The Gates of Zion (19 page)

Heaps of sandbags had begun to grow in front of homes and shops.

The fear caused by the commercial-district riot had boarded the windows and blockaded the streets of the Jewish Quarter. He had seen it before and remembered with a spark of hope,
Those bad days
passed; so will these.
For now, though, bread would have to be rationed and the ritual baths closed for fear of a water shortage.

The gate into the courtyard of Akiva’s residence was closed and locked. Rabbi Lebowitz rang the bell and waited for one of Akiva’s daughters or a servant to answer. Only seconds passed, but the old man rang the bell again impatiently. From the far side of the thick stone wall, he heard a woman’s voice call loudly, questioning what fool would be out alone on the streets at this hour. He recognized the voice of Yehudit, Akiva’s daughter.

“It is I, Rebbe Lebowitz,” he called. “I have urgent business with your father.”

The hinges of the gate creaked as it swung slowly open.

“
Shalom,
Yehudit,” he greeted the girl.

“
Shalom,
Rebbe Lebowitz. Are you well?” Her tone reflected genuine concern that the old man was out in the cold after dark.

“Well enough, thank God, Omaine,” he answered, moving past her purposefully. “Your father is not engaged?”

“He is in the study, Rebbe Lebowitz. He studies the Prophets tonight.” She opened the door and let the old man pass.

“A worthy pastime. Perhaps we shall find our answers there.”

Yehudit knocked softly on the door to her father’s study. “Father, Rebbe Lebowitz has come.”

Rabbi Lebowitz heard the sound of a drawer closing; then the door swung open. Akiva’s grim face and massive frame blocked the old man’s view of the study. Akiva nodded and stepped aside, revealing bookshelves against every wall and a large desk with papers stacked like piles of fallen leaves.

“My friend,” Akiva said blandly as he took the old man’s arm and led him to a large leather chair. “Have you any word on your grandson? Are you well?”

“I have been better, Rebbe Akiva. And as for Yacov—” the old man coughed— “still no word on his condition.”

Akiva circled the desk and sat down in his chair, folding his hands across a stack of photographs that lay before him. “What can I help you with?” Akiva asked without warmth.

The old rabbi stared first at Akiva’s sausagelike fingers, then at the photographs they rested on. With a start, he recognized them as the pictures of the scroll that the redheaded woman had shown him the day Yacov had gone with her. He tugged his beard, then gazed at Akiva with astonishment. “Forgive me, Rebbe Akiva,” he said finally. “You are studying Isaiah, I see. You do not have a scroll of the prophet?”

Akiva leaned back and tapped at the stack of Ellie’s scroll photographs with his fingers. “It is nothing. I have been asked to examine these. Photographs of a scroll possibly stolen from a genizah. The scroll itself is in the possession of an important citizen.

Interesting, but hardly of merit.”

“I have seen those very photographs, Rebbe Akiva. They were in the possession of the woman with whom my Yacov left. They are―”

Rabbi Lebowitz stopped speaking as he noticed Akiva’s expression change to acute interest.

“Go on, friend,” Akiva pressed.

“Hardly of merit, as you say … ,” the old man finished, feeling vaguely uneasy.
How did Akiva come by them?

“Exactly what I shall tell the owner of the scroll. Without merit …”

Akiva shrugged. “Well,” he said abruptly, “we are making some headway in our negotiations, Rebbe Lebowitz. The Arab High Command and the British seem willing to help us if we are willing to make some minor concessions.”

“That is what I came to speak with you about,” said the old man, leaning forward in his chair. “Perhaps if I could see Yacov―”

“If we agree to forbid weapons in our Quarter,” Akiva interrupted, “the British will escort our people through the Arab Quarter. Soon,”

he said, smiling, “you will be able to see your grandson, Reb Lebowitz.”

Relief filled the old man and he raised his right hand slightly. “God be praised,” he whispered.

“The Mufti knows that we are but poor scholars here.” Akiva tugged at his vest. “We have no need for Haganah or weapons in these streets.”

“Well said, Rebbe Akiva. Well spoken.
Come now, let us reason
together.
”

“The Muslims are a reasonable people on the whole,” Akiva said with authority. “The Mufti and I have dealt with such passions before. As always, the passions will die, and we will live in peace.”

Akiva rose and walked to the door. He called loudly for Yehudit.

When she came quickly, her eyes downcast, he demanded, “Yehudit, can you not see that our friend is in need of tea?”

After Yehudit nodded and disappeared down the hallway. Akiva turned back to Rabbi Lebowitz. “Now, about these photographs?”

He smiled broadly.

The old rabbi buried the suspicion he felt, instead telling himself that Akiva had given him good news and perhaps he would do well to return favor for favor by giving him information. “The
shiksa
, the red-haired woman, brought them. She works for The American School of Oriental Research. They are goyim, and she had no knowledge of the Hebrew language. I read the passage from Isaiah to her―”

“What of the scroll itself?” Akiva interrupted, his eyes narrowing.

Again Rabbi Lebowitz felt a vague uneasiness. “She thought that perhaps it was ancient. She spoke of another as the owner. Possibly that the school might purchase it. I told her only what you have concluded: that it is taken from a genizah and probably worthless.

Nu?
”

“Just so.” Akiva stared at the photographs, then looked up at Rabbi Lebowitz again. “Ah, but if it were indeed written by the hand of the ancients … then a chest the size of this desk filled with pounds sterling would not touch the value of such a find.”

“An unusual script, Rebbe Akiva, but I think the only thing of value would be the words that are written, not the scroll they are written upon.”

“Perhaps.” Akiva paused. “That is the view of a true scholar, Rebbe Lebowitz.”

Yehudit brought a steaming pot of tea and served it in delicate china teacups. Rabbi Lebowitz gratefully drank the strong brew, feeling the warmth return to his body.
Rebbe Akiva is a truly great man,
he thought as they discussed the Torah together.
Who else could walk in
the ways of peace and find an answer to the terrible threats that
surround the Quarter?

When at last the candle burned low and the old man threaded his way back home, thoughts of Ellie’s photographs were dim in his mind.

The anticipation of seeing Yacov kept him warm.

***

Howard Moniger adjusted the focus of the large microscope on the table and examined a fragment of the scroll from the envelope Ellie had marked
Secret Code
. Tiny rivulets and pores on its yellowed surface caused him to draw an astonished breath.

“What is it?” Moshe asked, drawing nearer.

Howard stepped aside for Moshe to take his place at the lens. “Have a look for yourself.”

Moshe sat on the stool and peered at the magnified fragment. “It is leather,” he said simply. “It is leather, not parchment. Howard, do you know what this could mean?” He could hardly take his eyes away from the microscope. But when Moshe at last looked up, Howard was trembling with excitement.

“She said that the old rabbi told her it was the complete book of Isaiah.” Howard shook his head in amazement. “If it means what I think it means …”

“ … it could well be the most important find of our century, Howard!” Moshe finished. “Thank God she has the negatives of the photographs. When she feels well enough, we’ll have her make up another set, eh?”

“She’s at it right now, Moshe.” Howard laughed. “Back in the lab.”

***

Eerily surrounded by memories of all that had transpired since she had first developed the pictures of the scroll, Ellie watched the strange letters appear on the blank paper in the developing tray. She rinsed the final prints and hung them carefully to dry, then went to work on the roll of film she had taken on the day of the riot.

From negative to print took only a few minutes. Print by print she retraced her trip through the Old City to Yacov’s door, then out the Jaffa Gate. The face of the policeman glared back at her from the tray, causing her to shudder involuntarily. Finally, the anguished tailor cried out as the curved blade of the murderer’s knife plunged into his back.

She rinsed the prints and tried to look at them with the objectivity of a professional photographer. “The policeman is a bit fuzzy.

Forgiveable with all the smoke and jostling. But the murder―an incredible shot.” Then a sadness swept over her. She looked away quickly and snapped on the light. It was all reality, not simply an act staged for the benefit of her camera. The memory of the screams crowded into her mind, and once again she felt a wave of nausea.

She groped for her stool and sat down, dropping her head to her knees.

Her stomach had just begun to settle when there was a soft knock on the door.

“You about finished?” Uncle Howard called through the door.

“Almost,” she said, trying to sound cheerful. “Don’t open the door for a second.” She sat up and took a deep breath, careful not to look at the tailor. “Okay, come in.” She forced a smile.

Like excited children on Christmas morning, Moshe and Howard opened the door, then froze, dumbfounded, at the rows of photographs.

Howard let out a low whistle and put his arm around Ellie, who sat pale and shaken on the stool next to him. “What do you think?” he asked Moshe, who caressed the images with his eyes.

“Beautiful. The letters drip like honey from the rule lines. I have not ever seen anything quite like it.” He looked at Ellie in admiration.

“You have done well, my little
shiksa
.” He touched her face tenderly and bent to kiss her forehead, but she stiffened and stood suddenly, moving back to her worktable and the prints of the riot in the rinsing tray.

Moshe stood behind her, his hand on her shoulder. She turned and saw his jaw tense with anger as he took in the face of Hassan and then the tailor as he screamed and died. Smoke and fire and cries of anguish seemed to fill the room.

Howard’s gaze followed Moshe’s.

“You saw this,” Howard said heavily, looking as though he had been kicked in the gut. “Dear God, Ellie! You were in the middle of it!”

“I thought I’d send that picture someplace.” She struggled to sound matter-of-fact, trying to dismiss their concern as if the riot had been an everyday occurrence. “Maybe
LIFE
magazine or someplace.” She pushed past them both and stalked out of the darkroom and into the lighted lab, leaving them to stare at the photographs.

“Are you okay, my friend?” she heard Howard ask Moshe. Moshe seemed to be as deeply affected by the pictures as she was. But how could he be? He hadn’t been there.

Moshe did not answer. Instead he turned away and followed Ellie into the lab. “You are right,” he said, gently touching her hair.

“These pictures must be seen. We are sending fragments of the scroll to New York for analysis. Your photographs must accompany them.”

He lowered his voice. “Truly you are a remarkable woman.” He kissed her trembling lips, then walked down the hall toward the study.

Uncle Howard entered the lab and leaned against the stainless-steel table. He fixed a steady gaze on Ellie. “Are you all right, child?” he asked tenderly.

Ellie nodded. “Sure.”

“Sure?” he asked again.

“I guess I just … ,” she began haltingly, choking back a flood of tears that wanted to escape. “I feel so empty. I’ve been living in some kind of fairy tale, Uncle Howard. I never watched a man die before, you know. Death is so―” She stopped, unable to find the words.

“Real.”

“I saw it. I felt it follow me from rooftop to rooftop. It chased me. It scared me. I’m not ready for it, and nobody who died down on that street was ready for it or expected it.”

Howard walked toward her and put his arms around her. She rested her head against his chest, and tears began to flow silently.

“There, there,” he crooned, wiping the tears away.

“Aren’t you scared, Uncle Howard?” she asked in a little-girl voice.

“No, dear. Every day I piece together the fragments of someone’s life. No matter that they lived in the first century―they were alive, like you and me. I live with death’s reality, but I’m not afraid of it.

God says our lifetime is not much more than a breath of wind. In all of eternity we are a tiny second, the blink of God’s eye. Still, He sees us and cares for us. And He’s got a reason for our being here.”

Ellie pushed herself away. “How can you believe that? What possible purpose could that tailor’s death serve? And what difference could it make that I be there?”

“I don’t know, Ellie. And I’m not saying that God caused this to happen. Men did. But I’m going to pray that somehow what seems so wrong and senseless now will be used for some purpose.” Uncle Howard rubbed his forehead wearily. “It all sounds so trite, doesn’t it?”

She looked away, avoiding his gaze. “I don’t know. I just have to think where I fit in all of this.”

“I’m sorry, honey. I wouldn’t have asked you to come if I had known you’d have to see any of this. I’ll see to it that you get back to California as soon as possible.”

She laughed sarcastically. “Back to the real world?”

“Back where you are safe. I think it’s best.”

“One thing about me, Uncle Howard: I’ve always managed to play it safe. I just didn’t know there was any other game.”

“I feel responsible,” he said, shaking his head.

“It’s nobody’s fault but my own. But I can’t believe that God or somebody has some kind of plan for my being here, either. I’ll make my own plans and learn to live with them; that’s all.” She walked slowly out of the room, the face of the tailor vivid in her mind.