The Gates of Zion (14 page)

Moshe toyed with his fork, then peeked into her eyes before averting his own to his plate. “The most …” He paused again, wanting to tell her how beautiful she was. But he could not force the words that surely she had heard a thousand times before. “You are the most hungry,” he finished lamely, then quickly took another bite.

Rachel threw her head back and laughed. “That is true! I have not eaten like this since before the war.”

Fanny came back with seconds and spooned more blintzes onto Moshe’s plate in spite of his protests. “You know, Moshe dear, everyone will think you are dead by now. Such a worry having you fall off the boat like that. Maybe you should call somebody, eh? So we’re not saying kaddish for you and someone is maybe dying of grief?”

Moshe excused himself and stepped into a tiny bedroom that adjoined the main room. He dialed the number of the red house and let the phone ring twice before he hung up and dialed again. The rough voice of Ehud Schiff answered on the fifth ring.

“Ehud,” Moshe said quietly, “did you get the catch to market?”

“Is it you?” Ehud asked in disbelief.

“In the flesh.” Moshe laughed.

“Then I’ll kill you myself for giving us such a scare!” Ehud was jubilant. Moshe heard the captain shouting to others in the house that Moshe was alive, and the background rang with cries of joy and insults such as “Such a windbag is too full of air to drown!”

“I landed a very nice flounder as well, Ehud,” Moshe said, referring to Rachel.

“It is a miracle.” Ehud chuckled. “I like miracles. Now, where are you?”

“Eating the best strudel in Palestine; where else?”

“Quit wasting time, will you? The Old Man wants to see us right away. Right away,” Ehud emphasized. “I’ll be by for you in a few minutes then.”

Ehud hung up, and Moshe sat on the edge of Fanny’s bed. He was tempted to pull back the blankets and climb in. It would be so nice just to go to bed and forget the whole thing. Let somebody else worry about refugees and Arabs and British gunboats. Right now the only thing that sounded worthwhile to him was a few days to sleep off Fanny’s breakfast. Most likely, though, this would be the last free moment he would have to even consider the possibility. A meeting with the Old Man meant only one thing: hard work and only a couple of hours’ interrupted sleep a night for the next few weeks. He listened to Fanny’s animated conversation and Rachel’s quiet replies from the next room, wondering if he would ever see the young woman after today.

And then he wondered why he wanted to see her again so badly.

***

The forty-mile trip from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem had been frantic and rough, to say the least. Ehud might have made an excellent ship’s captain, but on the highway he was a deranged lunatic. Gripping the wheel with his hairy hands, his eyes seemed to wander to every sight but the road.

Military traffic en route to Tel Aviv seemed to be especially heavy.

When they passed a British troop transport, Ehud would shove the accelerator to the floor with his size-thirteen foot, then hang his upper body out the window and shout, “God save the king!” as they careened only inches away from the vehicles.

The soldiers would then thunder in response, “God save the king!”

Ehud would finish the line with, “And keep him far from here.

Amen!”

More than once Moshe had the impulse to stomp down on the brake, and several times he actually noticed his foot searching the empty floorboard on his side for the pedal.

When at last they entered the Old Man’s book-lined study, Moshe quipped, “Make Ehud chauffeur to the Mufti and we have won the battle!”

Unsmiling, David Ben-Gurion peered at Moshe from beneath bushy white eyebrows. “The Mufti may well indeed be our first battle.” He paused and glanced around the crowded little room for effect.

Respectful silence settled over the dozen men who had gathered to discuss the strategy of the next few hours and days. The Old Man tapped a pencil on an open map of Jerusalem on his desk, the lead dotting the courtyard of the Dome of the Rock. “Even now as we meet here, he is addressing ten thousand Muslims in the courtyard of the mosque. His speeches have always had the immediate effect of filling Jewish cemeteries. That, of course, has been his goal.”

Moshe glanced around the room at the unsmiling faces and wondered how many were recent arrivals. Many, he knew, had never experienced the fury of the mobs Haj Amin had aroused over his years as Grand Mufti. From Moshe’s earliest childhood, Haj Amin had been the shadow over the lives of Jews in Jerusalem. His name was spoken in whispers or in loud political discussions around the dinner table and, once, in the strained voice of grief after the body of Moshe’s older brother had been lowered into the grave. Haj Amin, Grand Mufti of Jerusalem, with his bright red hair and flashing blue eyes, became Moshe’s midnight ghost—the terrible spectre lurking in the darkness of his childhood nightmares.

Only once had Moshe seen the Mufti. Surrounded by his six black bodyguards, he had emerged from his armor-plated Mercedes and disappeared into the residence of the British high commissioner as Moshe’s bus passed by. He had not taken his eyes off the flowing red-and-blue robes until the door hid the Mufti from view. Even then Moshe stared at the Mercedes and wondered what hateful thoughts were directed toward the Jews from that vehicle.

The silence of the men in the office was heavy.

Ben-Gurion coughed and leaned back in his chair. “When and if the British do indeed give up the Mandate, they will leave in their wake a vacuum―not a vacuum of promises or pronouncements, but a vacuum of military power.” His eyes searched the faces of the men.

“No doubt Haj Amin Husseini will be first in line to fill that vacuum with his own power. It is my guess that he will not wait until the British pull out to begin chipping away at the territory granted to us for a Jewish homeland.”

He stood and pulled down a wall map behind his desk. Outlined in red were the boundaries of the future State of Israel. Yellow boundaries marked the Arab state, and deep in the center of Arab territory lay the city of Jerusalem. He tapped at the pinpoint that marked the Holy City.

“The United Nations is under the illusion that Jerusalem will belong to neither state. It will be, as they say, an international city, eh?”

Ben-Gurion arched his eyebrows and shook his head slowly.

“Whoever dreamed that up must be some kind of meshuggener. A crazy man!”

Uneasy laughter rippled through the group, and some of Moshe’s tension lifted.

Ben-Gurion continued, “The UN does not know the Mufti like we do.

Here. This city of Jerusalem must be our first line of defense.”

Moshe stared at his hands as a surprised murmur rose from the Old Man’s captive audience.

“Any questions?” The Old Man sat down and began to tap his pencil as every man shouted a question. “One at a time. Where do you think we are? An Arab bazaar?”

Ruggedly handsome Shimon Devon fired the first question. “With what will we defend Jerusalem? Sticks and rocks? We have no more than a few hundred ancient rifles hidden throughout the entire Yishuv and precious little ammunition. Not to mention larger weapons or artillery. We will be hard-pressed to defend the ground within our own territory, let alone this place. I say we pull out the Jews in Jerusalem and defend the rest.”

Ben-Gurion ran his fingers through his white, unruly hair and grimaced. “Technicalities, Shimon.” He gave a half smile. “A problem, yes, but if we read the Book, Jerusalem is part of the State of Israel. Always. Every problem we face here must have a solution.” He ran his hand through his hair again. “So, we start with Jerusalem. There is a problem. Our position here is precarious and indefensible. What is the answer?”

A short, balding man standing next to a tall, fair-haired man in a leather jacket spoke up. “Before the war there was this American film director named John Ford who used to shoot Western movies on an isolated Navajo Indian reservation, see?”

His accent is decidedly American,
thought Moshe.
So is his
conquer-all attitude.
Instantly Moshe liked him.

The Old Man nodded but seemed unclear on the meaning of the man’s story. “Yes, Michael,” he said politely, “continue.”

“Well, back in ’40 it snowed a blizzard up there. I mean, there was no way in or out. No way to feed the Indians. The rest of the country had just pulled out of a depression, and no one much cared that these people were starving to death out there. But this guy Ford organized benefits; you know, dinners and stuff. He educated people. Turned public opinion and―”

“I fail to see what this has to do with Jerusalem, my American friend,” Shimon interrupted with disgust.

“Shut up for a minute, will you? I’m getting to it,” Michael fired back as the Old Man nodded for him to continue. “Okay, so people got interested. And they raised a lot of money. Then they bought food and hired transport planes, and we airlifted rations to the Indians.” He nudged his tall friend. “Me and David here flew for that one. And in terrible weather, too. Plenty of ice.”

“We haven’t got even one plane large enough for that kind of operation,” Shimon insisted as the Old Man listened and said nothing. “And Arab bullets are a bit more formidable than bad weather.”

“Yeah? Says who?” Michael challenged. “A real optimist we got here! I bring America’s top war ace to train fliers―right here, David Meyer―and bring him to his first meeting, and all we hear is a crybaby saying we don’t have planes!”

Moshe watched as Shimon’s lip curled and his fists clenched and unclenched.

“I simply believe we would be better off concentrating our efforts on our strengths!” Shimon retorted. “Not trying to salvage a hopeless situation.”

David Meyer cleared his throat then, and all eyes turned to him.

“You might be right.”

Shimon’s scowl changed to triumph.

“But you know,” David continued, “if all this talk has meant anything, Jerusalem might be worth hanging on to. For a while, anyway.”

The Old Man leaned forward with interest.

David cracked his knuckles. “If this Mufti is so intent on winning Jerusalem, he’s going to concentrate his troops there, isn’t he?”

The men nodded thoughtfully. Moshe spoke up. “Legally we will not be able to purchase arms until after the Mandate ends,” he said to Ben-Gurion. “I see what he is driving at. Perhaps, if nothing else, Jerusalem can buy us some time while we arm the new nation.”

“Right,” said David with a smile. “Any of you guys ever heard of the Alamo?”

The Old Man nodded and pursed his lips. “Our heritage is full of Alamos, Mr. Meyer―last stands and sieges and fights to the death.

But it will all mean nothing if we cannot supply the people of Jerusalem with food and water.”

“If the water mains are blown―” Shimon interjected.

“Then we have the cisterns. We will ration,” Moshe interrupted.

“Water, we can’t help you with.” Michael rubbed his balding head thoughtfully. “But we did it with the Navajo as far as food goes.”

“Not in Piper Cubs, you did not!” Shimon argued. “You will be wasting time and energy.”

“Hey, fella, me and David can do it in sail planes. Back off, will you?” Michael snarled sarcastically.

“And with a little money,” David added, “we can find all the planes you need. And train the fliers to man them.”

The room was still again, and all eyes focused on the Old Man. “A little money, eh? A little public opinion on our side. Every nation should have an air force, Shimon. Even if Jerusalem were to fall―and it will not, but regardless―the nation of Israel must have an air force.” Ben-Gurion turned his gaze on Michael and David.

“You find the men and the planes. I’ll handle public opinion and the money, eh? For now, we will hold the Holy City, and if God wills, we will hold it forever.”

The Old Man spoke with finality, silencing Shimon. Then he picked up the large black Bible that accompanied him everywhere and thumbed through the pages until he came to what Moshe knew was his favorite book: Isaiah. Drawing out each word, he began to read:
“They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they
shall mount up with wings as eagles… .”

He paused and scanned the faces of the men around the room. “The Lord knows we cannot wait any longer. Let us pray that He will guide us and give us strength. As for the rest, we each have a job to do. We shall work together for Operation Eagles’ Wings.”

9

The Home of the Rabbi

Grandfather Lebowitz carefully lifted the kettle from the kerosene stove and poured the hot water through the tea strainer as Ellie and Yacov looked on. Yacov knew that Grandfather was trying his best to be hospitable because the tea leaves he used were fresh, and the cups were those used only for special guests. He set them on an olivewood tray and moved over to the table where Ellie sat. She smiled at the old man as he held the tray down to her.

“Drink, drink,” Grandfather urged. “It is the day after Shabbat, and we have not been to the bakery. We have no cakes for you, I fear.”

“That’s fine,” Ellie said. “Really, this is very nice of you.”

Yacov wondered if she knew that they never had any cakes in the house regardless of what day of the week it was. She sipped the tea while Grandfather watched and nodded in approval. Then he set the tray down and took a cup himself before he sat on the edge of the bed next to Yacov.

“You are lucky you are not badly hurt, young lady. Yacov told me of the assault. A terrible thing.”

“I was very grateful that your grandson was there to help me.” Ellie sipped her tea and smiled at Yacov, who felt a blush begin on his cheeks.

“He is a good boy,” Grandfather said. “A comfort to an old man.”

Yacov wished that the talk would focus somewhere besides his character. “You brought another camera!” he interjected.

“So you must like to take pictures, eh?” Grandfather asked.

“That’s how I make my living,” Ellie volunteered, running her hand over the package that contained pictures of the scroll.
“
I am staff photographer for The American School of Oriental Research.