Mila 18 - Leon Uris [32]
“War or no war,” Tolek was chanting loudly, “we are banded together because of mutual belief in a set of principles.”
Now, Andrei thought, he’ll ask us what those principles are.
“And what are those principles?” Tolek said. “They are the principles of Zionism. Poland and Russia are the wellsprings of Zionism because of the desire of our people for a homeland after centuries of persecution.”
Oh, for Christ sake, Tolek—we know why we are Zionists.
“To remain Zionists, we must continue to function as Zionists.”
He’s snaking into his weird traps of logic.
“The farm is living Zionism. We must continue to keep the farm going to train our people for their eventual goals—war or no war.”
Tolek then shifted into second gear. There was no denying that he had done a great job as manager of the farm. Before he took over, Andrei thought, we couldn’t grow weeds. Since then we’ve trained three groups of youngsters and they’ve established successful colonies in Palestine. If only he wasn’t so flushed with his sacred mission.
“Having been there myself ...” Tolek said.
Talk, talk, talk, talk.
Now it was Susan Geller’s turn to talk. “The Bathyran Orphanage in Zoliborz is one of the finest in Poland. We take care of two hundred youngsters. All of them are prospective colonists for Palestine. War will bring us more orphans. Nothing on earth is more important than our children. ...”
Tolek wants his farm, Susan wants her orphanage, Ana wants unity forever. Each one argues for his own self-interest. Well, Ervin is yawning. Good old Ervin Rosenblum. Our secretary for information and education hasn’t anything to say, thank God. Rosy is a social Zionist; he joined us looking for intellectual company—mostly Susan Eller’s. I wonder if they’ll ever get married.
Did I tell Styka about Batory’s left front hoof? It was a little tender after the last patrol. I’m certain I told him to have the veterinarian look Batory over. Maybe I didn’t. My leave came so suddenly.
“So, what do you think, Andrei?” Alexander said.
“What?”
“I said—don’t you want to add your opinion?”
“Sure. If the Germans come, we go into the forests and fight.”
Tolek Alterman’s bushy hair flopped as he thrust a finger up and said that Andrei had no restraint. Andrei didn’t care to argue today—not with Tolek or Ana or Susan or Ervin or Alexander.
“Who can make plans? Who the hell knows what’s going to happen!” Andrei said.
Alexander Brandel stepped in quickly and with his great gift for mediation averted the clash of philosophy spurred on by the gushing rivers of words. He pronounced a few well-chosen, all-conclusive benedictions about the great wisdom of Zionism in which everyone’s point of view was vindicated, and the meeting broke up on a note of unity, unity forever.
When they were all gone, Andrei remained in the home of his closest friend. He and Wolf Brandel, Alex’s sixteen year-old son, engaged in a chess match while Alex worked at his desk.
“As a cavalry officer, I shall show you how to use your horses,” Andrei said, moving his knight against Wolf’s bishop.
Young Wolf lopped the horse off. Andrei scratched his head. It was no disgrace to lose, for the boy was a chess wizard.
Alex looked over from his desk. “Wolf tells me you commit your horse to battle without proper support. You are a bad officer, Andrei.”
“Hah ... today, schmendrick, you are going to get a lesson.”
The mild and graying Brandel smiled and went back to his papers. Being general secretary of an organization with twenty thousand members and a hundred thousand sympathizers kept him busy night and day. Administrator, fund raiser, recruiter. He was overseer of the orphanage, the training farm, and the publication Kol Bathyran—Voice of Bathyran.
More than anything, Alexander Brandel was the