The Source

by James A. Michener

  Reich jammed the incriminating papers back into his pouch, muttering, “It wasn’t the atom bomb that drove them away. It was their own corrupt leadership.” And he stood, feet apart, facing Ilana and swore, “You and I and Gottesmann could have held that fort for thirty days. But at the first sign of attack, they ran away.” He burst into idiotic laughter, the only time Ilana had heard him do so, and with disgust he pointed at himself: “The great general! For three days I’ve been biting my fingernails over that goddamned fort, and it’s been standing empty. It was finally occupied by my heroic troops … two little boys.”

  Possession of the fort brought Ilana a moment of elation, but it could not extend for long, for these were the culminating days when any local victory meant not termination but the beginning of some new responsibility, and Teddy came to the point of his visit: “They need us at Acre, Lan. We’re leaving after sunset.”

  Ilana, anticipating what was to be said next, protested: “Why Acre?”

  “Safad all over again,” Teddy explained. “A key point. Lots of Arabs. No Jews. We’ve got to take it quickly.”

  “You ordering us to help?” Ilana asked.

  “I must. Is Gottesmann equal to it?”

  “He will be,” she said, and when Teddy left she wakened her husband and told him, “Tonight we go to Acre.” He said nothing, but he was able to dress, and it seemed to his wife that his long sleep had restored his self-control. His nerves, at least, were steadier.

  That afternoon the lovers strolled through the town they had done so much to save. They climbed to the old Crusader ruins from which they could see the lake where they had first made love, and then walked down to the mosques which the Arabs had abandoned. The arts which the Muslims had used in decorating their holy places seemed finer than anything the Jews could show in their synagogues, and Gottesmann said, “We must preserve these buildings until the Arabs come back.” They sat for some time looking at the Galilee, and Ilana whispered, “I’ve only one regret, Gottesmann. I wish I were pregnant.” Her husband started to comment, but she said, “I’d like to leave Safad tonight thinking that while you and Reich were giving birth to a new state …” He tried to say that she and Vered were doing at least as much to win the new Israel, but he could not phrase his ideas, so finally they went back to the Jewish quarter to say good-bye to Rebbe Itzik, whom they had come to think of as their friend, “our difficult friend,” Ilana called him; but on the way they passed the plaza of the police station, and when Gottesmann saw this formidable building, when he recalled how Nissim Bagdadi had taken it by force of will alone, and when he stood at the spot where Bagdadi had fallen, he trembled and again lost coherence. Then, forming fists, he quieted himself and said, “We needed him so much,” and Ilana wondered if Reich would want Gottesmann at Acre; but after a while the storm subsided and they left the spot which had affected him so harshly.

  Rebbe Itzik bade the couple farewell. “Get married,” he said, still unwilling to look at Ilana directly.

  Ilana answered, “On one thing you were wrong. We took Safad.”

  The Vodzher Rebbe smiled. “God’s miracle did it. Well … miracle plus natural force.”

  “You mean the rain?” Ilana asked.

  “No,” the rebbe replied. “That God should come down to aid His Jews in the rainstorm was natural. The miracle was that so many Jews could fight together in a common cause.”

  “We shall see you again,” Ilana said. “In Israel.”

  “Then we shall begin the real battle,” the rebbe said. “For the soul of Israel.”

  That night Teddy Reich and a group of tested fighters rode out of Safad in a truck to reinforce Jewish troops trying to capture the important Arab stronghold of Acre, and they drove without lights lest they arouse Arab patrols operating between Safad and the coast. All went well until the truck approached the old tell of Makor, which for millennia had guarded this road, and there some Arabs were engaged in an assault on the kibbutz and turned to fire upon the truck. A lively skirmish ensued, at the height of which MemMem Bar-El cried, “They’re running. Knock them out.”

  The Jews fanned out across the tell, each shooting at the retreating Arabs, when one of the enemy whipped about and fired rapidly. He hit Ilana Hacohen and she pitched head-first down the far slope of the mound. When Reich got to her she was dead, and he said, “Fetch Gottesmann,” and two fighters overtook the German Jew, who was climbing back up the mound, his self-control restored by the skirmish.

  “Over here,” Bar-EPs voice called, and Gottesmann moved through the darkness to where his friends huddled over a fallen body.

  “You capture an Arab?” he asked. And when he came to the spot the silent figures separated, allowing him to pass, and he saw that the dead fighter was Ilana Hacohen, her hands still gripping her English rifle.

  A terrible cry rose from his throat, involuntarily, a long-drawn wail of anguish. He clutched his chest as if he were a madman and the accumulated passions of ten years broke over him. He rejected the self-discipline he had only just regained and threw himself on the ground beside the stalwart girl who now lay dead. He could not fully comprehend what had happened; the death of Ilana coming so soon after the death of Bagdadi was more than his distraught nervous system could tolerate: a man could bear ten years of war, absorbing one shock after another—family dead, underground partners betrayed, English companions shot by Germans, Jewish refugees drowned off Italy, smiling Bagdadi dead when needed most—a man could stand ten years of that, but not ten years and one day. His convulsive hands reached out to grasp Ilana, the perceptive, the lovable Ilana of Galilee, but all that his fingers could reach was the soil of the mound, the soil from which his ancient people had sprung; and as that earth sifted through his fingers, as he felt its cool impartial existence, he slowly gained strength, and a terrible fury—worse even than his initial wail of despair—possessed him, and he pushed himself up from the soil and turned his back on the dead. Shoving the others aside, impelled by an agonizing vision of the future, tormented and glorious, like the apocalyptic visions that Gomer and the psalmist had known on this mound, he cried, “I’m no longer Isidore Gottesmann. I’m no longer a German Jew. I’ll be the tree that was cut down. My name is Ilan. I’ll be God’s Man. My name is Eliav, and I shall fight for this land …”

  Mechanically he started down the steep side of the mound, firing his rifle idiotically, aimlessly, like some mechanized avenging angel gone berserk, and Teddy Reich said with cold calculation, “Let him go. At Acre we can use a hundred like him.”

  And so the Jew Ilan Eliav left Makor, blazing in fury and setting his feet upon a trail that would lead not only to Acre, but beyond it to Jerusalem and to definitions he could not then have foreseen, blinded as he was by incoherent pain.

  The Tell

  Schematic diagram of Tell Makor from the south on the afternoon of Monday, November 30, 1964, at the conclusion of the first years dig. Horizontal scale accurate; vertical scale extended. Solid lines indicate certain sites which will be excavated during subsequent campaigns of 1965-1973 C.E. Observe that the actual distances between levels vary considerably. (For example, as can be seen in the chart on this page, the distance between Levels XV and XIV is twenty feet, whereas the distance between Levels X and IX is only two feet.) Observe also that the monolith to El, perhaps the most significant of the remains buried in the tell, will be missed by the excavators.

  With the approach of November and its threat of rain Cullinane could feel the work at the dig grinding to a halt. His own thoughts were in Chicago, where Vered Bar-El was delivering her series of unnecessary lectures on “The Candlestick of Death.” Paul Zodman airmailed batches of news clippings showing Vered posed with the fatal menorah, accompanied by captions which explained that six of the king’s enemies had been slain and finally the king himself, because, in the timeless words of the Australian journalist, “he was his own worst enemy.” But when Cullinane read the articles he found that Vered had been honest enough to c
onfess that the story was a fake.

  Nevertheless, the clippings disturbed Cullinane because they reminded him of how much he loved this delightful woman: when she peered at him from behind the menorah she was positively enchanting and he longed for her return. I’ll propose the minute she gets off the plane, he vowed, but his preoccupation with Vered was interrupted by a newspaper story which altered radically the course of the excavation, not only in 1964 but also for the years ahead.

  ILAN ELIAV FOR CABINET POST

  FOLLOWING KALINSKY RETIREMENT

  J’lem Sources Insist Appointment

  Certain If Religious Parties Agree

  When Cullinane read the news his first reaction was: This is what’s been keeping Eliav and Vered apart. But what the relationship was he could not guess and before he could ask Tabari to untangle it, Schwartz from the kibbutz appeared to ask if Cullinane would see one of the women who worked in the dining hall. It was big Zipporah, and Cullinane guessed that she was seeking his help in finding a job somewhere, for she was Rumanian and as such was apt to be ambitious. He doubted that he could be of much help, but against his better judgment he allowed her to enter.

  She was a handsome woman of thirty, strong and lively, and he recalled how vigorous she was in the kitchen, how rudely amiable in the serving. When she extended her large hand and smiled he knew he was lost. “What is it, Zipporah?” he asked.

  The pleasant woman sat down, pointed to the headline about Eliav and burst into tears, not feminine tactical tears but great sobs of perplexity and grief. “Oh, damn,” he growled so loudly that she heard him.

  “I sorry, Dr. Cullinane,” she sobbed. “I needing help.”

  “I’m sure you do,” he replied banally and even with sarcasm. But as soon as he said the words he felt ashamed and took a quick look at her arms to see if they were tattooed with German slave numbers. They weren’t. It wasn’t going to be one of those cases, thank God! Relieved, he rose, walked to her side of the desk and offered her his handkerchief. “I’m sorry, Zipporah. Now, what can I do?”

  She blew her nose and looked at the door. “Can I closing it?” she asked.

  “Of course.” He got to the door before her, then escorted her back to her seat. “Now, tell me what’s happened.”

  Without speaking she took from her pocketbook the inevitable sheaf of worn papers that every Jew in Israel seemed to have. He groaned. It was to be one of those cases. An appeal to the American Embassy, no doubt. When she had her papers in a neat pile she asked quietly, “Is it true, Dr. Eliav going to cabinet?”

  He pointed to the headline in the English-language paper. “I know nothing. But the story seems real.”

  “What I wanting to know …” The Rumanian woman could not finish her sentence because tears, which she could not control, dripped off her nose and struck her papers.

  Cullinane waited for some moments, wondering how Ilan Eliav’s putative promotion could cause such a flood of grief. Was the husky girl in love with him? Was she jealous of Vered Bar-El? It was too deep for him, so he shrugged his shoulders and waited.

  After a while Zipporah blew her nose again and fought to regain control. “I so ashamed,” she apologized. “Usually not crying, but the world … I wanting help.”

  “Now put your papers up here, take a drink of water … You smoke?”

  “Oh yes!” she cried with relief. After the first puffs she relaxed and asked formally, “Will you do me the honor to listening, Dr. Cullinane?”

  “I sure will,” he assured her.

  “Here is Zipporah Zederbaum, born Rumania thirty years ago. Married to Isaac Zederbaum nine years ago Tel Aviv. Widow. I working very hard …”

  “I’ve seen that. I wish I could find a housekeeper like you in America.”

  At this unfortunate word the stalwart girl’s composure left her, and she wept for some minutes. “I sorry,” she apologized. “My husband … I know you hearing many things like this too much … but he no good. Really. Not give me one agorot to feeding myself. Ran away with Yemeni girl. Left her and going to America. Never send me no money and while he walking along a road”—she consulted her papers—“in Arizona. He killed by truck. So now my friend Yehiam Efrati … maybe you know him? He working in dairy.”

  “I don’t know him, but he wants to marry you?”

  “Yes,” she cried brightly, as if he had solved a puzzle. “It’s so hard, Dr. Cullinane. A widow my age. Not easy to finding a man who will to marry her. But he is good man.” She dropped her head and repeated quietly, “Yehiam, a very good man.”

  “You’re lucky, Zipporah, to find a man like Yehiam,” Cullinane said enthusiastically. “Now, what can I do to help?”

  “Would you speaking to Dr. Eliav for me? If he going onto the cabinet …”

  “We’re not sure of that yet, but let’s suppose he does. What am I to do?”

  “He must speaking with the rabbis,” she whispered. “They must changing what they say.”

  “What have they said?” Cullinane asked, and the inevitable papers were pushed before him.

  “This my birth paper. Good Jewish parents. This my wedding paper. Signed by rabbi. This is a photograph my husband’s death paper. Notary public American here, rabbi’s name here. And this Yehiam Efrati’s birth paper. Also good Jewish family.”

  “Everything seems to be in order,” Cullinane said brightly, checking off the various documents.

  “And this,” she said dully, “what the rabbis in Jerusalem saying.”

  Cullinane took the document, obviously official, and read the pertinent parts:

  In the case of Zipporah Zederbaum, widow, who wishes to marry with Yehiam Efrati, bachelor, the judges find that a brother of the deceased husband of said Zipporah Zederbaum is still living in Rumania, and that this living brother, Levi Zederbaum, refuses to grant his brother’s widow permission to remarry. On this point the law is clear, as stated in Deuteronomy Chapter 25: “If brethren dwell together, and one of them die, and have no child, the wife of the dead shall not marry without unto a stranger: her husband’s brother shall go in unto her, and take her to him to wife, and perform the duty of an husband’s brother unto her … And if the man like not to take his brother’s wife, then let his brother’s wife go up to the gate unto the elders, and say, My husband’s brother refuseth to raise up unto his brother a name in Israel, he will not perform the duty of my husband’s brother. Then the elders of his city shall call him, and speak unto him: and if he stand to it, and say, I like not to take her; Then shall his brother’s wife come unto him in the presence of the elders, and loose his shoe from off his foot, and spit in his face, and shall answer and say, So shall it be done unto that man that will not build up his brother’s house.”

  Long ago the rabbis determined that the widow of a dead man must not remarry until her dead husband’s brother give his consent, and it was further agreed that this consent must be given in writing, testified to by proper rabbinical authorities. In this case, all that Zipporah Zederbaum needs do is to obtain in writing the permission of her brother-in-law Levi Zederbaum in Rumania. She would then be free to remarry. But since her brother-in-law refuses to grant her this permission she is not legally free to remarry. And her petition to do so is denied.

  Cullinane looked up from the amazing document. His first thought was: She’s playing a joke on me. A medieval joke. Then he saw that she wasn’t. “What does it mean?” he asked.

  “As it says,” she replied. She was angry and there were to be no more tears.

  “In Israel a widow has to get written permission from her dead husband’s brother …”

  “Yes.”

  “But why?”

  “Our law. Husband’s family still has interest in dead man’s wife.”

  “Does that mean your brother-in-law in Rumania is offering to support you?”

  “Support?” she echoed contemptuously. “No Zederbaum ever helping another.”

  “Then why doesn’t he sign the release …
let you get married?”

  The sturdy young woman handed Cullinane a translation of a letter and sat back clothed in fury as he read it:

  Braşov, Rumania

  Sept. 3, 1964

  To the Rabbis of Jerusalem,

  I understand from the incredible document delivered to me yesterday that my sister-in-law, Zipporah Zederbaum, whose husband is dead, is not free to remarry unless I sign a paper indicating that I do not want to marry her and that she is free to marry someone else.

  I also understand that if I were in Jerusalem my sister-in-law would have the obligation, when she heard that I did not want to marry her, to take off my shoe and spit in my face.

  This is the twentieth century, and if I participated in any way in such medieval rites the authorities in Rumania would be justified in considering me a fool. I refuse to sign any such nonsense and I advise you to forget it too.

  In disgust,

  LEVI ZEDERBAUM

  Cullinane folded the letter and thought: It’s about what I’d have written. “What can you do now?” he asked Zipporah.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  “What do you mean, nothing?”

  “That’s why I coming to see you,” she explained. “After this letter, nothing to do.”

  “You mean you have to live the rest of your life unmarried … while a man is willing to marry you and support you.”

  “Yes,” she said simply.

  “It’s inhuman.”

  “It’s the law,” she said, stuffing the papers back into her purse.

  “Law, hell!” Cullinane snapped. “You wait here.” He ran out to the dig, calling, “Eliav? Can you come in for a minute?” When Eliav approached, Cullinane asked, “What’s this about a cabinet position?”