One Morning in a Maabera:
From the Israeli Scene
IT WAS one of those winter days between rains, when the air is bright and clear, yet never warm enough to take the chill from your feet. I had been playing social observer for several weeks so I already knew most of the immigrant camp officials and the office hangers-on. The game and the language were still new to me, but I tried always to nod and smile knowingly, to look wise and not too uncomfortable.
Most mornings I drove up in my large car, parked near the dingy building, rolled up the car windows, and then went to search out my informants. That day I had arranged again to see David, the camp director, to continue our conversation. David was sitting behind his desk in the small office when I came in, and he smiled when he saw me. He removed his glasses and began to rub the lenses on the sleeve of his jacket.
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