Free Come To The War by Lesley Thomas Page B

turning to pink. And fish have little blood you know. They are killing each other trying to get out.'
    The whole mess of tuna was now sprawled in the shallows about the feet of the excited musicians. They were writhing trying to find salt water with their mouths, gasping as the air drowned them. They were sturdy fish, none of them less than two feet in length and very fat about the middle. Some were very big, perhaps twenty pounds. The musicians danced with the excitement of the conquest. Then the Italian came from his boat and with a wide wave of his arms that immediately demonstrated his native nature, he silenced the musicians with all the authority of a notable maestro. They became quiet and quickly organized, catching on to the fisherman's simple Hebrew, spliced with Italian, taking the fish one by one in their hands and carrying them up the beach to a mud-coloured truck.
    The Italian was smiling now he had his fish, and he made jokes with them by calling instructions in musical terms - presto, pianissimo, profundo - when they sorted a particularly big, limp fish from the net. They transported the tuna, one by one, about three hundred of them I suppose, carrying the smaller fish by the tails and the bigger ones across their arms, hugged to their bellies as though they were rescuing children. When the net was clear except for oddments offish flesh and debris, the Italian gave each of the orchestra a fish to himself, and they walked towards Metzer and myself carrying their prizes, smiling with achievement and pleasure and reeking with an engulfing stink.
    They gathered around to show off their fish, as though seeking credit and admiration. Metzer seemed as pleased as they were and stuck his thumb and forefinger into the moribund creatures as if to test their fibre and quality.
    I felt I was seeing them for the first time. At the rehearsals and at the Tel Aviv concert they had only been an orchestra, laying a carpet for my individualism, rolling it out royally so that I could march, run, dance or dawdle upon it. To me, until then, they were sounds; brass sounds, and string sounds, thin breezy sounds, and wide windy sounds. Only Zoo Baby I had noticed. You always notice the man at the back sitting over his drums like a chef fussing over his cauldrons. And you would see Zoo Baby anyway, because he was big and laughing, and was always shaking hands and making jokes, and because of his nickname which everyone called him.
    The Italian had, in a joke, given him a small fish, but he regarded it with friendliness, as though he had saved its life. With his yellow shirt, his damp rolling face and his spread hips he stood out in front of the sweating group. His hands were fat, but with fine muscled fingers. He looked at me and laughed, but a little shamefaced as if he were embarrassed about their antics with the fish.
    Metzer said to me with some formality: 'Everything has been conducted in the wrong fashion on this tour. It is unfortunate, but it is the war business and the worry. It is my fault.' One of the musicians had given him a specially large tuna to inspect and he looked into its surrendered eyes and sadly agape throat with the professional manner of a doctor diagnosing a head cold. He returned the fish heavily to the man.
    Turning to me again, he said: 'This perhaps is a good opportunity to introduce you to the members of the Israel Symphony Orchestra. They all know you, Mr Hollings, but you do not know them. Only by their music'
    I met them all then. Each one coming forward and bowing politely with the fish held possessively. I shook each smelly hand and felt the small scales and pieces of silver skin sticking to mine. Some of them tucked their ogling prizes under their arms like walking sticks, some hung them by the tail, some laid them on the sand and afterwards had to brush the grains off the flesh; some handed their fish to neighbours before shaking hands with me, and two on reclaiming theirs fell to quarrelling,