Braddock's Gold

by Jay Heavner

  At this time, Mike's stomach reminded him of its emptiness. It growled loudly. Mike thought it would start eating his backbone if he didn't feed it soon. He walked up the steep street to the Lion's Gate, built by Suleiman the Magnificent. Two young Israeli soldiers dressed in drab green and carrying M16s stood to the side below the Lion carved in the old wall. They were about 10 feet apart, and their alert eyes scanned the crowds of people looking for any signs of trouble. Mike approached the closer one cautiously and asked, "Young man, could you tell me where I could get a good meal around here?"

  The guard looked at him, suspiciously. Mike smiled at the gun-toting soldier who motioned with his finger for Mike to follow. They walked the short distance to the other soldier, and the first said something to him in Hebrew. The second young soldier looked at Mike and said, "Sir, can I help you? My friend speaks only Hebrew and Czech and did not understand you."

  "Yes," Mike said, relieved, "I'm looking for a place to get a bit to eat quickly. I missed my breakfast, and I'm getting hungry."

  The second young soldier thought for a minute and said, "Stay on this road, it's the Via Dolorosa. About one block up the street, on the left, is a small kiosk eatery run by an old Muslim man named Alean. It's got the best shawarmas in Israel. I stop in regularly."

  Mike asked, "What's a shawarma? I've never heard of that."

  "You may know it as a gyro," the young man said.

  "Oh yeah, I know what that is. Thanks. Say, are you an American? You sound like you come from the Midwest."

  "You are correct, Texas, my name's Jonathan," he answered. "And your name is?"

  "My name's Mike, Mike Levy."

  Jonathan responded, "Mike Levy, you're Jewish. Are you here to make aliyah?"

  "What's this aliyah?"

  "Aliyah means 'to ascend.' It's the term used when Jews return from the Diaspora, the dispersion. All Jews have the right to return and become citizens of Israel," Jonathan said.

  "I didn't know that," said Mike. "I'm here to finish some personal business for my uncle."

  After this, Mike and the young man chatted about the USA. Jonathan said he was a Texas Ranger fan, and Mike said he rooted for the Baltimore Orioles, even though they hadn't won a World Series since 1983. Mike thanked the soldiers for their help, and he was off on the Via Dolorosa. He found Alean's shortly, and there was a long line. Mike hoped the wait would be worth it, and it was. The soldier was right. The food here was great. Mike made a mental note to only stop at street food vendors with lines of customers willing to wait.

  He stopped at St. Anna's Church and listened to a group of tourists sing in Portuguese in an ancient doomed room. The acoustics were perfect, and the singing beautiful even though Mike didn't understand a word. He walked further down the street and found himself in a souk, an Arab Market. The street was narrow, and the merchant's goods for sale in front of their small shops made the street even smaller. Fearing pickpockets, Mike took his wallet from the back pocket and put it in his front pocket.

  He marveled at the various goods available. Anything and everything was for sale: souvenirs, spices, cloths, coffee, food, and luggage. One place looked like a drugstore. There was even an open-air butcher shop with the skinned carcasses of sheep and goats hanging with their blood dripping into the street. The market went on for two more blocks, and Mike arrived at the entrance to the Wailing Wall, also known as the Western Wall. Mike went into the security booth that all persons must go through before being admitted. He took off his watch, belt, emptied his pockets, and removed his shoes with its metal shanks. He went in the metal monitor, and it beeped. Mike was surprised. What had he forgotten? The young soldier in drab green at the monitor looked at Mike and said, "Sir, you need to remove your hat."

  Mike handed him his hat. The soldier took it, looked inside, and felt around the inside. He found nothing. Then he felt the brim and noticed the wire running on the outside. He laid the hat on the belt and ran it through the x-ray machine. "Now go through," the soldier said.

  Mike did, and there was no alarm this time. He collected his things from the belt and put himself back together. He walked out of the building and saw the wall and all the people involved in various religious ceremonies. The men were on the left and the women on the right, separated by a wall about 4 ½ feet tall. Jews of all flavors, Christians, and tourist prayed at the Wall. Mike's hard heart was moved. He walked to the wall and prayed, "Lord, I feel your presence here, and you know the kind of a man I am. You know I'll never change, but please have mercy on this sinner." And then he wept, something he hadn't done since he was a child.

  Slowly Mike turned from the wall, wiped the tears from his cheeks, and then he walked away. He had much to do before the day was over. Mike noted the Al-Aqsa Mosque and the imposing Dome of the Rock, high above him on the Temple Mount. He was now back on the street. He exited the Old City by the Dung Gate. Mike walked the short distance to the City of David, the heart of ancient Jerusalem, the city of the Kings and the prophets. He looked at the exhibits, some of them three millennia old. Beneath his feet, Hezekiah's men had dug the tunnel 1500 feet through solid rock using hand picks and torches for light to bring water to the ancient city on the defensible hill.

  Mike left the Israeli National Park and soon was back on the Line 99 bus. It took a twisting course past many stops. As it passed the Zion Gate, he saw the many bullet holes in the ancient walls, where the Israeli troops had fought their way into the Old City during the Six-Day was in 1969. Mike was running late, so he skipped Stop 20, the Herzl Museum. Herzl was known as the father of the modern Jewish State. But what Mike desired to see was Yad Vashem, the Holocaust Memorial.

  Almost all his family had died or disappeared during this terrible time. Mike's mother talked little about this. It was just too painful for her. What he did know was that his mother and uncle had gotten out with forged papers. They had only enough money for papers for two people, and all the rest were left behind and vanished during the war. Uncle Michael was much younger than his sister and was passed off as her son during the escape to Switzerland. There Mike's mother had discovered she was pregnant with Mike. Would there be some trace of the Levys in the memorial? He hoped for an answer but expected none.

  Chapter 34

  The red bus rounded another bend, and yet another, and pulled up to the forty-five-acre site known as Yad Vashem. Mike walked through the entrance gate and saw the sign that announced, "And to them, I give in my house and within my walls a memorial and a name, a 'yad vashem,' that shall not be cut off. Isaiah 56:5."

  He began the short but reflective walk to the visitor center. There he got an informative brochure on the complex and grabbed a quick meal at the cafeteria. He asked for a cheeseburger but was told the eatery was kosher, and all he could get was a plain hamburger. He purchased one and was served peppers, tomatoes, and carrots, instead of French fries as he expected, but then, he wasn't back in the USA. He purchased a large coffee to drink, asked for milk to add to it, was told it was not kosher, so they gave him some non-dairy creamer. This kosher thing obviously made sense to the locals, but it just puzzled Mike. Oh well, when in Rome, or Israel, do as the Romans, I mean Israelis do. Tomorrow he would be heading for home. There things would be back to normal, cheeseburgers, and milk in his coffee.

  He walked down the tree-lined walkway called the Avenue of the Righteous Among the Nations that lead to the Holocaust History Museum. Stopping at a large plaque, he began to read the story about one of Gentile Righteous. "I believe that it was really due to Loren that I am alive today, and not so much for his material aid, as for his constantly reminding me by his presence, that there still existed a just world outside our own, something and someone still pure and whole for which it was worth surviving." Peter Levi.

  Mike just stared at the plaque, Peter Levi. His father's name was Peter. The last name was spelled differently, but could it be? There were probably many men with that name. His mother had told him once a friendly clergyman had faked b
aptism certificates. With these, his mother and uncle were able to obtain forged papers at a high cost, and been able to escape the Nazis by way of Switzerland.

  He entered the nearly five hundred feet long building known as the Holocaust History Museum. There the story of Shoah, the Holocaust, or Hell was told from the view of the Jews who lived and died under the Nazis and their collaborators. He passed the many artifacts, testimonials, photos, documents, multimedia, and videos. The stories of struggle, death, and survival touched the hard heart of Mike. He walked to the very end to the Hall of Names. In the center, was a suspended large cone, maybe 30 feet across at the bottom. The inside was lined from bottom to top with pictures of victims of the Shoah. Around him rose symbolic tombstones from the floor filled out by survivors in memory of their loved ones.

  He left the building and walked the short distance to the Hall of Remembrance, a square, gray basalt structure built to pay respect to the martyred dead. The names of the 22 Nazi murder sites were carved in the floor. A memorial flame next to a crypt of cremated remains, ashes from the concentration camps, burned. He was weary from all the death; still, he knew he would go on.

  Mike walked past the spire called the Pillar of Heroism that commemorated the Jewish Resistance. He stopped at the Children's Memorial. It was for the one and a half million children who had died. So much killing thought Mike. And why had they not spared even the children?

  He continued to the Cattle Car. Jews were taken to the concentration camps in railroad cars like this. He noted how the bridge the car was on just ended into nothing. How fitting to describe what had happened to the people, the victims, in them. Mike then saw the Warsaw Ghetto Square story presented. Here the Jews fought the Nazis bravely with anything they had before they died. Next, he walked back to the monument to the French town of Le Chambon-sur-Lignon. The Protestant village that had suffered so much persecution from Catholic France had provided a haven and sheltered the Jews.

  Lastly, he stopped at the place that had nagged him since he had first walked in the complex. He had to know about his family. Were there any records of what had happened to them? What of this Peter Levi? Mike found a middle-aged woman to help him. He gave her the information she needed. Soon she returned with papers and pictures. Mike looked through them carefully. He turned a page and with a start, saw a man's face in a photo that looked like his own. It read, "Peter Levi." The information under it said he had survived the Nazis and escaped to Italy. The rest of his known family had died in the war. He walked all the way to Palestine, modern-day Israel, and was killed during the War for Independence. A great load came off Mike's heart. He had found his father. He had found his family. He had found his roots.

  The article continued. It said that Peter Levi was buried at Mount Hertzl. Mount Hertzl, why he had just pasted that place earlier on the bus. He had to go there. He had to see for himself. The bus ride backed seemed more like a dream than reality to the stunned Mike Levy. The bus dropped him and other passengers off at the site. As a mass, they walked into the small building at the graveyard and were directed into a dark room with a movie screen on one wall.

  All remained quiet. After about a minute, a video started telling the story of the vision of Theodor Hertzl, an early Zionist who helped launch the nation of Israel. Through his efforts, the dead Hebrew language was reborn. The film continued as it told the story of the Jews and Israel for nearly an hour. As it was ending, it gave instructions to those present on how to find friends and relatives buried at the site. The film ended, and the room went dark for what seemed an eternity though it was only ten to fifteen seconds. A light came on as the exit doors opened. There was very little noise as the crowd left the room. Those that did speak did so in hushed tones. Mike walked out and went to one of the counters where an elderly woman sat. "May I help you?" the old woman asked.

  Mike looked at the wrinkled, smiling face and noted the crude numbered tattoo on her arm.

  "Yes," he said. "I think my father, Peter Levi, is buried here. Can you help me find where?"

  She nodded her head and began leafing through a large, well-worn book. It did not take long for her to find an answer and give him directions to the grave. He thanked her, turned, and began his walk to the site. He was eager to get there, but it seemed he was walking through a long tunnel even though he was outside with trees around him. He rounded a bend in the walkway, and in front of him, just as the old woman at the desk had said, was the gravesite. It was about 12 feet square and raised 2 feet above the surrounding walkway. Each side had four flat gravestones.

  He looked at a stone. There was writing in Hebrew that he could not read, but also in English which he could. "Eli Klein," it said, "Killed in the Battle for Jerusalem." He looked at another stone and another. On the fourth stone, he saw the name, "Peter Levi," and the inscription, "Killed in the Battle at Kibbutz Yad Mordechai." Tears rolled from his eyes. He had found his father. An attendant for the cemetery was nearby and saw his distress. He came to Mike and asked something in Hebrew. "What?" Mike chocked out.

  "Are you okay, sir?"

  "Yes, I found my father." Mike pointed to the stone.

  The young man was silent for a full minute as Mike wept. He cleared his throat and said, "It is good you found him. Now you can have closure."

  Mike wiped the tears from his face and nodded yes.

  "And others have found him too," the young man added.

  "How do you know that?" the surprised Mike asked.

  "See the small stones on the gravestone? Here in Israel, we don't leave flowers when we visit the dead. We leave a stone."

  Mike looked at the stones on the grave. Seven and one was brightly painted crudely likely done by a small child. Somewhere in Israel, he had family.

  The rest of Mike's time in Israel seemed like a dream. Somewhere nearby was family that didn’t know he even existed. He would like to find them, but he had no time. That would have to wait until a later time.

  Chapter 35

  There was much work to do on the old farm. Uncle Michael had left the old grow house operation in mothballs. The old windmills and solar panels needed attention, as did the gas generators. The industrial-grade batteries for storing electric for the operation were dead and needed a deep charge. Freezing temperatures had broken some of the water lines in the trailers. On and on it went.

  Mike showed Alan now to perform the necessary work. Daily, Mike would leave in the truck, which now had high plywood sides in the bed and a tarp to cover the contents. When he returned, the vehicle was full of supplies for the grow house. One day it was boxes of Jiffy 7's, plastic pots of varying sizes, and fertilizer. Several days he returned with the truck loaded with growing medium, peat moss, vermiculite, and potting soil. Mike instructed Alan on how to start the plants from the high-quality seeds.

  First, hydrate the Jiffy 7's. When they had expanded fully, take a pencil and make a hole about one inch deep in the peat of the Jiffy 7's. Plant two seeds in each of them. Keep them moist and warm. In a few days, the seedlings would come up. If two came up, pick the most vigorous one to keep and eliminate the other. Alan was very busy. Mike told him it would be a lot of work at first, but once the crop was up and growing, it would be a lot easier.

  As it was still chilly outside, they kept all the small plants in one walled-off end of the trailer. It was well-heated and kept lighted eighteen hours a day. Watering at this time was done with a watering can. The fluid contained the maximum amount of liquid fertilizer for optimum growth of the tender plants. Soon they would be transferred to four-inch pots, and the men would start eliminating the male plants that did not produce the desirable and potent buds that could make seeds.

  The plants quickly grew with attentive care. Still, the men made a point of keeping every Saturday as downtime for rest. Friday night, Mike would leave the old farm on the hill and return late the following day. He never said where he went, but he always had fresh groceries from Martin's in Cumberland. One week Alan asked Mike to ge
t some scrapple, also known as pon haus, for him. His mother had made it often for him, and he missed her and her cooking. Mike had never heard of it, but found it at the store, and got some for Alan. That following Sunday morning, Alan fried some up in a pan on the stove. Mike tried a small amount, but really didn't care for it, so Alan ate both servings covered in syrup. "You don't know what you are missin'," he told Mike.

  Mike replied, "To each his own."

  The following week Mike brought back some gefilte fish for Alan to try.

  He nearly blew his dinner as the slimy, gelatinous fish blob went down his throat. Alan questions him, "What are you trying to do? Poison me?"

  To which Mike replied, "To each his own," as he happily downed his treat.

  It was in the evenings when Alan still had a little energy left, and on the days off that Alan, he explored the house and farm. Mike told him to make himself at home. Alan asked if he could look at the extensive library Mike's uncle had left. Mike, who was not much of a book person, told him to knock himself out. "Read all you want. There's not much to do here. Maybe you can find something interesting."

  Aside from the daily paper that continued to appear and the radio, there wasn't much to do after work.

  The first month was hectic. There was so much to do to get the old place, and the grow house back functioning properly. The old drip irrigation watering system gave them fits. Everything was clogged. They got that all cleaned out, but then the fertilizer injection system wouldn't work. Finally, after much trial and error, they got it working. Alan found an old West Virginia Highways map and was able to figure out exactly where the old farm was on the map. He studied the roads and details. He knew this could come in helpful someday.