Isaac's Beacon

by David L. Robbins

  The outhouse stood in the small courtyard of an abandoned factory. The distance to Hugo’s Škoda was short, and the judge took long, eager strides.

  Hugo put him in the front passenger seat with a crisp warning for no false moves. The judge shook his head to tell Hugo there would be no reason to worry.

  The judge waited to speak until Hugo had the car away from the factory and on the road, with night falling. “May I ask a question now?”

  Hugo kept one hand near the butt of his pistol. “Go ahead.”

  “Has Dov Gruner been hung?”

  “No.”

  “So I am to be returned?”

  “Yes.”

  “I say. That is a relief.”

  Hugo motored west toward Ramat Gan. He eyed the judge and kept a hand close to the pistol. Both men were lit up, then faded, by the headlights of oncoming traffic.

  Minutes from Ramat Gan, the judge turned to Hugo. He loomed large in the car, a broad man. “I assume you are Irgun.”

  Hugo tried to hint at menace. “I am.”

  “You’re not wearing a mask. The eight boys who snatched me out of my courtroom, they did nothing to hide their faces, either. I admire the courage, if not the wisdom of that.”

  The judge rolled his wide frame around to face front again.

  “I hear a German accent. Am I correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you there for the war? I realize, that is an awful question.”

  “I was.”

  The judge paused. When Hugo turned, the judge had his eyes fixed on him.

  “I’m sorry. But listen to me. That does not excuse you.”

  Hugo pulled to the shoulder aggressively, skidding in the gravel. He said, “Your country needs Arab oil. Does that excuse you? Don’t start a debate with me.”

  He leaned across the seat to open the passenger door. Hugo pointed into the dark.

  “Get out.”

  The judge turned his back to leave. He spoke over his shoulder.

  “I promise if I ever see you again, I will sentence you to death and personally watch you hang. I hope that cheers you.”

  Hugo snatched the wig from the judge’s hands, then shoved him out. He mashed the accelerator to spray pebbles behind him.

  Chapter 41

  Rivkah

  February 23

  Kibbutz Massuot Yitzhak

  Rivkah touched Gabbi’s short sun-bleached hair, then the coarsened skin at the back of her neck. Gabbi had been gone eight weeks, a sliver of her life, and these were Palestine’s first marks on her. The land would not stop asking its Jews to remake themselves.

  Gabbi wore slacks and suspenders, white sleeves rolled up. Her gaze across the pale hills was not that of a stranger.

  Rivkah wanted to talk about Mama and Papa. She had no one else in the world to recall them with, and if she and Gabbi did not recall, their parents were gone. The past beckoned, but tomorrow had a strong voice, too. Mama and Papa were not in tomorrow, never again would be. Rivkah rose from the porch. She would not pull Gabbi backwards tonight.

  “I’ll check on dinner.”

  Gabbi, sitting on the step, didn’t look away from the western rim of Judea. The sun seemed to pause. For moments, Rivkah stayed silent behind her sister to watch the balance tip between day and night, orange bleed into red. Then she went in to Mrs. Pappel.

  Rivkah sat at the kitchen table. Mrs. Pappel stirred a bowl of rice.

  Rivkah said, “I don’t like it.”

  “What don’t you like, Liebling?”

  “She’s been training for two months. That’s not enough.”

  “Not enough for what?”

  Mrs. Pappel spooned rice onto plates. Two more pots boiled, the stew and vegetables; she stirred them, too. Mrs. Pappel looked competent, wiry and perfect, and this made Rivkah more afraid for her sister.

  “To go off on her own.”

  “With thirty others.”

  “Thirty teenagers who trained for two months. Why so fast?”

  “The decision’s been made.”

  “What does she know?”

  Mrs. Pappel brought the plates to the table. “Palestine doesn’t care what you know. Just what you’re willing to do.”

  Mrs. Pappel fetched Gabbi in from the porch. They ate with a strain on their conversation.

  When the meal was over, Gabbi kissed them and excused herself to Rivkah’s room.

  Wrapped in a shawl, Rivkah sat on the porch with the flung, faint glows of Arabs and Jews on their hills. She missed Malik, the spark that came even in the dark with his testy camel. She would like a poem, some wisdom not her own, and not Mrs. Pappel’s, who came out on the porch to ask if she wanted tea to keep her warm. Rivkah did not accept and did not invite Mrs. Pappel to stay.

  Rivkah rocked. If she were granted a wish of the possible, she would have much to ask for. Gabbi was leaving to make her own hilltop home, a new kibbutz called Revadim only a mile away, but a mile. Rivkah knew no one who didn’t live within sight of where she sat, even Malik. She hadn’t left the Etzion bloc since she came here a year and a half ago.

  From where she sat, Palestine was a vale of wind and stone. The mood and the chill also felt like loneliness.

  Chapter 42

  Hugo

  March 1

  Jerusalem

  Hugo braked for a mother and two children crossing King George Avenue. They waved to Hugo; in the uniform of a British soldier, he waved back. He couldn’t warn the woman to walk her children faster, to run.

  He played a finger over the pistol stuck in his waistband. Pinchus had finally let him keep a gun.

  Smoothly, Hugo shifted gears, not to draw attention to the stolen army truck or jostle the three bombers riding in the back. Traffic in the Rehavia neighborhood ran light on a Saturday, a young spring day, the first to shrug off winter. Jerusalem had come out for a stroll. Never before had the Irgun attacked on a Saturday. Pinchus declared that no longer would the Sabbath be a day off from the revolt.

  Two cars ahead of Hugo, a taxi carried three more fighters, in military uniforms, too. He drove his second circuit around Goldschmidt House. The British officer’s club was a four-story mansion of bland masonry, fat pillars, iron porches, and stone windowsills.

  Barbed wire and guards surrounded the place, allowing no approach from the street or rear. The one weak spot was the parking lot. There, two armed guards manned a sentry post; a single long coil of wire ran from it.

  The taxi approached the turn into the parking lot. Hugo lagged. If the taxi stopped, then drove on, that meant the way was clear, the operation was a go. The taxi didn’t slow because four trucks blocked the entry while their drivers’ papers were being checked. Hugo drove on.

  He and the taxi circled Goldschmidt House twice more, past sunny lawns, Sabbath-shuttered shops and offices. After each circuit, the taxi failed to slow at the lot.

  On the next circle, Pinchus stepped out of a synagogue across the leafy street from the officers’ club; he hailed the taxi. After exchanging quick words with the driver, Pinchus waved Hugo forward.

  “We can’t wait any more. Go through the wire.” He patted Hugo’s arm. “Good luck, Kharda.”

  Hugo drove a last time around the block, careful not to let his excitement push his speed.

  He rounded the final corner onto King George Street, beneath the twin steeples of a monastery beside the synagogue. He eased past the broad face of the officers’ club. Two soldiers smoked and enjoyed the Saturday balm in the brick courtyard. Four guards strolled the perimeter of barbed wire. Hugo told the three in the truck bed, “Get ready.”

  The last truck still clogged the parking lot road. Hugo tapped his brakes a final time to signal that he was ready.

  The guard shack in the parking lot came under fire. From a roof beside the sy
nagogue, a Bren gun sparked. The guard hut spewed splinters and fell over; both sentries and the truck drivers dove for the pavement. Behind Hugo, brakes screeched; the taxi skidded sideways to block the road at his back, and three Irgun fighters leaped out to engage the soldiers in front of the officers’ club.

  One of the bombers in the back of the van yelled, “Go!” as if Hugo might hesitate.

  With gunfire nipping on every side, he gunned out of the street, jumping the curb into the lot. Hugo gripped the steering wheel hard and floored the gas.

  He rammed the row of barbed wire in the middle. Razor-sharp barbs twisted around the grille, wire scraped the pavement and the sides of the van. A confusion of strands boiled up in front of Hugo, but he didn’t back off, adding speed across the lot, dragging the wire and the keeled-over shack with it. A bullet hole spider-webbed the windshield; the van leaped the curb out of the lot, onto the sidewalk, then onto the grass. Hugo tore up the lawn, surging to the front doors of Goldschmidt House.

  Ensnared in the barbed wire, he slammed the brakes. Satchels on their backs, Stens in hand, the three fighters flung open the van door. They leaped over the sentry shack, moving fast under the cover of hundreds of rounds from the Bren and the three Irgunists in the street firing from behind their taxi. A British guard already lay face down in the grass, another limped away. The three running bombers sprayed their Stens left and right, then rushed through the front doors, tugging the satchels off their backs as they disappeared.

  Soldiers traded shots with the rooftop machine gunner across the street and the fighters behind the taxi. Soldiers who found themselves in the open without weapons flung themselves to the ground. Another soldier in the courtyard crumpled, a waiter got hit and collapsed screaming. On the sidewalks of King George Street, pedestrians ran away.

  A bullet pierced the door close to Hugo’s leg and another hole in the windshield goaded him out of the van. He tumbled onto the brick courtyard, hunkered behind the open door, and drew his pistol.

  Bullets sizzled over his head and all around the truck. Two rounds zinged off the bricks near his boots. Hugo was dressed like a British soldier, but cowering beside the van, he was Irgun.

  He wasn’t sure what to do next. He wasn’t supposed to be out of the vehicle, but where could he drive? The jumbled wire might pop the tires if he rolled over them, could wrap around the axles. The windshield took two more ugly holes. The whole truck was getting pelted; Hugo wouldn’t get far in a bullet-riddled van even if he made a getaway. He couldn’t drive off, and he couldn’t hide here much longer.

  The backup plan was to escape on foot to the monastery behind the synagogue. Any moment now the bombers were going to emerge. They’d have just seconds to get away from the courtyard or be caught in the blast of a hundred kilos of gelignite. Hugo and the bombers were going to have to fight their way back to the parking lot, under cover from the Bren and the taxi fighters battling the guards, then cross King George Street.

  Another bullet beat at the truck door but didn’t punch through. Hugo was in someone’s sights.

  He peeked over the sill. Twenty meters away, near the Club’s front doors, a blue-hatted cop hid behind a robust oak. He caught Hugo peering at him and squeezed off another round from a snub-nosed revolver. The cop aimed at Hugo’s legs below the van’s door. The bullet skipped off the bricks, making Hugo jump. If Hugo took a hit in the legs, he’d die in the gunfight, or in the blast, or be hanged later.

  He waved to grab the attention of the three Irgunists firing and ducking behind the taxi. One stayed above the taxi’s hood long enough for Hugo to point out the policeman. The Irgunist turned his Sten on the oak tree; the short burst shaved some bark and make the cop shrink back.

  The bombers had been inside more than twenty seconds. They were going to dash out, and when they did, the policeman behind the tree would have an angle on them. He could take down one or more before they knew he was there.

  The Bren on the roof riveted the attention of the guards in the parking lot; the taxi gunners in King George Street dueled with the three remaining soldiers on the lawn. The cop belonged to Hugo.

  The Irgunist behind the taxi pointed urgently at the policeman. Go, go, the fighter motioned, go take care of him. Now.

  The Irgunist raised his Sten to unleash another volley at the oak tree. The cop made himself small behind the blistering trunk. Hugo touched the barrel of the pistol to his forehead; he didn’t know why but sensed the need for some rite, perhaps to wake the gun. He flashed out from behind the van’s door.

  Hugo sprinted down the length of the wire; barbs snagged his trousers making him lurch to free himself. Bullets buzzing, he jumped over the sentry post and headed for the tree. Hugo held the pistol at arm’s length and fired once into the oak to keep the cop’s head down. The gun leaped in his hand; the recoil threw him off his gait. He fought off a stumble and pressed on, gaining ground. Hugo fired again at the profile of the cop’s face and blue hat.

  The Irgunist behind the taxi fired one more salvo at the oak tree. Hugo tore off the last few running strides; the cop kept his back to the tree, safe against it, blind to Hugo.

  The policeman’s pistol was close to his chest when Hugo cleared the trunk. The man believed he was hiding, and in the instant he learned he was not, Hugo skidded on the grass before him, holding the gun two-handed. He shot the cop first in the gut which did not stop the cop from extending his own pistol. Hugo pulled the trigger more times than he had rounds. Each bullet slammed the man into the tree. The life leaving him fought to stay, shook him like a doll, before slumping him dead against the trunk.

  Hugo lowered the gun. All four bullets had struck the cop’s chest; the blood hadn’t risen yet through the rips in his tunic.

  The bombers burst out of the club. They didn’t see Hugo behind the tree; he could have shot them all. He stepped out, hands up to show them it was him, the driver.

  “We have to run for it!”

  On the rooftop across the street, the Bren fired without stop. The perforated van was engulfed in barbed wire. The fighters in the street jumped into their taxi and took off.

  Hugo dashed with the bombers for the parking lot. They galloped behind their barking Stens, firing carelessly, only to get away.

  The pistol weighed down Hugo as he ran. It was empty in his hand and he should have thrown it away, but he did not.

  Chapter 43

  Rivkah

  April 5

  Massuot Yitzhak

  At dusk, with the evening meal finished, the haverim took to their porches to talk of planting and blossoms. For many, this was their first spring in Palestine, and it seemed a miracle.

  A car descended the white hills out of the north. It didn’t turn for Kfar Etzion but made straight for little Massuot Yitzhak, motored up the slope, and parked close to Rivkah’s stone house.

  Two men got out. A tall, thin one wore a beat-up fedora, the shorter a wool cap. The lanky man, fair-haired, needed a shave on his long face and an iron to his clothes. The other presented neatly; he seemed urban. They approached the porch where Mrs. Pappel took Rivkah’s hand. The tall man cast his gaze around the kibbutz, enquiring of the place in the purpling light. He took off his hat. The smaller man spoke first.

  “Missus Pappel?”

  “Yes?”

  “I am Kharda. Mr. Pinchus sent me.”

  “I’ve been expecting you.”

  Mrs. Pappel squeezed Rivkah’s hand to tell her all was okay. The quick exchange reminded Rivkah that Mrs. Pappel had secrets. And if Pinchus sent only him, who was the one with the fedora in his hands?

  Kharda did not introduce his companion but referenced him with an open hand. The man stepped up to speak for himself.

  “Hi. My name is Vince Haas.”

  “Do I hear an American accent?”

  He nodded. “You?”

  “I am Austrian, Mr.
Haas. But I lived in England. This is Rivkah Gellerman. Please come in.”

  Rivkah held the door to let them pass. Kharda did not take off his cap until he was seated at the kitchen table. When he sat, Vince Haas stuck his felt fedora on his knee. Rivkah moved to the sink while Mrs. Pappel sat with the men.

  Filling the teapot, Rivkah asked, “What sort of tea would you like?”

  Kharda requested black. Vince Haas said whatever she had handy, the answer of a man not looking to be pleased.

  She set the pot to heat and did not join them at the table. Mrs. Pappel and the one who called himself by an Arab name leaned toward each other, to their business. Vince Haas watched Rivkah.

  “Mister Haas, we should let them discuss in private. Before the sun goes down, would you like a tour of Massuot Yitzhak?”

  He plucked the hat off his knee and swung his legs from under the table. “Thank you.”

  Vince Haas rose without comment from Kharda. The two had traveled together, but they seemed separate. He followed Rivkah out the door.

  “There is the apple orchard. We’ll expand it next year when we terrace more of the hill. Those are plum trees, too young to pick. The saplings are eucalyptus and pine for shade. In that building we’ve started a carpentry shop. We have rooms for welding, a tannery, and a bakery. That’s the pumphouse for our water pipes. There is Missus Pappel’s school room.”

  Rivkah felt she was racing something, not just the falling day. Vince Haas noticed it, too.

  He said, “You can slow down.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t have to apologize.”

  “May I ask why you’re here? Pinchus didn’t send you.”

  “Actually, he did, three months ago. He wanted me to see this place. Pinchus has a fondness for it.”

  “I believe his fondness is for Missus Pappel.”

  “He made it sound like I needed a vacation. Like this was where I should come put my feet up.”