2/8/99
Schnitzer's
Beduin
powwow
Whenever
I
can
make
it
to
Beersheba
by
dawn
on
Thursday
in
time
for
the
livestock
shuk,
I
always
drop
in
and
see
Schnitzer.
This
last
time
I
got
there
a
bit
late
--
it
was
3
p.m.
--
but
I
didn't
miss
much:
there
was
a
foot-and-mouth
scare,
so
the
only
horse-trading
in
the
country
was
back
in
Jerusalem.
Anyway,
without
so
much
as
a
limp
ewe
to
bid
on,
I
hoofed
it
to
Schnitzer's
two-by-two
prefab
hut
for
a
chat.
Lior
Schnitzer
is
the
side-show
at
the
weekly
Shuk
Habeduim.
He's
the
manager
of
Beersheba's
three
markets,
his
emporium
a
tiny
space
with
not
much
more
than
a
desk,
a
picture
of
a
rabbi,
a
microphone,
and
Schnitzer.
Over
the
door
is
a
sign
that
says
"First
Aid,"
but
if
you
come
looking
for
first
aid,
he'll
likely
tell
you,
"Go
bother
the
ambulance,
that's
what
I
pay
them
for."
What
you
come
for
is
friendly
abuse,
a
laugh,
a
story,
a
favor,
a
snippet
of
wisdom,
protektzia,
and
maybe
a
glass
of
water.
Schnitzer
looks
imposing
even
when
he
sits
behind
his
desk.
He's
a
strapping,
wiry
fellow,
53
years
old,
lean
and
tough.
He's
got
hawkish
eyes
that
subdue
a
stranger
at
first,
but
a
penchant
for
raucous
humor.
Even
when
the
1,000
sheep,
goats,
camels
and
donkeys
stay
home,
the
Beduin
Market
is
a
weekly
magnet
for
shoppers
and
sellers,
with
over
300
stalls
offering
a
mix
of
shmontzes
and
exotica.
Jews
pay
Schnitzer
NIS
250
for
a
stall,
Beduin
and
Arabs
pay
NIS
90.
"I
insist
that
the
Beduin
get
a
reduced
price,
because
if
not
for
them
there
wouldn't
be
a
shuk
here.
But
if
they
want
to
sell
Jewish-type
merchandise,
they
have
to
be
on
the
other
side,
with
the
Jews,
and
pay
like
Jews."
The
herds
of
humans
passing
by
Schnitzer's
door
are
incredibly
colorful:
Beduin
nomads
and
upper-class
city
folk,
Black
Hebrews
and
haredim,
Russian
immigrants
and
Gaza
Palestinians,
cops
and
robbers.
During
the
course
of
a
day,
many
will
crowd
in
to
see
Schnitzer
about
something
or
other.
A
Beduin
boy
comes
in
asking
if
he
can
load
up
his
wares
and
go
home
early.
Schnitzer
tears
a
strip
off
the
poor
kid,
then
offers
to
teach
him
English:
he
pulls
out
a
piece
of
paper,
scrawls
in
large
letters
"NO"
and
sends
the
chastened
child
back
to
work.
A
man
brings
in
a
lost
driver's
license
belonging
to
a
Sara
Ziziashvili,
and
Schnitzer
calls
every
Ziziashvili
in
town
(there's
more
than
you'd
think)
asking
if
they
know
of
a
Sara
who
might
be
driving
around
without
a
license.
Policemen,
withering
in
the
desert
heat,
pop
in
and
flop
down,
muttering
about
one
nudnik
or
another.
Nudniks
come
in
too,
muttering
about
the
cops,
and
sometimes
Schnitzer
just
sits
back,
grins,
and
watches
them
go
at
each
other.
A
pal
steps
in
and
displays
a
ticket
he
had
just
been
given
for
parking
in
a
spot
reserved
for
the
disabled,
and
who
but
the
ticket-issuing
policeman
is
shmoozing
with
Schnitzer
at
the
time.
In
the
middle
of
the
pukka-pukka,
Schnitzer
hollers
at
the
cop,
"Take
a
good
look
at
this
guy,
he's
an
idiot,
he's
disabled
in
the
head!"
Everyone
has
a
good
laugh,
and
the
cop
offers
advice
on
how
to
get
the
fine
canceled.
An
excitable
man
barges
in,
interrupts
everyone
and
barrages
Schnitzer
with
an
opinion,
in
what
seems
to
be
an
ongoing
debate
between
the
two,
about
the
big
court
case.
Not
Deri;
Demjanjuk.
It's
a
bizarre
non-sequitur,
but
suddenly
everyone
is
drawn
into
debating
Demjanjuk.
"Attention
...
attention,"
Schnitzer
drawls
into
the
microphone.
"For
anyone
interested
...
mincha
prayers
...
will
be
held
...
in
five
minutes
...
at
the
Boy
Boy
stall.
Attendance
is
not
obligatory
...
but
definitely
advisable."
Twenty
minutes
later,
having
just
prayed
to
God,
a
religious
man
named
Yitzhak
comes
to
beseech
the
devoutly
secular
Schnitzer.
There's
a
better
chance
that
God
will
answer
his
prayers.
He's
an
amazingly
ugly
man,
stooped,
with
droopy
eyes
and
oversized,
jagged,
tusklike
teeth,
and
he's
shy,
but
he
courageously
stands
up
to
Schnitzer.
He
asks
that
a
karavan
be
provided
for
daily
prayers,
because
"it's
not
right
to
be
davening
with
half-naked
women
walking
around
us."
The
little
fellow
tries
to
warm
Schnitzer
with
a
feeble
hang-dog
smile,
but
the
response
is
another
emphatic
NO.
"I
don't
want
to
start
establishing
mosques
in
my
shuk,"
Schnitzer
barks,
bluntly
provoking
Yitzhak.
The
sad
sack
doesn't
flinch.
"I
see.
But
you
won't
be
offended
if
I
go
to
City
Hall
and
ask
there?"
Another
bracing
debate
rattles
the
hut.
Schnitzer's
loving
it.
He
talks
tough,
but
he's
compassionate
and
acutely
sensitive
to
his
fellow
man.
He
has
his
reasons
for
saying
no,
and
for
saying
it
with
a
wallop
--
but
he'll
readily
bend
the
rules
and
say
yes
when
he
