In This Valley

May 20, 1942

Dear Josepha,

I have met some of the Zionists – a Major Johannes, Sergeant MacLeroy, and Lieutenant O’Reilly.  The colonel has not been at the saloon – excuse me, they call it “pub” here – the two nights Nick was able to take me there.  MacLeroy and O’Reilly are not bitter — they’ve both been to Palestine and were activists who, well, I guess I’ll have to tell you the rest when I get home.  Johannes, I’m not sure I like.  He’s a German and so bitter you can taste it.  Not only that, but he sort of reminds me of Sheriff Johnson.  He’s about the same age the sheriff was when we left Pampa, and he has strawberry blond hair, angry blue eyes, and a bitter and angry face shaped like the bottom triangle of the Star. . . .

They were seated in the pub that was called the Horse and Hound.  It was a favorite gathering place for those who wanted to get out from under the watchful eye of the military for a few short hours — and there wasn’t a man among them who did not relish a few hours of freedom, especially freedom in a place where one could watch the swinging hips and jiggling figures of the barmaids, which were in great number at the Horse and Hound.  If Johannes had thought about it at the time, he might have found it strange that the only civilians there were the jiggling barmaids, the bartender, and, occasionally, the man who owned the place.  On the other hand, he might not have thought it strange –  except that none of the barmaids was older than twenty-five and there were enough of them that he knew they were not the native women of the village.  Where were the natives of the village?  The young men were in the military, of course.  The older men had probably gone to work in defense plants in the larger cities.  The older women had shown a suspicion about the military men, especially after the Yanks had been incorporated into the personnel, and shunned the pub, probably keeping their own daughters safe at home.  The working girls of the Horse and Hound probably slept on the premises or rented rooms from some of the more indigent women of the village.  That made the Horse and Hound even more a place where the men felt they could relax and unwind – unlike the officers’ club, which was more a place for the upper brass to entertain the infrequent guest.

Johannes was drinking beer; MacLeroy was sipping Guinness whisky, as was Foxx.  The two newcomers to the group had their drinks before them; O’Reilly was mixing rye with Lucky Strikes; Steinmetz was sucking on an old briar-root pipe and allowing his Scotch to sit.  They had been discussing the many possible means of gaining Palestine once the war was over.

Suddenly, O’Reilly sat forward and said, “You know, we make all sorts of plans on how to take Palestine, but what are we going to do once it’s ours?”

MacLeroy grinned and looked at O’Reilly, “I’m going to marry Ginny Biddlebottom and settle on a kibbutz . What are you going to do?”

“Remain in the Zionist army.  Someone will have to train the new soldiers,” his said.  “What about you, Johannes?”

Johannes shrugged. “I don’t know.  I guess I’ll get married and raise a family.”

MacLeroy said, “What about our lone Gentile?”