Synopsis
Sam is a confused and troubled young man. He wants to follow the path ordained by his father and the other settlers living on the dangerous West Bank. He wants to be part of the approaching Time of Redemption, when Jews will rule sovereign over all the peoples of the world, but is haunted by his grandfather’s tales from the Shoah, and disturbed by the vicious
tactics employed by his comrades against their Arab neighbours.
His doubt increases when he finds himself part of an elite religious unit battling the forces of evil deep inside the
Territories. As the scales fall away, he realises that the erstwhile victims of anti-Semitism have now become the victimisers in an increasingly bitter struggle for land.
The novel launches an uncompromising attack on all forms of racism - whether instigated by the Nazis during the Second World War, or Jewish fundamentalists in modern-day Palestine. The heroes are, a survivor of the Shoah, who finds it in his heart to forgive the enemies of his people, and a young man struggling against the odds to discover where his true loyalties lie.
Of Winter’s Cost, is a brave attempt to shed light on facts concealed or deliberately ignored in the aftermath of the Holocaust.
Extract from Chapter 1 The West Bank: Summer 1993.
Mr. Dayane’s pick-up roars out of Kiryat Arba. My father is up front with Mr. Katz while Gad, Ariel and I are sitting in the back trying to forget that the driver is our religious instruction teacher.
Father can’t understand our embarrassment. To him, Yoel Dayane is simply a friend and fellow traveller. In class, he praises the courageous pioneers of Kiryat Arba, Hebron and Nablus, paying tribute to those brave souls who squatted in the centre of Hebron defying pressure from all quarters to move on. Almost fifteen years later, despite tough resistance from Arab terrorists, and Goy loving Jews, they’re still around - stronger and more determined than ever.
We pile out of the truck and walk the short distance to the Cave of Machpelah. Truth is that no right-thinking Jew, living in Hebron, or Kiryat Arba, can stand the idea of sharing this holy shrine with Arabs, so we harass them at every
opportunity.
As usual, there’s plenty of action at the foot of the steps leading up to the Cave. A gaggle of American tourists is being softened up by a towel-head guide. These twisters hang around, offering their services for a few sheckles.
Mr. Dayane speaks through clenched teeth.
“Why do we allow these Canaanites to ply their filthy trade here, of all places?”
“A good question, Yoel!” Mr Katz waggles his finger in our direction. “Hopefully, by the time these boys are running things, they’ll all be gone. In the meantime, we can only show them how we feel.”
Father smirks. He believes that expelling Arabs from Judea and Samaria will solve all our problems. On the other hand, mother argues that we must share what we have, and be more tolerant, if things are ever to improve. She never lets him away with anything. She’s so different from the other wives who wouldn't dream of contradicting their husbands on such matters.
We move inside. As usual, the shrine is crowded with gawking tourists. Locals, coming here to pray, have a hard time of it, their anger often spilling over into violence. The Americans are now crowded round the Cenotaph of Abraham, their guide trying in vain to hurry them along. Having been paid up front, he’s no doubt anxious to get the tour over and done with.
Mr. Katz deliberately barges into him. He grimaces through a mouthful of yellow teeth, and shakes his fist at us. He looks like an angry, old goat. Gad laughs in his face as we follow our elders into the Tomb of Joseph. There we join a dozen
Hebron men holding bibles and mumbling prayers. There’s hardly room to breathe and the barrel of someone’s semi-automatic nudges painfully into my back. I try to wriggle forward a little, stepping on Ariel’s heel in the process. He yelps in pain.
A group of Arabs, standing just beyond the tomb, are offering up prayers to Allah. In a deliberate attempt to bait us they chant in loud voices. It works. The alcove empties as we move out to confront them. An anxious security guard hovers in the background. I’d hate to do that job! Nearby, the tourists are now listening attentively as their guide drones on about the centrality of the patriarch, Abraham, to both Judaism and Islam. That sort of blasphemy would normally set things off, but today our attention is focused on more serious matters.
One of our Hebron brothers raises his weapon and noisily releases the safety catch. The trouble-makers glance over at us, showing no fear or signs of backing off. He gestures at the nearest of our antagonists
“Get the fuck out of here, “Mohammed!”
“Mohammed” smiles as if in response to a greeting from an old friend. His intense, black eyes display no such warmth, however.
“I trust you are all well. I hope that Jews and Moslems can continue to share this holy place in a spirit of cooperation and goodwill.”
His courteous reply allows him to occupy the moral high ground in one, swift step.
The Hebron pioneer is unimpressed.
“You and your terrorist friends, out now! I won't tell you again.”
The young Arab raises his eyebrows in mock bewilderment.
“There is no need for such hostility.”
He glances round at his comrades for the first time before continuing in the same affable tone.
“Next thing you know we’ll be rounded up and dumped in a concentration camp.”
The words send a sudden, cold shiver up my spine.
As if previously rehearsed, one of the Arabs feeds him an opportune line.
"You mean a refugee camp?"
"Is there a difference, my friend?"
The pioneer’s finger tightens on the trigger - the slightest pressure and the thing will go off. Fear beats around us like
startled birds. I notice that the tourists are pressed against the rail surrounding the Cenotaph, now aware that something is seriously wrong. My father, trying to act tough, looks anything but. I suddenly recall mother telling me recently that he was all talk, no action. I was furious at the time, but maybe she was right. His face is deathly pale beneath its mahogany tan, and his whole body is trembling. I feel ashamed, and pray that no-one will notice. Fortunately, everyone’s attention is fixed on the Arabs. Mr. Katz’s face is beetroot red and slicked with sweat; his swollen neck and bulging eyes remind me off a spawning bull frog. My shame is swept aside by a sudden impulse to giggle.
At that moment, the security guard intervenes.
“Break this up! What are you thinking about? This is no place for violence!” He turns to the Arabs. “You’ll have to leave now!”
They make no move to obey. Instead, “Mohammed” feigns surprise.
“Why are you picking on us, sir? We have done nothing wrong. These men and their brats are causing the trouble. They are the ones sticking their guns down our throats.”
He looks straight at me with a mocking smile. I frown and stare back. Who the hell does he think he’s calling a brat?
“Look, we don’t want any trouble in here, so let’s just call it a day, okay?”
The guard is trying to sound conciliatory. Maybe he’s one of those Jews who has a problem acting tough around Arabs, although you’d think he’d be used to it by now. Goy-loving traitors, my father predicts, will be singled out for special
punishment in the Time of Redemption. I suddenly wonder if he lumps mother in with such sinners.
Again, the Arab smiles.
“Of course, sir. Your wish is our command. I forgot for a moment that our necks are under your heel. How stupid of me!”
He turns away, motioning his comrades to follow. The aghast Americans squirm out of his way as though he might
suddenly explode in their faces. There is no doubt that “Mohammed” and his mates have won this round.
Shaking his head, the Hebron pioneer flicks his weapon back to safety and frowns round at us.
“That is what we have to put up with here every day of the week.” Flecks of spittle fly into Mr Katz’s face, but he doesn’t react in the slightest. He is ferociously intent on what the man is saying.
“The canaanites always cause trouble when they know it’s hard for us to do anything about it. They’re thieves and
cowards, the lot of them!”
I have some trouble with this branding, but Mr. Katz suddenly intervenes.
“You see how it is, boys? We are mocked and persecuted in our own holy places. That is why there can never be any
compromise with the Aravim while even one of their number pollutes our sacred land.”
Gad nods fiercely and my own unease dissolves as the words strike home.
He’s right! Why should we tolerate such blasphemy? “You boys are the future. Never forget that, and never forget your God-given duty. Then you will ride high when the Messiah redeems his people.”
The Hebron man grunts his approval and turns to speak to one of his friends.
I notice the concourse is now almost deserted. The tourists have fled. Clearly, no-one wants to be caught in the crossfire.
Outside, things are also quiet. There is no sign of the Arabs who upset our prayers. Father and Mr. Dayane seem to have lost their appetite for confrontation and are anxious to depart. On the way home, Mr Katz tells us that plans are already afoot to punish the Arabs for their latest act of sacrilege...
***