Free When I Lived in Modern Times by Linda Grant Page B

the shirts, glad to acquire femininity again.
    In the hour before I finally left communal life, I put on a green dress, the color of the leaves on the trees in an English spring, and with a mouthful of pins began to address my attention to my hair.

S tanding on the Jaffa Road in Haifa, waiting for Gadi to finish his negotiations over a spare tire for the truck before taking me to the bus station, I watched a motorbike pull up and a young man get off, hobbling slightly. He had a pencil mustache on his upper lip, wore khaki trousers and a khaki shirt under a leather jacket. Khaki was the uniform of the country, everyone wore it. His hair was glossy like patent leather. It sizzled in the sun and gave off a slight smell of palm oil. Gadi looked at the bike as if its chromium pipes might turn into a saxophone if he stared hard enough. The corporal looked at it too.
    “Norton, isn’t it? The Model 17H. I had the 16 myself before the war. Where did you get it?”
    “All legit,” the young man said. “It’s a re-spray but the army sold off a job lot officially to civilians in Jerusalem a couple of months ago. Not that I’m a civilian. Some rank as you, as it goes. I’m waiting for my demob papers.”
    “It’s tried and trusted, that bike,” the corporal replied. “Nothing new, nothing unproven but it’ll take a lot of abuse, from riders
and
mechanics.” He was short and fair. Blond stubble rose up behind his neck and above his ears. When he moved, he carried with him a waft of fresh sweat.
    “Do you know where I could find a saxophone?” Gadi interrupted.
    “No idea, mate,” the motorbike owner said.
    “I saw one being played before the war,” said the corporal. “In a club in the West End. Fantastic sound, that. You a jazz fan? I might be able to get you some records, at a price, if you’re this way next week.”
    “Shit,” screamed the motorbike man.
    “What’s the matter?”
    “Ingrowing toenail. Hurts like hell if I push my foot too far down my toecap.”
    “You need to see a medic,” the corporal suggested.
    “I know.”
    “Try one of the Jewish docs. They’re a clever lot, the Jews. No offense, mate. Miss.” He dropped a couple of fingers on Gadi’s shoulder for a moment, as if to show that he had no objection to touching another race.
    “Is that what you reckon?” said the motorbike man.
    “Oh yes, clever. If you need a patch-up, go to a Yid as your first port of call.”
    “I’ll try that.”
    “Been out here long?”
    “Four years.”
    “Four years too long, I’ll bet.”
    “Yes, I lost my lot in ‘41. Joined up with the 8th. Didn’t have a bad war, as it goes. All in one piece, at any rate.”
    “Bet you can’t wait to get home.”
    “Too right. There’s a pub in Bristol, they pull a pint there with a head on it like
clouds.
You could look at it for hours. Barmaid’s nice, too. If you know what I mean by nice.”
    “Ladies present, mate. Now what are you after?”
    “Petrol.”
    “Help yourself.” He handed him an oil can and pointed to a drum beside the hut.
    The bargaining with Gadi resumed. I stood in the dust and the heat, the smell of dry vegetation in my nostrils. Sand blew across the road. I looked around to see where the hut cast its shade. Gadi’s English began to run into difficulties.
    “Think I can help out with a spot of translation,” the motorbike man said, raising his hand as if he were in school. I noticed dark gold hairs on his forearm, a couple of fingernails rimmed with dirt and a Timex watch with a steel bracelet strap around his wrist.
    “Never bothered picking it up, myself,” said the corporal. “I mean English is the language of the British Empire. They might as well learn our lingo if we’re in charge.” And he smiled brightly, all round. “No offense.”
    As far as I could make out, Gadi and the motorcyclist had begun to discuss the wear on the tire treads. Gadi looked at him.
    “Your Hebrew is excellent. Where did you learn it so