Housewife 1946 (Haifa) 

There never was a night like it. There never was better reason 
to celebrate than on that night in September 1946 when the 
ship dropped anchor in Haifa Harbour and 2,604 lost people 
went ashore in British-administered Palestine to claim the 
promised land as their home. 

The ship had evaded the naval blockade. Although British 
soldiers with rifles were lined up in two rows on the dock in 
a symbolic show of authority, there was no stopping the wave 
of refugees spilling down the gangplank. Another wave from 
Europe, crashing ashore joyfully. Warned not to go, 
intercepted, turned away, detained in camps in Cyprus, they 
came and kept coming in ship after ship. They were forging the 
new Israel, and no force could or would deny them.

Word in Haifa spread like wildfire. Another ship had come, and 
down to the docks came hundreds of their predecessors in a 
noisy and delirious welcome. People streamed through the ranks 
of the stern, unmoving British troops. Everywhere there was 
celebration.

Devorah came down the gangplank and was swept away like a cork 
on an ocean wave. She laughed as she had not laughed in years. 
She'd arrived home, safe, to a home she'd never known.

Immediately she lost contact with Zachariah, her husband, who 
was borne away elsewhere. But it mattered not at all, because 
they would find each other soon enough in their homeland. 

Somebody kissed her. It was a full-on kiss, with arms wrapped 
around her. She kissed back. It was a man, but that didn't 
matter either. She turned and kissed a woman, full-on. Devorah 
wanted to kiss everybody. She turned again and was confronted 
by a British soldier. She kissed him too, reaching up to plant 
her mouth against his cheek.

"Easy on, miss," he muttered, feet planted and not moving an 
inch out of the line.

On and away, she went with a tide of people. For a mile or two 
she went with the current and found herself carried into a 
warehouse full of people drinking, laughing, kissing. Music 
played and people danced. There was food on tables, and 
everywhere wine.

Devorah stopped. The air was hot and the people crowding the 
warehouse made it hotter. Strands of her dark hair were 
plastered to her forehead. She had sweat patches under the 
arms of her khaki military shirt. What was happening? Where 
was she? Where was Zac?

A man took her hand and spun her into a dance. Yes. She was in 
Haifa. She had made the long and perilous journey home. 
Tomorrow there was work to do, but tonight she could dance and 
not care. In Haifa, she was a woman, all of 23, freshly 
married, bursting with joy and energy, and in a country she 
could call home.

She'd known such fierce joy before. April 1943, the ghetto in 
Warsaw under siege from battle-hardened German soldiers of the 
Waffen SS, situation desperate, defeat inevitable. With all 
hope extinguished, a mad elation filled her as she dared a 
hail of rifle bullets to hurl Molotov cocktails from the roof 
of a building on fire and doomed to destruction. Elation, 
exultation, as German soldiers staggered from the line, 
screaming, uniforms ablaze.

The killing of men had been a powerful aphrodisiac. She'd gone 
searching for Zac, pulled him aside into a corner, scrabbled 
at his trousers. All around her the Jews of the Warsaw Ghetto 
were dying in the SS onslaught. But one more time, she had to 
have him. Just one more time, before it was over for all of 
them.     

In Haifa, 1946, Devorah danced with one man, and another, and 
then a new wave of people came surging through the doors of 
the warehouse. Her wrist was gripped tightly, and she looked 
straight into the eyes of her elated husband. They embraced, 
clinging to each other. Once more they had found each other. 
They always did.

Zac broke and grinned at her, then turned away and headed 
through the dancers, pulling her behind him. They slipped 
through a small side door and into a dark alley.

"I love you," he said, crowding her against a stone wall. He 
started unbuttoning her shirt.

She laughed. Nine weeks they had been married. On the road, in 
the ship, it had been so difficult to find room and privacy. 
Here in Haifa, tonight, people were everywhere. But tonight 
nothing mattered. She fumbled with the belt of his trousers.

Her breasts spilled from her open shirt and his hands were on 
them. She pulled up her skirt, and Zac burrowed against her. 
She reached down with her hands, guiding him home. She wanted 
him badly.

He rammed into her crudely and she was dizzy with excitement, 
joy, and desire. But so was he, and with a brief series of 
grunting pushes he was shooting himself inside her, over, 
finished, already slackening. He withdrew from her, panting. 
She stood with her back against the wall, a breeze on her bare 
breasts, intoxicated with the night.

Warsaw, 1943, and the long march through the streets to the 
railway station, shepherded by German soldiers with rifle 
butts they employed with relentless authority. A carriage, 
standing up with people flung together but who did not cling 
together, people who did not speak because there was nothing 
to say. Somewhere on the train was Zac, alive, but she had not 
dared acknowledge him. Stay low, stay slow, do not meet the 
eyes of the Germans.

Treblinka, 1943, 1944 and into 1945. She survived because she 
knew how to fuck men so that they thought she liked it. Day to 
day, she survived perilously because a lonely German officer 
thought she was happy when he fucked her. She would never 
forget the look, the feel, the smell of him, but she could 
forget his name. In war, names are easy to forget.

Haifa, 1946, and a dark alley with her beloved, whose name she 
had never forgotten. They had survived Treblinka, and they 
were God's chosen.     

Suddenly there were people. A woman clasped her arms around 
Zac's neck and kissed him fiercely. A man stepped in front of 
her, looked at her breasts, and put out his hand to touch 
them.

Devorah stood dazed as the man's hand curled around her 
breast. Her husband appeared beside her. "Go," he shouted at 
her. "Do. Be happy. Tonight we are all happy."      

The man moved to her and she met his mouth. His hands were 
tugging at her skirt. It didn't matter. It was good. She let 
herself fall spinning into a humid, welcoming, giddy wash of 
lust.

The man's cock slid up inside her, and she trembled with need. 
Her back smashed against the wall as he thrust at her 
furiously. Orgasm swooped on her and she bit the man on the 
hard muscle between his neck and shoulder. She bit him hard. 
She wanted to go on biting.

The man pulled away, spent, and stumbled off down the alley. 
Tired now, she looked around. Where was Zac? Devorah slid down 
the wall and sat wearily on the ground. On the other side of 
the alley, a woman and a man were locked together. The woman 
was crouched down, and she had the man's cock in her mouth. As 
Devorah watched, the woman stood, adjusted her clothing, and 
followed the man who had just fucked her. The man on the other 
side of the alley came into the light. It was Zac.

He bent down and took her hand, pulling her up. "I'm mad," he 
said, shaking with laughter. "You're mad, too. Tonight we're 
all mad."

They walked hand in hand out of the alley and into a street 
crowded with people. "Where are we going?" Devorah asked him.

"I don't know," Zachariah said. "We're in Haifa. Does it 
matter?"

ENDS