The Camp

The holding camp, near Haifa, 1945*

On the bus, I took the orange out of the bag, rolled it into my hands, smelled it, and bit into it. It had a bitter taste. I noticed Peter sniffing a banana and asked if he would trade: „My orange for your sandwich?“ He gave me a look: one eye said yes, the others said no, and the rest of his face said, „Hey, what kind of a fool do you take me for? I would take your sandwich for my banana!“ And that was that. I went back to my sandwich, chewing in silence, looking out the window.

The old bus coughing its way up the mountain passed barbed-wire fences, watchtowers, searchlights, the works. A cold shower was crawling up my spine: „There are camps out there.“ Peter was leaning over now, mouth open, frozen in midchew, eyes glued to the window, unblinking. It was the searchlights illuminating the bus from both sides that made me realize the floor was yellow with peels of bananas and oranges.

„Everyone will be leaving in a few days. In the meantime, you are free to come and go as you like,“ it was announced to us over the loudspeaker.
We walked out through the gate as soon as breakfast was over. There was nothing around but shrubs and nettle trees.

Down below lay the city and the sea. We started cautiously on our way down the slope, slowly picking up speed, letting ourselves go. Soon we were riding in a blur on the seat of our pants, howling in delight, down the mountain.

Wandering around the port district, we came upon the stadium. It was a rinky-dink thing, fenced all around with rusty corrugated tin construction sheets. We let ourselves in through one of the many loose corners. Inside it was half-time. Everyone was shouting, waving their hands.

A little man strapped to a big box was running back and forth, furiously handing out colored things on a stick. Just like they told us in Marseilles, I thought. I was in paradise, no question about it. I raised a hand with two fingers, and there he was in a flash, a hand stretched out with two popsicles.

I was halfway down my popsicle when I noticed him out of the corner of my eye, standing there, staring at me with an all too familiar glint of expectation in his eyes. It was unmistakable. He was actually after money, which was a big surprise, given that „in Palestine,“ they kept saying, „Money grew on trees.“

Quickly we ducked, slid down under the benches, and took off, popsicle dripping in hand, through our hole in the fence. I really believed this stuff about money in the trees. It took some time before I got over feeling stupid for believing it.

Peter Paz, The Forgetting of Being (3)