari took it out to the tell and scuffed it about in the dig, after which he disappeared for the rest of that day.

That evening, through a chain of misunderstandings, the Makor dig almost collapsed. Trouble started when Paul Zodman, strolling away from headquarters at sunset, asked a kibbutznik, “Where’s the synagogue, young man?”

“Are you kidding?” the farmer laughed as he went off to milk his cows.

Zodman returned to the office and complained to Eliav, “I arranged my flight so I would arrive in Israel on Friday. To attend prayers my first night. Now they tell me the kibbutz doesn’t have a synagogue.”

“This kibbutz, no. But others do,” Eliav temporized.

Vered asked, “Do you attend synagogue at home?”

“No, but Jews who support Israel … well, we sort of expect …”

Vered was contemptuous of this reasoning and met it head-on. “You expect us Israeli Jews to be more religious than you American Jews?”

“Frankly, yes. You live in Israel. You have certain obligations. I live in America. I have other obligations.”

“Like making money?” Vered asked.

Zodman realized that he was being foolish and lowered his voice. “I’m sorry if I raised embarrassing questions. But, Mrs. Bar-El, your people do come pestering me every year for funds … to keep Israel a Jewish state.”

“And each year you send us a few dollars so that we can be holy on your behalf?”

Zodman refused to lose his temper. “I’m afraid you’ve put it rather bluntly, but isn’t that what we Jews have been doing for centuries? When my ancestors lived in Germany, men from the Holy Land came round each winter begging funds which would support religious Jews living in Tiberias and Zefat…”