(The dreamlike saga of this new short story, magic-realism in the Holy Land, continues when the battle on the big dining room is ensued full force.)
One of the invaders noticed David, who stood hopelessly, staring at him dumbfounded. It was Jacky Ben-Simon, who worked in the kibbutz’s plastic factory. His hand lifted a thick stick, and was about to lower it on David’s head.
“Why?” asked David.
“Why, I tell you why,” said Jacky. “Because you have everything, and we have nothing!”
“Not true,” called Sami, Jacky’s brother who stood threateningly in front of David, his left hand holding a burning torch, the right hand raising a long, shiny knife. “It’s because you, damn Ashkenazim, got everything from the state. And we, poor Sephardim, got nothing!”
For a moment, hesitating, the brothers looked at the bewildered old man, before turning away without hurting him. They continued, nonetheless, in destroying and setting fire to his precious dining room. At the same time, a group of kibbutz members reached the dining room as well, holding iron bars, fire extinguishers, hoes and pitchforks. A battle of life and death ensued. Some of the members fought the rioters, while others tried to extinguish the fire, aflame already in tables and curtains. The men from Beit She’an were also divided into two forces: One destroyed everything in sight and set fire to every corner, the other defended against the kibbutz members.
David, stunned and pushed aside, saw his adapted son Rafi arriving into the fighting arena. Rafi was hitting left and right, so much so that it became difficult on David to determine which side he was on. Gideon, his own flesh and blood, was there as well. He got hold of his father and pulled him away forcefully. The last thing David had managed to see before they got out, an image he would carry with him to his grave, was how the fierce red flames began to eat the shiny black wood of the grand upright piano. The one that—like David himself—survived the Nazis.
They broke out of the fire and smoke, and into the open air of the big lawn. Many of the kibbutz residents where there already, among them women, children and the elderly. Some members with authority began the difficult task of moving them all away from the burning dining hall.
“To the mountain. To the Children Orchard,” was the call that blew through the crowd like a sudden wind, its source unknown.
By that time, a group of kibbutz members had moved closer to the dining room. Yariv, the reserve paratroops colonel, was leading them on. They held rifles and even Uzi machine-guns: battle ready. Gideon, a reserve paratroops officer himself, told his father that he would like to try and stop them, see if he can mediate between the two sides. But his father held his arm firmly, and ordered him to stay put.
“It’s not your battle anymore, son,” he said.
Just then Yariv shouted, “Follow me”—the famed battle cry of the Israeli army commander—and charged in. His followers stormed in after him, firing their guns. The entire dining room was already burning by then, with gray smoke streaming through its shuttered windows. Ferocious orange flames followed the smoke out, and quickly spread fire to the green branches of the trees surrounding the building.