Israel (89 page)

“The Dunhill?” He laughed. “I always wondered what happened to it.”

“Now you know. I suppose I should give it back to you.”

“Forget it.”

“I said I suppose I should. I didn't say I would.”

They were quiet for a moment, and then Benny said, “Okay. I told you my troubles. Now why were you looking so glum this afternoon?”

Becky told him about the stock and the morning's confrontation with Gertrude Pickman.

“Gee, Becky, that's rough,” Benny said quietly. “I had no idea you were in such trouble. I could have a couple of guys pay a visit to Phil Cooper—”

Becky broke up laughing. “Oh, please, stop.”

“What's so funny?” Benny asked, stung by her reaction. “They wouldn't rough him up or nothing.”

She was laughing so hard that tears were running down her cheeks. “I can just see a couple of your—whatchamacallits,
torpedoes
, with black shirts and white ties—showing up at Philip's apartment.”

“They don't dress like that,” Benny whined. “You've seen too many damned movies.”

“So have you, Benny.”

“Ain't that the truth,” he agreed dolefully.

“Anyway, what I'd like is for your torpedoes to visit Mrs. Gertrude Hoffer Pickman and give her a cement overcoat.”

“That's overshoes.”

“In her case we'll spring for the whole outfit.”

“What I can't figure is how Cark Pickman could've been so stupid—”

“Hey, that's my husband you're calling stupid.”

Benny nodded. “You're one hell of a woman,” he
said in admiration. “I must have been pretty stupid myself, to let you get away.”

“Yes,” Becky nodded seriously, “you were.”

“Well . . .”

“Well what?”

“You're not married anymore, and my marriage stinks. Maybe we could make this our second chance.”

“You know what I'd like for a second chance?” Becky said lazily. “A life like Herschel Kol's—before he came here, I mean.”

“Come off it, Becky. You're a city kid. What would you do in a desert, or whatever they got over there? Anyway, you ignored my question. What about—”

“Benny, I never did properly thank you for arranging for me to own the Cherry Street property,” she interrupted. “And I've never thanked you for contributing so much time and effort to Palestine.”

“You don't have to thank me. I did it to kind of make up for that bad incident in my apartment that day.”

“You don't have to say any more, Ben.”

“Well, I want to. Back then you called what I did to you attempted rape. I didn't see it that way then, but I do now. I've played that whole scene over in my mind at least a thousand times, and there's no way I come out of it looking good. I can't tell you how much I regret what happened.”

“I regret it, too, Benny.”

“But you still hold it against me, don't you?”

She smiled at him and her radiant beauty thrilled him even as the look of pity in her eyes broke his heart. He saw everything in her look: compassion, forgiveness, empathy—everything but the slightest possibility that she would ever love him again.

“It's not something I have against you, like a grudge,” she said kindly, “but what happened to me at your apartment is like a scar. It only hurts sometimes, but it'll never
completely fade away. It won't keep us from being friends, but it will keep us from being anything more. Okay?”

“Damn. It was a goddamned tragedy.”

During the next few weeks Becky made several brief trips to Canada. She fast-talked for cash to help pay for the refitting of the Baltimore excursion ship. Her contributors hinted that they expected Pickman's to throw some extra business their way in exchange. She told them they would do business with the store for as long as she was president, privately hoping that that would be for years to come.

In Canada she avoided Herschel Kol, not trusting herself to see him and not wanting to distract herself from her Palestine work in case she was ousted and lost the store's clout. There would be time enough in the near future to see Herschel—if he was still interested when she was no longer powerful, but merely a woman.

She relied heavily on Phil Cooper and gave him enough authority to run things smoothly, enough even to flatter him. She could hardly do less, and that was as likely to persuade him to back her as anything. Unless they offered him a fortune—or the presidency.

Norman Collins let her know the vote would take place in his office at ten o'clock Friday morning, May thirtieth. Becky, who had already arranged for Collins to have power of attorney to vote her shares, reiterated her decision not to attend.

On Friday morning, the last day in May and possibly the last day in her job, she arrived at her office an hour before opening, just as usual. She had already decided that she would simply not come in on Monday and that would be that. Carl had left her wealthy, but what she was going to do with her life was a question she hadn't yet addressed.

She tried to busy herself in paperwork but gave up. What was the point? The hands on the clock inched along towards ten and she waited for Norman's call.

It came at ten-fifteen.

“They're still sitting shell-shocked in my outer office,” Collins chattered giddily. “Phil Cooper voted for you, Becky. He voted for you!”

“Norman? I'm still in? Why? Why did he do it?”

“Don't know.” Collins laughed. “You ask him. He's on his way back.”

He hung up and Becky asked Millie to let her know when Phil came in. Not much later Becky found herself in Phil's office, asking if she might sit down.

“Sure, help yourself.”

“I want to thank you, Phil. I know you don't like working for me, and it must have been a temptation to get rid of me.”

“My pleasure,” he drawled, eyes glinting wickedly.

“Okey, Phil, what's the joke?”

He laughed. “Gertrude Pickman is. You'll never guess what she offered me. Notice how nice I've been lately? You'll see why in a minute.” He laced his hands behind his head and leaned back luxuriously.

“Apparently you suggested she make me president if they ousted you. Thank you. That was very generous and unselfish of you. If she had taken your advice, I certainly would have voted against you.

“Apparently she recognized the merit of your counsel, but it's against her principles to do anything you say. She decided on a compromise.”

Becky was leaning forward in her chair, entranced.

“She said Robert would be president and hold presidential powers but that he would allow me to run things without interference. In plain English, I would have all the responsibility and no authority. In return, they would sell me your stock.”

“My
stock! And just how, pray tell, were they going to get it in the first place?”

“Well, apparently you intimated to Gertrude that you
wouldn't trust Meltzer. She figured you'd sell out and I couldn't turn down your shares.”

“Why did you? You'd have controlling interest. You could kick Robert out and rule the roost.”

“Precisely what I was supposed to think. That's what tipped me off. The Pickmans were never going to give me controlling stock if they wouldn't trust me with the presidency. It was all pie in the sky. Besides, what if you decided to sell away from the family? I would, in your shoes.”

“She's got a nerve, all right.”

“Well, I had another reason, too. You know, Becky, you have no social graces, no clothes sense and no tact. On the other hand, you're the best retailer in the city and I'd be a fool to pass up the reputation and the education I'm getting under you.”

That weekend she received word that the refugee ship she had worked so hard to get overhauled and refitted had set sail at last, rechristened the
Exodus
.

In July Danny Herodetzky, like most of the civilized world, was appalled by the newspaper accounts that serialized the sorry fate of the refugee ship
Exodus
. Upon its arrival in Palestine's waters its forty-three hundred passengers were taken off the ship by force and loaded onto three British transports.

The British announced that they were taking these people not to Cyprus but back to Germany. The voyage took forty-six days, during which the British endured attacks by the press for their “floating Auschwitzes” and more bombing by an enraged Irgun. Even the usually sanguine Haganah was sufficiently outraged to use limpet mines to send the British vessel
Empire Lifeguard
to the bottom of Haifa harbor. In all thirteen British lost their lives and scores were wounded in
Exodus
-related attacks.

To retaliate the British announced that three Irgunists who were imprisoned on unrelated charges would be hanged. This execution was so unjust as to impel the superintendent of Acre Prison to resign his office rather than comply. The hangings were carried out under the supervision of the new prison warden. Hours later the Irgun announced the
executions by hanging of two British sergeants, and so the cycle of destruction and death continued unchecked.

It was during this time that the UN committee on Palestine was touring that country in preparation for issuing its recommendations. Danny read about the supposedly secret meeting between Ralph Bunche and Menachem Begin, during which the renowned black spokesman shook hands with the Irgun commander, declaring, “I understand you. I too am a member of a persecuted minority.” In England there was a torrent of criticism against the meeting and against the Bevin government. How had Bunche found Begin so easily when the task seemed beyond the capability of the British authorities?

In the fall of 1947 the committee submitted to the General Assembly its report recommending the creation of independent Jewish and Arab states in the territory west of the Jordan and the internationalization of Jerusalem under UN trusteeship. In response Arab leaders such as Egypt's Mahmoud Fawzi and Prince Faisal of Saudi Arabia warned that they would not be bound by any partition proposal and threatened war if the General Assembly should vote to carry it out.

As debate proceeded, England announced that she would not cooperate with a multinational peacekeeping force in Palestine but would end her mandate on May 16, 1948. Russia made it known that she advocated the partition plan. Meanwhile everyone waited, wondering what position the United States would take.

Danny Herodetzky wondered if he'd ever be free of his waterfront duties and if Herschel Kol would ever make good on his promise to get Danny flying.

Once Danny's flight records had been checked out, Milty helped him apply for his passport, coaching him in what to say so that the State Department, which was fervently anti-Zionist and very suspicious of young Jewish men who wished to travel abroad, would not deny his
application. Now that he had his passport, it was burning a hole in his pocket. When would he be allowed to fly? All Herschel would say was that Danny was needed in New York while he himself was occupied with the Canadian project.

His desire to quit his present duties and resume flying was not purely selfish. Newspaper editorialists pointed out that the United Nations had no armed force to impose peace on Palestine. The Jews would have only themselves to depend on if they were to survive the allied Arab attack to come in the wake of the British departure.

Danny had studied maps of the proposed partitioning. The Jews would be surrounded by hostile Arab nations on three sides and would have their backs to the Mediterranean. They would need air transport to move essential supplies over enemy lines and fighter planes if the Egyptians' strafing runs were not to cut the new nation into bloody ribbons.

Danny understood all this, but try as he might he could not turn Herschel's attention away from his gun project. “A little longer, a little longer,” he would snap, then turn his back.

On Saturday evening, November twenty-ninth, the General Assembly approved the partition plan by a vote of thirty-three to thirteen. The historic event was broadcast on radio. Danny and his Upper West Side volunteers huddled around the old Philco with the cracked dial as the votes were tallied in Flushing Meadow.

As France, one of the last countries to vote, announced that it was for the partition plan, a cheer went up in the apartment. The students began hugging and kissing. They twisted the corks from several bottles of wine and began passing them around.

Danny watched quietly from the sidelines, feeling much older than these exuberant youngsters. He accepted
some handshakes and a drink, wondering why these kids were congratulating him. He hadn't done anything special—yet.

On Saturday night Becky sat alone in her living room and listened to the live broadcast from the United Nations. She wanted to celebrate, but she didn't know how. There was no one with whom to rejoice, she was all alone.

A month ago she had dismissed the housekeeper. It made Becky nervous to have her around all the time. She preferred cooking her own meals to having somebody cook for her and then watch her eat. She'd begun to think about moving out of this apartment into a one- or two-bedroom place with less elegance and more real comfort.

Becky supposed she could call her father about the wonderful news. Yes, she would call her father. She was just about to pick up the telephone when it rang. “Hello?”

“It's me,” Herschel Kol said. His voice was breathless, triumphant. “I'm in a telephone booth. I have turned all my money into Canadian silver in order to call you. You've heard the news, of course? I had to talk to you. There is no one else I wanted to share this moment with.”

“I'm so glad you called. I can't tell you what it means to me. You must be so happy. Your whole life you've been waiting for this day.”

“So I have, Becky, but it is only the beginning of a far more difficult struggle to come. You have seen the maps of the planned partition, yes? Tell me then, how can there be a Jewish state without Jerusalem? All of Palestine should be Jewish.”