by Ehud Diskin
As I ate with gusto, Avrum turned to his wife. “Look, Hannah, at how much he’s enjoying your food! Perhaps we should invite him for breakfast again next week?”
“I’m willing.” Hannah smiled. “Just be careful not to get between him and his plate; you might lose a finger.”
I smiled and put down my fork. “Would it be okay for me to bring my girlfriend along? She has better table manners than I do.”
“Of course,” Avrum responded.
“Thanks,” I said, “but I should warn you—we shouldn’t talk about politics around her. She’s not a fan of the British because of the hardship they impose on the Jews here in Israel. Once I complimented their bravery during the war, and she didn’t talk to me for two weeks!”
We shook hands and parted ways. Back in my apartment, I spent the rest of the morning mulling over everything Avrum and I had talked about. I realized he wasn’t a traitor but rather a wholehearted Zionist who was naïve.
My conclusion, from all that I had read and heard, was that the British had reneged on their commitments to the Jewish people. They were never going to allow us to establish a national home. They were never going to allow unrestricted immigration for the Jewish survivors living in misery in the refugee camps throughout Europe. The only way to achieve these goals was through force.
When I was a partisan, our motto had been “What can’t be achieved by force can be achieved by more force.” We had to make life here impossible for the British.
I LEFT MY APARTMENT AND made my way to Shoshana’s house. I loved our walks together to and from the restaurant. Not being able to express my love for her was so difficult, but at least I could still spend time with her and still appreciate her gentle nature, her kindness, and her wisdom.
As we walked to work together, I told her I had met a nice couple in my neighborhood, how we had become friends, and that I had been to their home for breakfast. When I said they had invited us both to breakfast next week, she readily agreed.
The moment we arrived at Café Pinsk, I could tell by the look on Max’s face that something was wrong. He greeted me with a larger-than-usual dose of nasty remarks. At one point, he called Shoshana into his office and closed the door. They were in there for at least fifteen minutes, and when they stepped out again, Max gave me another scolding.
As I washed dishes in the kitchen sink with an angry clatter, Shoshana pulled me aside. “I just asked Max to invite you to join us, but he called you a coward and a wimp.”
“Sometimes I really think he does not like me,” I said.
She gave me a rueful smile and then frowned slightly. “Do you remember Inspector Greene, the British police officer that Max was talking to?”
“Was that his name?”
“Max and Greene have grown a lot closer lately,” Shoshana continued, ignoring my sulky mood. “Max discovered that the inspector plays a key role in the capture and arrest of underground members, and Max has won his trust by occasionally providing him with minor bits of information about the underground. A few days ago, Greene called Max to his office and told him that he is planning to arrest several dozen underground members. The inspector asked him to provide some intelligence for the operation. Max not only wants to stop the operation, he also wants to send a warning to the underground, but he’s worried it could expose him.”
I’m sure he is, I thought. For all of Max’s contempt toward me, he was fighting for the same end goal that I was—a Jewish homeland. I knew Shoshana wanted me to help him, and I wasn’t opposed to the idea; however, right now I needed to keep a low profile.
“Perhaps you could do something to prove yourself to him,” she said. “He doesn’t understand what you’ve been through.”
Shoshana waited for my response, and when none came, she sighed. She picked up one of the dishes I had just washed and began to dry it with a dishtowel as she spoke. “I told Max that you commanded a group of partisans during the war and surely have a better understanding of such things than he or I do. But he said he was thankful to have more serious people as consultants.” She rolled her eyes and looked over at me. “I hate that he keeps calling you a coward, insulting you, when I know how brave you are.”
I folded my arms over my chest and leaned against the sink behind me. “Max’s problem is complex. Give me a day or two, and I’ll try to come up with an idea that you can pass on to him. He certainly won’t listen to anything I have to say.”
I didn’t need a day, certainly not two. I already had a solution in mind. Since I first started working at Café Pinsk, I had kept a watchful eye on the British soldiers and police officers who visited the restaurant regularly. Greene typically came in on Wednesdays around seven o’clock, always got drunk on whiskey and beer, and then left at around ten.
As much as I preferred to avoid committing outright murder, sometimes there was really no other choice. If I wanted to save Max and stop Greene’s plan to arrest underground members, it looked like the good inspector was going to have to die.
ON THE FOLLOWING DAY, A Wednesday, I made my way to Shoshana’s home at noon. I told her that I wasn’t feeling well and that Max should find someone to cover for me.
“Do you need any medication?” she asked. “Would you like me to bring you anything when I get home from work tonight?”
“I don’t need anything right now,” I said, touched by the offer. “But I’d be very happy if you were to come by on your way home to check up on me.”
“Gladly,” Shoshana responded, flashing me a look that made my heart beat faster. I was ever hopeful.
I went back to my apartment and spent the day resting and reading. I also found time to pull my Enfield revolver from its hiding place, clean it, and load it. At around nine o’clock, I left my apartment with the pistol in my jacket pocket. I knew the British had set up a checkpoint at the top of Chancellor Street a few days earlier, so I bypassed it by heading along Yishayahu Street instead. Then I slipped into the dark stairwell almost exactly opposite Café Pinsk and waited, my eyes fixed on the door of the restaurant.
In all the time I had been working at the restaurant, Greene had never missed a single Wednesday, and I was hoping he wouldn’t break his habit. Indeed, just minutes after ten o’clock, he stepped out into the cold, buttoned his coat, and turned toward Ben Yehuda Street. I decided it would be best to approach him from the front rather than the rear—if he noticed someone coming up behind him, he could get suspicious.
I hurried to Shamai Street, which ran parallel to Ben Yehuda, then turned into an alley that connected the two streets and made my way back. I cocked the revolver and put it in my coat pocket, then headed up Ben Yehuda from the lower end of the street. All at once I saw my target. Greene was walking down the hill, coming toward me.
The street was deserted. As I walked, I held the upturned collar of my jacket with both hands, giving the impression I was shielding my neck from the cold air. I swayed a little to make the Brit think I was drunk.
Greene approached, his gaze upon me, his right hand in the pocket of his coat, probably wrapped around the butt of a loaded weapon. He must have suspected something, because he moved slightly to the side and out of arm’s reach, presumably to give himself some room if a fight broke out. Such precautions might have saved his life had I been less experienced.
As I passed him, I swiftly pulled the revolver from my pocket and shot him in the temple. He was dead before he hit the ground.
“The wimp has solved your problem, Max,” I muttered.
A quick search through Greene’s pockets revealed two .38-caliber Webley revolvers and several spare cartridges, which I grabbed before returning to my apartment. There, I cleaned the weapon I had used to kill Greene and put it and the two new revolvers into my hiding place behind the curtain cornice.
I took a shower, and then to make my eyes red and weary, I rubbed them a lot. An hour or so later, there was a knock on the door. When I opened it, Shoshana was standing there with a concerned look on her f
ace.
“Have I woken you up?” she asked as she entered. “Your eyes are red.” She peered at me closely. “I hope you haven’t come down with anything serious. I’ve brought you some soup for dinner.”
“Thank you for the soup,” I said. “I think I’m getting better, and I’m sure I’ll be fine in the morning.”
“Would you like me to spend the night and take care of you?” she asked, leaning to the side to look around the place. “I could sleep on your couch.”
I smiled outwardly but felt a sharp twinge inside at the reminder of our lack of intimacy. “You don’t have to do that. Just the sight of you makes me feel better. Go home, and I’ll walk you to work tomorrow.”
She surprised me with a kiss on the cheek. “Good night, then. Please get better.”
The next day I was, indeed, “better.” As Shoshana and I walked to the restaurant, we encountered three British checkpoints. Shoshana and I both had the necessary papers and weren’t detained. When we got to the restaurant, Max looked at me scornfully, as usual.
“I had a problem that Shoshana said I should consult with you about,” he said. “I didn’t because you’re a wimp. Thankfully, something happened last night that solved my problem without any need for your help. Carry on having a good time while your Jewish brothers, who so desperately need help, continue to suffer.”
“I’m pleased to hear that your problem has been solved,” I said. “But if you ever need my advice or help in the future, don’t hesitate to ask.”
Max snorted and walked away.
Later that night, while walking home with Shoshana, I saw British soldiers patrolling the streets in pairs, more alert and vigilant than ever. A sudden thought struck me. If an experienced policeman came to my apartment to conduct a search, he wouldn’t have much trouble finding my weapons cache.
When I woke the following morning, I went out to the backyard and inspected the stone wall that encircled the yard. In a section of the wall behind the apricot tree, I managed to dislodge a large rock and discovered that there was a hollow space behind the front and the back stones of the fence. All I had to do was place my weapons in the hollow space and chisel the rock down slightly. It would make a perfect hiding place. I decided to visit the Bukharan Market, where I was sure I could find a box for my pistols, and also check out the Tnuva dairy that Avrum had mentioned.
I arrived at a three-story building topped by the dairy’s water tower. I opened the door to the ground floor, which served as a warehouse, and asked one of the workers to call Yaakov Dover. The man walked over to the opening of a large pipe fixed to the wall and shouted into it.
“Yaakov, you have a visitor!”
A strange method of communication, I thought, but apparently an efficient one. A few minutes later, a tall man with curly black hair and a bushy mustache came down the steps and asked how he could help me.
“My name is David Gabinsky. I live in Zephaniah Street and work as a waiter at Café Pinsk. I’m a new immigrant from Belarus who wants to take part in the struggle for Jewish independence,” I said. “I was told that you could help me in this regard.”
I expected him to ask who had suggested that I approach him. Instead, he gave me an appraising look and then spoke. “Your Hebrew is good for a newcomer, but I’m Bukharan, so we can speak Russian if you prefer.”
“Interesting,” I said, still speaking in Hebrew. “I was planning on going to the Bukharan Market after this.”
“Have you visited the Bukharan Quarter before?” he asked.
“No, this will be my first time.”
“Pity,” he said. “If I wasn’t so busy right now, I’d give you a tour.” He told me how wealthy Jews from Bukhara, including his own grandfather, had established the quarter as a wealthy neighborhood outside the walls of the Old City some fifty years before.
“At the time, it was Jerusalem’s most luxurious neighborhood,” he explained with a broad wave of his hand, “with spacious stone mansions and large courtyards and pretty public gardens, but most of the residents were forced out by the Turks during World War I. The Turks confiscated homes and turned them into warehouses and stables.”
“That’s terrible,” I said.
He nodded. “Some of the homeowners returned to Jerusalem after the war, but they were no longer the wealthy individuals they once were—the Bolsheviks took care of that. It’s not the same now, with all the mansions subdivided into apartments, but the architecture is still beautiful if you know how to look for it.”
“Interesting,” I said sincerely. I was always eager to learn more about Jerusalem.
“If you have the time, check out the Yehudayoff-Hefetz building on Ezra Street. They call it the Palace, and it deserves its name—Italian Renaissance with beautiful arched windows. Some say it was built for the Messiah, whenever he gets here.”
“I’ll do that,” I said. “Thanks.”
“I have to get back to work,” Yaakov said, glancing at his watch, “but come back tomorrow, and we’ll talk some more.”
So I was being evaluated. Yaakov was a smart man. “Yes,” I said. “I’ll be here at ten.”
I made my way to the Bukharan Quarter, asked for directions to the Palace, and spent a few minutes admiring the impressive structure. From there, I went to the market. The entrance was packed with vegetable, fruit, poultry, and fish stalls, but I figured I’d find what I was looking for deeper inside.
And indeed, at a used-goods store, I came across a metal box with a latch on the side. I haggled over the price and eventually purchased the box, along with a lock and a large iron hammer. I took everything back to my apartment, satisfied, so far, with my plan to hide my weapons.
The next morning, after waiting for my landlords to go to work and their children to leave for school, I removed the rock in the stone wall. For the next hour, I hammered at the rock until I had broken off enough to make a place for the metal box behind it. Inside my apartment, I retrieved the weapons, jewelry, and money from my hiding place above the curtain and placed them in the box. Back outside, I fitted the box in the wall and then wedged the rock back into place, leaving my stash completely concealed. I swept up the shards of rock, mixing them with the trash in the bin.
I made my way back to the Tnuva dairy, where Yaakov Dover was waiting for me at the entrance to the building. We crossed the road together and sat down on a ledge.
“Level with me, David,” Yaakov said. “What brings you to me?”
“I want to protect the Jewish community against the Arabs,” I responded. “I commanded a group of partisans in Belarus, and I have combat experience.” I knew that, unlike the Irgun and Lehi, the Haganah viewed the Arabs as the principal enemy.
Yaakov thought for a moment, then nodded. “We’re meeting this Saturday at eleven in the morning. I suggest you join us. You’ll get to know us, and we’ll get to know you.”
“Gladly,” I said.
“We’re meeting at the Glicksteins’ house on Zephaniah Street. I don’t remember the number, but it’s the building next to the hairdresser, on the corner of Malachi. They live on the second floor. If you have trouble finding the place, the neighbors will help you.”
I left, aware that Yaakov, no doubt, either would have me checked out before the meeting or already had. Resistance fighters knew better than to trust every random man claiming to be a patriot. Time would tell what he thought about me.
TWO DAYS LATER, SHOSHANA AND I walked to Hannah and Avrum’s place for our breakfast date.
“You didn’t tell us your girlfriend was so pretty,” Hannah said when she opened the door.
“Thank you,” Shoshana said, blushing. “You’re lovely too.”
“I have something in my study that I must show David,” Avrum said after shaking Shoshana’s hand. “Excuse us. It’ll only take a minute.”
We went into his study, and he closed the door. “Did you meet with Yaakov from the Haganah?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “We arranged to meet
again. You know, if you were to give me information about the British to pass on to Yaakov, it could help me win their trust. Nothing top secret, of course.”
“Let me think about it. Can you meet me at eight o’clock tomorrow morning at the cobbler’s?”
Hannah and Shoshana were having a lively chat when we joined them at the table. The conversation among the four of us flowed nicely, and before we parted, Avrum invited us for breakfast again the following Tuesday.
“I had a good time at your friends’,” Shoshana said on the walk to work, “but we don’t spend enough time alone. How about we go on a picnic this Saturday, just the two of us? I know of a wonderful spot in the Tel Arza Grove.”
I was thrilled with the idea. I had been thinking for some time that I should express my love for her again. Perhaps enough time had passed for her to consider us having a close relationship instead of just a friendship.
“I’d love to go on a picnic,” I said, “but I’m busy this Saturday. Let’s make it for the following one.”
“Perfect,” Shoshana said. I briefly took her hand and squeezed it, and she squeezed mine back.
The next morning, I met up with Avrum outside the cobbler’s shop.
“I gave your idea some thought,” Avrum said, “and I’ve decided to give it a chance. You can tell Yaakov that this coming Monday evening, the British have plans to arrest members of the Haganah, as well as supporters of the Irgun. So far as I can tell, they don’t have any precise intelligence, but in light of the recent murder of Inspector Greene, they want to make a show of force.”
“Excellent,” I said. “I’ll tell Yaakov.”
Avrum’s expression turned serious. “David, I want you to remember something. I’m a Jewish patriot, and I don’t want Jews to be arrested—unless we’re talking about maniacs like the one who shot those soldiers at the Schneller Barracks. If they had a chance of apprehending that criminal, I’d be happy to play a part in it.”