‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Jonathan straightened from having worked bent double’ for some twenty minutes. He stretched muscle bound arms to the side and back, delighting in the relief’ this brought to his athletic, well formed’ body.’ Tall, his pale hair showed from under his conical ‘dunce’s’™ hat of khaki, his Kovah Tembel as fondly termed by Israelis.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  He was proud of his up and coming orange grove. The trees now in their second year had a freshness of youth about them. Only a person who loved trees could feel as he. For him they were truly alive.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  The four acre plot was small compared to the tract of land his family had worked in the Ukraine. The Ukraine,’  wasn’™t that a hundred years ago?’ ‘  Here the soil was a dark red so unlike the grey of the steppes. The work was hard of course but he had always loved physical work. The early forties then and Ra’™anana, a blossoming settlement some twenty kilometres from Tel Aviv, was on recently acquired land. Jonathan had won his allocated plot in a raffle. He had been extremely lucky ‘“ so many had applied and lost.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Removing his hat, Jonathan smiled. Looking over the tops of the young trees he watched his wife, Ester, now in her fifth month, passing concrete blocks to a builder so helping to speed up the work. The walls were going up in what was to be their small, two roomed home situated in a corner of their plot. As small as it would be, it was to be theirs – their first home and for them as grand as any palace. With his hat he fanned his face then used it to wipe the sweat that glistened on his brow and cheeks. He bent once again to the task of whitewashing the base of the young trees to protect them from vermin.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  The weeks flew by and the searing days of summer became a wind- torn autumn. Jonathan looked out upon his grove with concern.’  When a dry, scorching desert ‘œhumseen’ blew he would walk up and down the rows of trees spraying the delicate leaves first with water then insecticide.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Almost suddenly, the first warm torrential rain of autumn came. It pelted down and Jonathan, Ester and Erik, their robust four- year- old, rushed, screaming with delight into it, heads bare, to feel the warm, dusty drops soak into their clothes and bodies. They turned their faces skyward and laughed as the rain fell on their eyes and dry lips. Jonathan was sure that the young trees, too, were laughing with them. The three held hands and danced in a circle. Jonathan then clasped the dripping Ester to him as over and over their laughter peeled out.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Baby Ruth, just two months old then, lay snug in a blanket in their new home in a corrugated cardboard box, cut to form a cot.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Jonathan was happy. Just last week they had folded and had returned to the authorities the tent that they had used until their home would be sufficiently ready to receive them. True, they did not yet have electricity but this was promised within the year but the piped water was abundant and clean.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  The half- completed tiled floor did not stand in the way of their joy. The windows and doors were in and the roof- tiles were certainly tighter against the weather that the canvas of the tent. In a week or two the floor would be finished – their house all a gleaming white.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Weeks of winter storms came and went and finally the a true herald of spring, the festive day of Tu-be-Shvat. A day set aside in the Jewish calendar known as the ‘holiday of the trees’. For Jonathan and his family it was to be a very special occasion.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  So many families would be planting a sapling or two in the then, almost treeless landscape. The festival did much to bring a little gaiety to a life that was often politically tense and difficult.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  The smell of kerosene from the storm lantern hanging from the ceiling was pleasant in Jonathan’s nostrils. It’s flickering light gave an intimate atmosphere to their kitchen while Ruth was snug in her box in the corner.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  “Ester,” he said. She looked up. “Tomorrow before sunrise we shall plant them. We make a good team,” he added looking at her proudly.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  “Like a well- oiled engine,” she enjoined with warm understanding using a phrase that Jonathan often used. They both laughed.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Their table was composed of two down- turned tea chests.’  Orange boxes served as chairs.’ ‘  Using some boards,’  Jonathan had also made two others to serve as small cabinets. The table’  covered with a clean white cloth was set with freshly cut vegetables,’  home-made bread and’  vegetable soup. A’  steaming pot stood on the primus stove in the far corner. For them it was as sumptuous a dinner as one could wish.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  It was still dark when Jonathan aroused himself and woke Ester. The morning mist still clung to the earth.’  Erik was still wiping the sleep from his eyes as the three made their way to where Jonathan had temporarily stored the four young trees for planting.’  Erik would plant the one for his baby sister, Ruth.’  Cypresses they were – one for each.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  The early morning ceremony was a memorable one, Jonathan planting his on the north side of the house next to Ester’s, then helping Erik plant his and his sister’s sapling on the southern side. It was a happy family that stomped back into the kitchen at sunrise to a special breakfast of eggs on buttered toast and coffee.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ 
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  *’ ‘ ‘ ‘  *’ ‘ ‘  *
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ 
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  In the shade of the tall cypresses, Jonathan was between doze and dream. He was recalling the tree- planting ceremony that although he and the family had enacted so many years ago seemed now to him but yesterday.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  He squinted at the sun. Its rays for a moment glimmered through a space in the dark green heavily laden branches reaching skyward. He had never become used to the fact that Ester, his one and only Ester, had departed this life and left him on his own. He would often listen for her voice, the sound he had loved so well, to call him for tea and a biscuit.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  The summer sun he had grown to know so well in all its seasons, warmed the wrinkles on his tanned face. There was little for him to do but tend the garden. He would sit in the shade of the now, grand trees and enjoy the peace of the garden he loved. At the southern border where the sun was warmest, sweet- peas, roses and anemones bloomed.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  He remembered the time they had extended their home. The two rooms that had been added; one for Ruth, then going on fourteen and the other for Eric, then a handsome, well built lad of seventeen. Ruth had so much wanted a room for herself that she had willingly sacrificed her cypress which had by then grown to be a tall and beautiful tree to make place for it. Jonathan, sad, had been unable to watch the tree fall. He had gone from the place and not returned until dark being careful when he returned not to look in that direction.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  The work on the two rooms had taken then two months. Ruth was delighted and, gradually, Jonathan took joy from her happiness too. She was so much like Ester. He wondered now when she would visit him again. Some years ago she’  and her family had moved to California. As far as Jonathan was concerned Los Angeles might well be on the dark side of the moon. But they were happy there and that was what really mattered.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Erik had grown not only to be tall, srong and strikingly good looking but also successful at everything he turned his hand to. A smile came to Jonathan’™s face as he sat in the dappled light visualising his son.. He would often dream in the shade of the great cypresses. Bold, the dark green of the three great trees lent an atmosphere to the small garden of intimacy and seclusion.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  When early summer came around Jonathan felt that the trees belonged to the families of blackbirds that had made them theirs. In the spring, the males’™ songs would fill the air adding a very special charm to the place.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  When some ten years ago Erik had hinted to his father that the time had come to put up the orange grove for parcelation, Jonathan had not stood in his way. Erik had told him that the price of land had risen and the demand was strong for plots for private building. There was much money to be made. Jonathan had been convinced.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  He remembered his last walk through the still well- tended grove bidding his trees farewell.’  But the trees, like him and his aging frame, had grown old requiring too much effort for successful operation. The hired care of the grove by the citrus board had brought nothing but losses. “Yes,” he had thought to himself sadly but realistically, “one must change with the times.”
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Now there were roads and tall new houses where the grove had once stood and it was just the quarter acre in the corner with the house and the garden that remained.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Quite sure that he heard Ester call him for tea and a biscuit, he rose from his seat slowly.’  As he passed by her tall cypress he gave the great trunk an intimate pat. Ester was not in the kitchen so he decided he’d make himself a cup of tea anyway.’ ‘  Cup in hand he returned to his favourite bench sipping, savouring the flavour – the sweetness.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  A car drew up in front of the house and from it stepped a middle aged, well- built, good looking man. A half smile broke over Jonathan’s face.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  “Erik. ‘ How are you?’ ‘  Good to see you.”
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  “Hello Dad. I came to see you about something special. I would like to know how you feel about it.” He sat down on the bench next to his father.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  “What is it son?”
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  “I feel that you are very lonely here by yourself. I constantly worry about you. There is a friendly and warm new home quite close to here. So many of the people there are locals. You know most of them. I’d like to show you the place. Would you agree to come with me?”
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Jonathan did not answer. ‘ For a while he looked about him. Here he was with his friends. Here he lived with his memories.’  Of stormy but wonderful, years of living and loving and watching the children grow. Why, if only the cypresses could speak, what stories they would have. They would tell of storms and years of depressing drought. They would tell of the changes in the children as they grew; their screams as they played hide and seek in the garden. Jonathan would swear that sometimes he could hear the giant trees whisper to one another over some memory or other. Here Ester lived with him. Did she not call from time to time? He sighed to himself and then, as if waking from a reverie, looked at his stalwart son at his side and with a nod, acquiesced.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  *’ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  *’ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  *
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  The bulldozer rips at the red, red earth. It lifts its heavy shovel, brim- full of soil, high before tipping it, almost liquid- like, into the waiting truck whose engine rhythmically announces its impatience to be on the move.’  Another plunge of the great blade and the massive trunk of one of the cypresses shudders. The great trunk is squat and bare now its upper sections having been removed previously in stages.’  It is now only some three meters high.’  A third lunge and the trunk leans to the side, then slowly keels over in obedience to a power greater than its own.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  It was all over in a matter of hours. The twenty ton trucks are loaded with everything that had once stood there; the now mildewed concrete blocks that Ester had handed to the builder: the doors, the windows, the roof. The last truck pulls away from the corner in a thunderous roar.’  A swirl of red dust slowly settles.

*’ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  *’ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  *

‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  My wife and I had affectionately noticed the old man on the corner plot with the lovely cypresses. On our walks through the neighbourhood, we had seen him sitting in the shade. Sometimes tending his garden.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  “How speedily they build these days,” I say as we pass by the plot that had once been so very lush. It had had such a cared- for look, the great cypresses lending the plot a certain seclusion and dignity. There had been a white border to the green cement steps that led up to the house. Obviously he was a man that loved. Loved his family, his garden. A caring man. Then at a tangent: “I wonder where those blackbirds are now?. Such a pity”, I continued. “So much building going on; another block of cottages – then another.’’ ‘  As we move on I have a strange sensation that Time is also walking beside me holding my other hand.