Free Day After Night by Anita Diamant Page A

committee for secret immigration—was doing a bad job of procuring seaworthy vessels.
     The few ships that did manage to limp to shore near Tel Aviv and Haifa were old, slow,
     and easily captured. The passengers resisted, singing Zionist songs as they raised
     sticks and fists at British troops armed with bayonets. The Mossad encouraged these
     doomed displays, supplying banners that read, “The Nazis killed us. The British won’t
     let us live.” The pictures ran in the London and New York newspapers as well as in
     Jerusalem.
    Shayndel dug the eyes out of another potato and glanced over at Tirzah, now stirring
     the onions in a huge frying pan. She wasa handsome woman, whose age showed only in the lines around her eyes. Trim and strong,
     she took big strides as she walked around the compound. No one knew anything about
     her except that she had a son and that she slept with Bryce, the camp commander.
    Potato after potato after potato, Shayndel grew so bored that she decided to provoke
     Tirzah into talking. “I heard someone lost an eye when the
Montrose
landed,” said Shayndel. “Do you think it’s worth the suffering to those poor people
     on the boats?”
    Tirzah made no reply.
    “I know the headlines do us some good, but the refugees on those boats are exhausted
     and sick. It’s sort of cruel.”
    Tirzah shrugged without looking up, so Shayndel tried another tactic. “I think that
     boys get out of Atlit faster than the girls. I know we need soldiers and farmers,
     but I thought that women were meant to work side by side with the men in the fields.
     And aren’t they training girls to fight?”
    “I can’t imagine that little French friend of yours shooting a rifle,” Tirzah said.
    “Well, I can,” Shayndel said quickly, even though Leonie’s hands probably couldn’t
     manage anything bigger than a pistol.
    “I suppose you know her better than I do. To me she looks like a mental case, but
     the nurses say that she handles herself well with the sick.”
    “It sounds like you gossip as much as we do.”
    “For us, it isn’t gossip,” Tirzah snapped, making it clear that the conversation was
     over.
    Shayndel held her tongue for a minute and then changed the subject. “Aren’t we going
     to make something sweet for the holiday?”
    “Don’t worry about that,” said Tirzah, a hint of amusement in her voice.
    “What? Oh, tell me! I’d kill for a piece of apple cake. Will there be kuchen? You
     don’t trust me even with that much information?”
    “Don’t be silly,” she said. “But at the rate you’re going, there won’t be enough potato
     kugel for even half of the crowd. Go get me a couple of girls who know how to peel
     vegetables without wasting half of them.”
    Shayndel took off her apron and walked out into the bright sun. It seemed strange
     to be cooking for Rosh Hashanah in such withering heat. She associated the holiday
     with cool nights and changing leaves and the smell of her mother’s kuchen.
    Tedi was the first person she saw, sitting on a bench in front of the mess hall, paring
     her nails. “Can you peel a potato?” Shayndel asked.
    Tedi grinned. “Is that a joke or an insult?”
    “Tirzah sent me out to get some extra hands.”
    “I’m happy to help,” she said. “Actually, I’m happy to do anything at all.”
    The next person Shayndel spotted was Zorah, walking toward the barrack with her head
     down and her hands in her pockets. Not the best of company, thought Shayndel, but
     she was in a hurry. “Zorah, we can use some help in the kitchen.”
    “Is that an order?”
    “Don’t be an ass.”
    “So it is an order,” Zorah said, and followed her back to the kitchen.
    When they arrived, they found Tirzah standing beside Tedi.
    “Look at how this girl uses a knife,” she said, picking up a potato skin that had
     been peeled in a single strip. “At last I have someone who knows what she’s doing.”
    “A compliment from our chef?” Shayndel let the