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One Morning in a Maabera:
From the Israeli Scene

- Abstract

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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