Stateless (38 page)

He had suddenly felt his life was lived on quicksand. Where once his footing had been on solid earth, it was now insecure.
Faith in the cause and the fight of Lehi, revenge for his father's disappearance, haunted by the stories of those who had fled Europe and had nowhere else to go but into a land under oppression and beset by enemies – these were the things that had made his world clear and solid. Falling in love with Judit had only cemented that footing further . . . until now.

Now, he had sat by the radio, listening to the count of countries and their votes, and wondered where was his wife? Other families were together on such a momentous night for the nation, but where was she on this night? What cause did she serve? How many lives would she take? And Shalman thought again, as he had so often, of the Arab boy on the airfield runway . . .

Shalman turned to Mustafa standing beside him and whispered, ‘I think this was a mistake.'

‘Probably,' said Mustafa with a shrug.

The village headman was speaking to the group but his words were clearly for Shalman, saying nothing that the crowd didn't already know – that Arabic radio from Cairo, Amman and Damascus was calling for Arab unity in the face of United States and Zionist aggression; that the armies of the Arabs were ready to invade Palestine and push the Jews into the sea so that all of the Middle East remained under the shield of Islam.

The headman was no firebrand, but spoke in calm, deliberate tones and Shalman could see the genuine worry that creased his brow. The village was close to Jerusalem and should war come, would be clearly boxed between Arab and Jewish armies.

As the headman finished speaking, Shalman was about to rise, but he stopped as Mustafa's father, Awad, got to his feet and ascended to the platform. For such a mild and gentle man, his voice was surprisingly strong.

‘This is our home, as it was home to my parents, their parents, and those generations who came before us. It is small
and it is poor, but it is ours. There have always been occupiers, before the British it was the Ottoman Turk; before the Turk, many others. And then the Jews arrived in large numbers, and today our land is still our land, but our neighbours have changed once more.

‘I know that many of you hate the Jews, but perhaps that is because you don't know them. My son Mustafa brought home a young man, badly injured and perhaps about to die. A man born a Jew. But the Koran demanded that we give him comfort and, by the grace of Allah, he recovered and prospered.

‘Allah is great and merciful. So when this young Jew stands before you to say what he has to say, I ask you to listen to his words. Because more than any other Jew, he has proven himself to be a man of good faith. He made a promise to my Mustafa that he would help him in his education, and he has been true to that promise. He is a man of trust.'

Awad nodded to Shalman that it was his time and he turned and stepped forward to face the congregation of Muslims. He cleared his throat, hoping that he wouldn't sound too nervous, hoping that his knowledge of idiomatic Arabic would prevent him from making a linguistic mistake.

‘I come here in peace. I come here on my own. Nobody has asked or told me to come. I am here because much is being said about what's happening in Palestine. Some of it is true, but much of it is false and causing trouble between our two people, between Muslims and Jews . . .'

In truth, Shalman had not prepared what he was going to say. There was no plan, just a need to speak. A conscience within that compelled him.

‘This should not be a question of blame. There's enough blame for everyone. Too much blood has been spilt already. But if war comes there will be much more. Too many tears and too much suffering.

‘The land is to be divided, a homeland for each of our peoples. The Jews have not had a home in two thousand years. This . . .' he said, pointing downwards, ‘is the homeland of Abraham, forefather of both our peoples. It is where Moses and Aaron stood. It is where the armies of Mohammed, peace and blessings be upon him, were sent to spread the light of Islam. It is a home rooted in the past, but belonging to the present. Our present. When the United Nations votes to create Israel next door, then your people too will finally have a home that is not controlled by an overlord from far away, but governed for yourselves.

‘But there are those who would tell us to hate. We are both the children of Abraham and if we listen to those voices the hatred will become louder and louder until nobody can think clearly.

‘I've come here today to ask you to shut your ears to those who will drive you to destruction. If your village of Ras Abu Yussef, and a hundred villages like it, will shut their ears to the hysteria that surrounds them, if you'll see the opportunity for both of our peoples to live side by side and share the wonders of this land, then there's hope that there will be no more bloodshed.

‘The United Nations will send people to inspect the land, to see how we live together, to decide how the land should be divided. And when they do there will be those on both sides who push for violence and killing and chaos. Why? Because each side will try to prove they are entitled to all the land. This is the case for both of us, Jews and Arabs. The madmen on both sides will try to prevail.

‘But if we don't participate, if we don't listen to the voices of hatred, if we don't take up arms, then there can be peace upon us all . . .'

They were all the words he had. There was nothing left for Shalman to say. He looked at the audience. Some were listening,
others were showing signs of growing anger, still others were drifting away and walking back to their homes. It was what he thought would happen, but he had to take the risk.

Later, when everyone had dispersed, Shalman sat on the ground under an olive tree with Mustafa.

‘Well, at least they didn't stone you.' Mustafa's desert-dry humour carried not even a hint of a joke.

‘Do you think they were listening?'

Mustafa gave his trademark shrug. ‘Perhaps.'

‘I know so little of your people. All I hear is the anger and rhetoric and hatred. But that's not here. It's not in you or Awad.'

‘We're a tribal people. Family binds and defines us – brothers and cousins. The things that make us angry are personal, not political.' Mustafa stopped and reached up to pull a leaf from a low branch, seeming to take time to ponder what he might say next.

‘A boy was at a British airfield begging petrol from the soldiers. His name was Munir. There was an attack by the Jews, an explosion, a bomb, and the boy burned alive. This was in the mind of the village when you spoke . . . Not war, not the United Nations. They were thinking of a boy who should not be dead. And now they are angry because that boy was a cousin to one of the men who was listening to what you were saying, Shalman. You were talking about the United Nations; we were thinking about one of our cousins; everyone hates the Jews because his murder has come home to our village.'

The words cut Shalman like a surgeon's blade.

‘I know you fight the British, Shalman. Did you know about this?'

Shalman lifted his gaze to meet Mustafa's. ‘No,' he lied.

Ten miles away from the village, Shalman's daughter was being minded by a young student who lived in the apartment block three doors away. The girl's arrival had enabled Judit to go to a meeting in a house a twenty-minute walk away.

Judit hadn't been to the house before; it was a safe house, probably owned by a Russian who harboured empathy for the motherland, and who had taken his family out to a meal in a good restaurant, paid for by Anastasia Bistrzhitska.

When Judit arrived at the house she knocked on the door. It was opened by Anastasia. Dressed in a tight sweater, pencil-slim skirt, sheer stockings and high heels, she looked as though she was going to the theatre.

Anastasia quickly closed the door after Judit, and reached for her hand as she led her down the hallway into the living-room, where the curtains were tightly closed.

The two women sat down on opposite chairs, a table full of coffee and cakes between them.

‘A celebration?' said Judit.

‘Judit, my dearest, the first part of your mission is at an end. It has been conducted faultlessly. We couldn't have asked for more. Many potential obstacles eliminated. And all without raising any eyebrows.' Anastasia gave Judit a sly and flirtatious wink.

‘You and your comrades are to be congratulated, my dear. Your leadership, your inspiration of the agents under your command, your control of their activities, has been extraordinary for a woman so young. And it has been noted at the very highest levels of the Kremlin.'

There was a time when such praise would have made Judit proud; they were words she had lived for and silently dedicated
every action to achieving. But now, as Anastasia looked at her and sat so close, Judit felt empty. The image of the professor through the window, his head in her gun sight, was seared into her mind.

All Judit did was nod.

‘Darling! Is something wrong?'

Judit shook her head.

‘I've known you since you were little more than a child. In many ways I made you. And so you cannot pretend with me.' Anastasia leaned across and put a gentle hand on Judit's knee.

‘I'm fine. I'm just tired.'

‘Of course you are, my dear. You are leading many lives at once.'

‘I'm one person for my husband and daughter, one for the fighters in Lehi and the Irgun and another for you. Sometimes I can't remember which face I'm wearing.'

Anastasia smiled. ‘Your true face is here. With me. A Russian face. Loyal. Strong. Resolute. This is who you are. Who you have always been . . .' Anastasia leaned back again and sipped her coffee. ‘I remember the day I took you to meet Comrade Beria. I've seen grown men faint at the thought of meeting him. But not you. No, no. You squared your shoulders, stood up straight and faced him. It was at that moment, my little dove, that I knew you would go to great heights. And it's those heights that I've asked you here to discuss.'

Anastasia took another sip of coffee while observing Judit carefully. Her years of training in the manipulation of people told her that something had happened in the past few weeks since they'd last met, and her protégée was at a turning point. Handled poorly, Anastasia knew she might lose this valuable woman.

‘But there's more, isn't there? Tell me, darling Judita, what's the matter?'

Judit was no longer staring at her Russian controller, but at
the table; then at the window, looking through the curtains and beyond at an unseen vista of bloodied bodies and hatred in the streets. ‘Just tired,' she repeated.

But Anastasia was not so easily dissuaded and, putting down her coffee, she leaned closer, elbows on her knees and her hands taking one of Judit's.

‘Is it the killing? Or the lies you have to tell?'

As she heard the words, Judit knew they were the words of someone who had once felt as she did, someone who knew and understood, someone who had also looked down the barrel of a rifle to kill a man she never knew.

Judit's body deflated, as though all the life had suddenly drained out of her. ‘I don't know. I truly don't. I know what I'm doing is for the good of our future, but the cost is so great. I wasn't born a killer; that's what I had to become. And I wasn't born a liar, but I no longer know when I'm telling the truth.'

And then the dam broke. It started softly, with a catch of breath. Then a gasp of air, and then the tears began to flow, and suddenly Judit was sobbing, burying her face in her hands, crying like a baby. Anastasia held her tightly, like her mother used to hold her when her father came home in one of his drunken rages.

Through her sobs, Judit said, ‘I miss my baby. I hardly know Vered . . .'

‘You are not alone,' Anastasia whispered. ‘And you are not weak. It happens to all of us.' And then she hit on a brilliant idea. ‘Darling little dove, we're going to take a trip; you, me and Vered. We're going to get out of here.'

‘A trip? Where?'

‘To Moscow.'

‘It is time your little one saw the motherland. It's time your parents saw their granddaughter. In this way, you'll feel like the mother you deserve to be.'

Anastasia paused, letting the idea settle in. Then she said softly, ‘And when you're there, my dove, when you're removed from the fighting and the murder, when you walk in Gorky Park and along the Moskva River and look at the domes of St Basil's, and when we're sitting in a café sipping coffee and there's no gunfire, just happy Russians enjoying life, then you'll begin to feel like the old Judita, the young woman who is going to run for the Knesset, and who, one day, will become Prime Minister of Israel. Yes?'

Judit looked at her in amazement. ‘Prime Minister?' Judit burst out laughing, but Anastasia's face was serious.

‘You're joking, aren't you?'

Anastasia smiled slyly. ‘I'm Russian. I have no sense of humour. You're destined to be Prime Minister of Israel. It's part of our long-term planning. And Comrade Stalin himself is looking forward to meeting you and discussing your political path.'