Israel (68 page)

There were closed draperies behind Pickman as well. It all seemed melodramatic—the shrouded windows and lamplight, the desk on its dais and Pickman himself, the pin-striped patrician, the lord and master of all he surveyed, including herself.

Despite the circumstances Becky found herself smiling, remembering that scene in
The Wizard of Oz
when Dorothy and her friends were finally brought before the ruler of the Emerald City.

Now she half expected to see a pair of shoes protruding from beneath the pulled draperies, to see a little man—perhaps her old boss from the handbag counter—busily pulling levers while Pickman himself chittered, “Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain! I am the great and powerful.”

Carl Pickman looked up at her. He evidently noticed her smile, for he cocked his head and smiled back. Becky, meanwhile, was mesmerized by his eyes. They were bottle-green, clear and direct; they were youthful. Becky had never before had the opportunity to look at Pickman.

It was incredible and flustering, but she found herself liking him and wanting to show it. Oh, but she mustn't be foolish, this was business.

“‘In 1918 Pickman's announced that it would accept World War One Liberty Bonds presented by its patriotic customers in lieu of cash,'” Pickman read from the opening paragraph of her memo. He glanced at her. “Lieu is spelled wrong.”

Out of the corner of her eye she could see Phil Cooper flinching. Goddamned typos, she thought, turning scarlet.

“‘That 1918 stroke of genius created an enormous amount of favorable publicity for the store.'” Pickman continued reading. “‘picture is enclosed.'” He held up a yellowed newspaper photograph showing the line of customers extending out Pickman's door and down the block.

“Last year, when I researched my idea, I came across that photo,” Becky offered, then shrugged. “I tore it out of the paper when the librarian wasn't looking.”

“Normally I do not approve of defacing public property,” Pickman said. “However, in this case . . .”

Again Becky was treated to his remarkable smile and the way it seemed to set the light dancing in his eyes.

“I'd forgotten it ever happened,” Pickman murmured. “Thank you for reminding me, Miss Herodetsky, and for the photograph.”

“You're very welcome, sir.”

The smile vanished and Pickman's green eyes cooled. “Now then, I've read your proposal, but suppose you tell it to me in your own words.”

“It's simple, really. All we do is put one of the warehoused items on sale as a loss leader every week.

“Sell it for less than the market can bear?” Pickman asked, frowning slightly.

“Yes, sir. That way we get it moved and nobody can claim we're profiteering. Shaving profits also ties in with the theme of the ad campaign—A victory sale, as in gardens and bicycles and scrap metal collections. We remind the public about Pickman's Liberty Bond sale during the First World War and make the point that the tradition of patriotism continues.”

Pickman nodded. “I see that you propose our lead-off be the nylons.”

“Yes,” Becky replied. “I've worked on that floor. We just don't get the right sort of customer for our ladies' apparel. If we could lure in the younger secretarial types, we might be able to get them to think Pickman's when it comes to fashion.”

“I'm prepared to give it a try. Mr. Cooper will supervise, and as usual, I will personally approve all layouts, but you will act as the liaison between the advertising department and our offices.”

“Thank you,” Becky said.

Pickman smiled. “All right.” He went back to the papers on his desk.

Phil Cooper stood up and Becky followed him out. In the corridor Cooper said, “You were first-rate in there, young lady. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” Becky grinned. “Gee, it was exciting. He liked my idea.”

Cooper had an odd look in his eyes. “I'd better start locking my office door. I might come in some morning to find you behind my desk.”

“Oh, Mr. Cooper,” Becky giggled, but something in his manner faded her smile.

Cooper evidently saw her concern. “That was supposed to be a compliment,” he said weakly.

Becky headed back to her desk, uneasy. Her intuition suggested Mr. Cooper might not have been joking after all.

In 1943 Tel Aviv was a carnival, a circus, a blaring, black-market urban nightmare, awake and kicking beneath the white-hot sun.

Herschel Kol, alias Dov Katz, knew his father had helped to build Tel Aviv, but upon his own arrival there he understood why his father had deserted it for Galilee. What Herschel did not understand was why God did not split asunder the flawless blue sky and sweep the entire tawdry mess into the sparkling Mediterranean. His puritan sensibility was offended by the black-market shops, cafes and whorehouses, by the dance halls trumpeting bad music over crackling loudspeakers, drowning out the roar and crash of the sea.

That the first Jewish city in Palestine was a Sodom horrified him, but he understood why Begin had chosen Tel Aviv as his headquarters. The myriad nationalities, the noise, confusion and color made Tel Aviv a marvelous place to hide.

Herschel only wanted to meet with Begin and quit the city before he began bashing in the smug, jowly faces of
these unacceptable excuses for Zionists who called Tel Aviv their home.

Herschel's sole lrgun contact in this strange city was a waiter in a cafe off of Allenby Road. Joseph, a hulking ogre straight out of a dark Lithuanian forest, wore a waiter's soiled white jacket and found favor with the cafe owner, who undoubtedly saw some advantage in scaring away customers. Joseph had a horrendous mole sprouting hair on his chin and an ugly temper to match.

Herschel had been visiting the cafe every day in the hope of receiving an assignment, but each time he'd been disappointed by Joseph's curt, “Nothing.” It had been going on far too long, and Herschel was discouraged. Today as he entered the cafe, he was contemplating his return to Degania. There at least he was growing food.

“Over there,” Joseph hissed, “the corner table.”

Herschel turned to look where the waiter was pointing. A little man with thinning dark hair and tortoise-shell glasses was sitting with his back to the wall, engrossed in the papers spilling out of a battered old briefcase on the table.

Herschel glanced around the cafe, noticing the intent, watchful men scattered at half a dozen tables. All of them were wearing jackets—to cover up their guns? There was no question that they were Menachem Begin's bodyguards.

“Mr. Katz, yes?” Begin smiled vaguely as Herschel approached. He stood up in order to shake hands.

Herschel took in Begin's baggy suit, fussy shirt and tie. Begin was just thirty, but he looked much older. His hair was dry as straw and his complexion was sallow. Herschel remembered the rumors of poor health—of a bad heart, bad lungs, weak eyes.

Begin's eyes behind the thick lenses glinted as he appraised Herschel. “I am Ben Zeev, yes? Come, sit down. Joseph, two coffees.”

Herschel was not at all surprised to see how the surly waiter rushed to do Begin's bidding. “Ben Zeev, eh?”

“Zeev and Katz will do best for us,” Begin agreed, packing away his papers into the old briefcase. “Ah, our coffee.” He smiled at the waiter, who set down the cups and hurried away. “I'm sorry we made you wait so long, Mr. Katz, but we had to make sure you were not being followed by the British. I'm told your appearance has greatly changed, but still, you are an escaped convict.”

“I'm surprised to see you out in the open like this,” Herschel replied.

“Why should I hide? They make me sound much more inaccessible than I am.” Again he showed that abstracted, quizzical smile. “Anyway, we had to meet somewhere, and though we've determined that you are not being tailed, we nevertheless decided it would be better for us not to meet at headquarters.”

“Still, a cafe?”

“I have my bodyguards—”

“It's just that I know how easy it is to blow up a place like this and everyone in it,” Herschel said, immediately feeling like an ass. Begin's reaction was a cross between amusement and annoyance.

“I'm sorry,” Herschel muttered. “I'm trying to impress you and accomplishing exactly the opposite, I think.”

“All right, no harm done,” Begin said. “You should know that I am familiar with your record. I know you blew up that coffeehouse on instructions from the Irgun, and I know you kept your mouth shut in prison. This is all in your favor, Herschel—”

“Dov.”

Begin laughed. “This sneaking and alias business is for children, yes? Still, we must be somewhat careful. The police have yet to search for me, but soon, when we get active, I'll be hunted. You recall what happened to Yair?”

Herschel nodded. Yair, or Abraham Stern, David
Raziel's old comrade, was leader of the radical Stern gang. The police had recently discovered him in hiding and shot him on the spot, claiming he was trying to escape.

“Yair is gone and so is Raziel,” Begin mused. “I entertained hopes of serving under Raziel. There was the consummate military man, but he's dead. I understand that you were with him in Iraq?”

“Yes, sir.” Herschel briefly told Begin about the air raid.

Begin listened soberly. “I met Raziel in Poland—this was perhaps 1939. How I idolized him, but he's gone and now I must take his place. You know his greatest accomplishment? His training manuals. Yes, the very ones on which he collaborated with Yair. As long as those manuals exist, they will both live forever. Do you agree, Mr. Katz?”

“I suppose.” Herschel shrugged, wondering where Begin was leading.

“Training new volunteers will be all-important to us, you know. Oh, yes. Guns and explosives and supplies we can steal, but new followers—where do we get our new soldiers, eh?”

“They'll flock to you, sir, have no fear of that.”

“That's not the question. I know they'll flock; what I'm asking is what use will flocks be? Our new strategy is very simple. We will harass the authorities at every turn. We will drive them to such repressive countermeasures that their own self-disgust plus world opinion will bring about a British crisis of will. They will not like our making them act like Nazis. They will withdraw and Palestine will be liberated.”

Herschel said nothing. It could work, even if it was not very different from the system espoused in those old Irish Republican Army leaflets of Frieda Litvinoff's.

“There is one problem,” Begin continued. “While British repression goes on there will be mass arrests, detention
camps, perhaps executions. We will need a constant supply of trained soldiers if we are to keep up the pressure in the cities and towns all across Palestine.”

“What do you want me to do?”

Begin looked him in the eye. “Training camps are being set up all along the coast. I want you to revise our training manuals to take into account the new weapons we will be stealing from the British. I want you to head up one of these camps and to put together—under the supervision of my staff—a curriculum of training for the other camps. You'd be making a major contribution.”

“I think I'd be a laughingstock,” Herschel objected. “They'd all laugh at me for teaching others how to fight but not doing so myself. I don't want to be left sitting on the sidelines of our great struggle.”

Begin waved him quiet. “You are a wanted man. Say we sent you out on a raid. There would always be the risk that you would compromise the operation if you were recognized, yes?”

Herschel was forced to agree. “But why think I'm capable of organizing your training program? What makes me a teacher?”

“You are capable because you have received university training—”

“That was in science, mathematics and engineering,” Herschel protested. “I know nothing about teaching.”

Begin shrugged. “At least you have seen it done. You also know about guns and fighting. You grew up defending Degania, didn't you?”

“Guns I know,” Herschel admitted, “but what about explosives, radios and so on?”

Begin glanced at his watch. “Please, this is time-wasting, you know? These are all details. Experts in various areas will be assigned to the training program, and you will be our headmaster.”

“There's no one else who could take on this job?” Herschel pleaded.

“Of course there are others. There are always others, but nobody so suitable. This assignment allows you to help the cause from behind the lines, where there will be little chance of exposure to the authorities. It also puts you where you can serve as an inspiration to our new recruits.”

“I don't understand.”

“You are a hero,” Begin snapped. “You fought valiantly and escaped to return to the fold. You are also a Palestinian born and bred, one of the few the Irgun has managed to lure away from Ben-Gurion's Haganah. The would-be soldiers who enter our camps could do far worse than to emulate you.” Begin regarded him. “Well, yes or no? Will you follow your commander's orders?”

“What choice do I have?”

Satisfied, Begin stood up, briefcase in hand. “Don't forget to pay for the coffee.”

As Carl Pickman reviewed the sales reports stacked on his desk, a saying of his uncle Bernard's came to mind. “You have to know the dollars and cents side of the business, but if that's all you know, then get yourself over into accounting. You'll never be a good merchant.”

It was amazing how sales had climbed since the store revamped its advertising. Gone was Pickman's Promise, which had been the staple of its advertising since the Thirty-fourth Street building first opened its doors. Gone as well was his own signature at the bottom of each ad. He had to give Miss Herodetsky credit for having the gumption to suggest that particular change.