Rabbi Gabrielle Ignites a Tempest (22 page)

On Shabbos, when Schreiber disappeared to
pray with his elderly colleagues in a small synagogue a few blocks
away, Tim seized the opportunity to take long walks through Mea
She'arim and observe Hasidic families strolling the streets in
their finest clothes, offering Sabbath greetings and showing off
their new babies, of which there seemed to be an endless number. On
Shabbos afternoons, he pondered up-to-date topographical maps,
careful to observe the prohibition against writing on the holy
Sabbath in Rav Schreiber's apartment. Unable to write, he inscribed
potential locations in his memory. The more he pondered this lost
wilderness, the more he became obsessed by what he imagined to have
occurred there. The Romans were harsh, but efficient, practical
rulers in Judea who would not have squandered their resources to
demolish a yeshiva on the distant extremity of their empire if it
were not perceived as a genuine threat. But without further
information, he could only speculate.

When Rav Schreiber awoke late one Sunday
morning ready to resume work, Tim had a surprise waiting for him: a
list of proper names that had emerged from their previous readings.
One by one, he read them aloud, spelling each. Zechariah's
arthritic fingers pushed a ballpoint pen over paper with starts and
stops, transforming them into a new list written in modern Hebrew
characters.

Zarepheth bat Ishimaris

Urias bar Natan

Simon bar Amos

Ananus, son of Jonathan

Alcyon, a physician

Jochanan Gaddis

Judas bar Jairus

Joseph bar Daleu

Netir of the Galilee

Noami, bat Nadab

Shmiel, bar Gera

Tephtus, unknown family

David, the Pharisee

To have stumbled into a cluster of names
early in their collaboration was indeed a stroke of luck, though
Tim remained puzzled. "Any ideas why these turned up in the cave?"
he asked Schreiber.

"Two women. Not all are Hebrew. But we know
many Jews assumed Hellenic names back then. Like Alexander and
Hyrcanus."

"So, what do you make of them?"

Schreiber retreated into his thoughts and
remained there for a while before shaking a bony finger to signify
that he had something to share. "What do we know so far about the
contents of the cave?" he asked with uplift in his voice practiced
by yeshiva students as they grilled each other on some fine point
in the Gemora.

"Very little," Tim said, voicing his
frustration.

"Not exactly. We know from the Greek scroll
that the yeshiva at Ein Arugot was destroyed. We know also that the
commander, Digius Silban, forced Jewish prisoners to help with his
dirty work. I know what that's like because I spent three and a
half years of my life working as a slave for the Nazis in Germany.
Prisoners think a lot about their fellow inmates because their
fates are inextricably tied. I'm thinking that maybe one of these
unfortunate Jews working for Digius Silban was able to send a
warning that Legionnaires were coming to burn down the yeshiva and
arrest its students and faculty. If so, it's possible that somebody
spirited away the school records, perhaps for safekeeping in
Qumran, where we know other valuable records were being stored.
These names might represent a list of students, or faculty. I don't
recognize any, do you?"

"Not one," Tim said, more than intrigued by
the possibility Schreiber offered. But he knew something Schreiber
didn't—that the fragments had yielded not thirteen, but fourteen
names. Immediately, Tim's passion to visit the desert site at Ein
Arugot took on the aura of a pilgrimage. Of course, he didn't
expect to do more than make superficial observations. No digging.
No excavations. But finding artifacts was unimportant compared with
reliving history. Just standing at this location, or near it, was
bound to inspire him.

Schreiber did not own a car, but he had a
relative prepared to lend Tim a small Brazilian-assembled
Volkswagen. On one of his daily ventures to purchase food, Tim
stopped by a military surplus store and bought a pair of hiking
boots, a collapsible shovel, a compass, light desert clothing, five
water bottles, and a disposable Kodak camera. It would have been
ideal to make this pilgrimage on Shabbos, while Schreiber rested,
but he didn't think it proper to offend the car's religious owner
by using it to travel on the Sabbath. Tim waited impatiently for a
convenient weekday. That came when Schreiber's doctor admitted him
to the hospital for treatment of a urinary infection.

CHAPTER EIGHT

True to its nomadic tradition, the Ta'amireh
tribe of Negev Bedouin moved its camps frequently to avoid
over-pasturing the flocks. It took Father Benoit Matteau a full day
of searching the northern wilderness of Judah in his newly acquired
Subaru 4-wheel-drive to spot the latest Ta'amireh encampment.
During the search, he kept comparing this new vehicle to his lost
Buick, unwilling to acknowledge that the 4-wheeler was
substantially better suited to driving on rutted desert tracks.
Even less was he prepared to equate his role in jettisoning the
Hyundai with Tim's childish part in the unnecessary loss of his
Buick.

In the distance, smoke rose from the
Ta'amireh
ma'nad
tents. Given the late
hour and the fear of driving over unfamiliar ruts after sundown to
approach a Bedouin camp under the veil of darkness when its guards
might mistake him, the Dominican priest turned back toward
Bethlehem with the intention of returning early the next
morning.

The track he followed with the rising sun
only ten hours later soon petered out, forcing him to approach the
Bedouin camp on foot over rugged terrain. The clean, dry air
confirmed to him that he was more suited to the desert than the
city. By this time, the sun's warmth had begun baking the
forbidding terrain. Fortunately, he knew how to dress for extreme
heat. A white Palestinian kafia shielded his head and a black
djellaba
, his chest and legs. On his back
was a knapsack with water, maps, compass, granola bars and several
heavy gifts for his host. He barely noticed the burden because the
wilderness always evoked in him a feeling of spiritual
rejuvenation. In these open spaces, the presence of his tribal
ancestors was almost palpable.

Some three kilometers from his parked Subaru,
he knew that he was no longer alone, for though he could see no
signs of human presence, hidden somewhere in the rocky terrain,
Bedouin outposts were watching. No doubt, his approach to the
Ta'amireh camp had already been announced by flashing mirrors.

Father Benoit was no stranger to these
people. As a young archeologist in the early 1950s, he had sought
field experience to augment his book learning and lived with the
family of Telfik banu al-Fahl, sharing its food, wearing its
flowing black robes and speaking its Negev Arabic. Together with
Telfik al-Fahl, he explored the ruins of irrigation projects built
of Nabateans along with Roman trading routes and revenue stations.
Once, in an irresponsible youthful escapade, the pair journeyed
across the Arabian Wadi as Sirhan, through the Trans-Jordanian Ara
as Sawwan on camelback, following T. E. Lawrence's epic military
assault on Akaba in 1917. They spent their nights under the stars,
smoking and dreaming of lost peoples who once inhabited this vast
wasteland. In Telfik's company, the priest learned to survive for
days on limited food and water, and to use firearms for protection
against marauding bandits. In the harshness of this landscape a
friendship was forged that survived when Telfik succeeded his
father as the Ta'amireh tribe's young sheik.

Eventually, Benoit left the desert to assume
a post with the Studium Biblicum Franciscamum in Jerusalem, and
later was appointed dean of the École in Bethlehem. Rarely did a
month go by in which he and Telfik failed to communicate—in the
early days by messenger, but later via satellite telephones. When
Telfik's young shepherds observed something that might be of
archeological interest, the sheik passed on this information to
Benoit. In exchange, the Dominican priest saw to many of the
tribe's material needs, providing portable generators, an
occasional truck, television sets with antennae for desert
reception, rifles, ammunition, and satellite phones. Most
importantly, he supplied the Ta'amireh with up-to-date
topographical maps to facilitate the tribe's smuggling operations
between Israel, Egypt and the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan. Once the
Israeli military introduced aerial reconnaissance to the region and
smuggling operations had to be scaled back, he provided information
on the movement of Israeli patrols. The exchange of vital
information and materiel worked for nearly thirty years, as it had
when Mumud banu-Nazeem was pasturing his flock and spotted cave
robbers making preparations to enter the new cave at Qumran.

A pair of armed Bedouin on camels, their
heads covered with the white
kafia
circled
by a finely woven emerald-colored
'
aqal
to identify the tribe,
greeted Father Benoit as he approached the Ta'amireh tents. These
were stern-looking men with thick beards who swayed in their
saddles, precisely matching the steady rhythm of their camels.
Benoit spoke to them in their dialect, a sign he was to be greeted
as an honored visitor.

The sheik was waiting in camp, crouching in
front of the flap of his dark
ma'nad
perched on a mound slightly above a cluster of equally black tents.
He rose to press his lips against both of the priest's cheeks, then
uttered a series of blessings from the Koran. Benoit responded with
Latin blessings from the New Testament. A troop of children
gathered around, their hands outstretched for
baksheesh
, which Benoit dutifully filled with Israeli
coins and wrapped candies he had brought for just that purpose.

Arm in arm, the friends entered the
ma'nad
where two of the desert chieftain's
wives awaited them with a copper urn of heavily sugared coffee.
Once settled on woven carpets, the two men exchanged additional
greetings of friendship.

Telfik banu al-Fahl said, "I'm pained to
learn of more terrorist troubles in Bethlehem. These acts are
committed by city Arabs who have forgotten the ways of their
fathers. I discourage my young men from taking jobs in Jerusalem
and try to keep them busy with their flocks. But for how long will
they listen? Two have already joined the hotheads and want to blow
themselves up to show contempt for the Jews. This is bad business,
not the way of Allah."

"A credit to you and your people," Benoit
answered with a wistful sigh. "Violence is an imperfect weapon, but
some people feel there is no alternative. I talk to you as a
brother, for you are my eyes and ears. Without you, I would not
know what happens here. The Holy Father in Rome is pleased with the
information I send from the land of both your ancestors and his. As
long as I keep His Holiness well informed, he will let me remain
his servant in Bethlehem. If I fail, he will transfer me to some
terrible place in Europe, or even worse, Latin America."

"That is not my wish, brother." Telfik
possessed a penetrating gaze as if peering beneath the Dominican's
skin for signs of dissemblance. A wife returned, carrying a Syrian
brass tray piled with honey and pistachio-filled baklava. To
Benoit's mind, it was a miracle how these women managed to bake
such delicacies in their primitive ovens. Normally, he avoided
sweets, but had learned to accept Telfik's hospitality. All Arab
cafes in Bethlehem served baklava, but none as tasty as that made
by the Ta'amireh.

He opened his backpack and fished through the
contents for electronic gadgets sealed in clear plastic. First, two
handheld, battery-operated walkie-talkies. Next came a packet of
spare batteries. "I know your shepherd boys can use these to keep
in touch," he said, passing the walkie-talkies over to his host.
"They've increased the range on these devices to about eight
kilometers."

Telfik appeared pleased, nodding his head.
Benoit foraged for additional gifts in the backpack, presenting
them intermittently between fresh cups of coffee. When there was
only one gift left, he eased back and said, "I'm curious to know
how you learned of the cave at Qumran."

"A terrible business," Telfik said, his head
nodding. "I made a mistake there."

Benoit fixed his eyes upon the sheik, pursing
his lips in silence and waiting for what he knew would come.

"My cousin's son, Mumud, discovered Russians
on their first day. They paid us handsomely for not telling the
police and later gave Mumud a job as a guard. Three days later,
somebody shot him. He bled to death outside the cave. We found his
body and took it to Jerusalem. An Israeli police officer, a friend
of my people who often looks the other way when we trade goods
across the border, brought Mumud's body back to us. We buried him
on the hillside, below the entrance to the cave. He was too young
to die."

"I had heard a rumor from Jerusalem that
someone was killed near Qumran. It is a great pain to learn the
victim was one of your family. The death of a young man is always
tragic. Do you know who's responsible?"
Telfik's eyes were hollow,
staring at the priest. "We do not know."

"That's what I was afraid of," Benoit said
matter-of-factly from a script he had earlier etched in his mind.
From his backpack, he pulled out an Uzi, its stamped blued metal
cowling severely scratched but undented. Everyone in Israel could
identify this weapon by its squat design and compactness. The
sheik's eyes froze on it, giving Benoit time to add, "One of my
assistants found this at my École. We have strict rules against
firearms on the premises. So we were shocked when it turned up in
the locker of an American archeologist who regularly uses our
library. He has unexpectedly disappeared and has not returned in
weeks. I heard through my people in Jerusalem that the boy killed
near Qumran was shot with an Uzi."