Hugo lifted one of his black checkers.
“I didn’t know Gruner, or Barazani and Feinstein. Or any of the others. I knew men like them. When they swore they would die for the Irgun and independence, they meant it. The ones who got hanged were given chances to save their lives, at least prolong them. They all refused. For each, the Irgun mounted an incredible effort to save them, or retaliate. But I.”
Hugo set down a checker on the board.
“I’m Irgun, too. I’ve been treated like a plumber. So I fixed your fucking toilet.”
He pushed the checker to a new square.
“My actions killed a Jew. So be it. If I’d killed an Englishman, there would be a fury swirling around to free me.”
The warden, a man who jailed men but did not seem to judge them, nodded.
Hugo said, “In an odd sense, we have the Nazis to thank for this. Killing a Jew has become one of the worst acts in the world. You British have done a bit of it, and look. You’re being tossed out of Palestine, though we’ve killed many more of yours than you have of ours. I did it, killed one Jew, and here we sit.”
The guard brought a tray of china cups, teapot, and a small pitcher of milk. Hugo raised both hands at the warden, surrendering his own irritability.
“Yes. Of course, I’d be a plumber.”
The warden poured. “Have you considered, Mr. Ungar, that perhaps your lack of notoriety is the best thing you have going for you?”
The tea tasted better, warmer, than any he had been given on death row. The chair sat more pleasantly. The windows lacked bars and the warden, his conversation partner, wore no uniform, nor was he a ghost. Hope was being dangled. No one could predict.
“How so?”
The warden set aside his tea. It appeared he’d brought Hugo to his quarters not for the toilet, tea, or checkers, but to have this chat.
“I was not pleased to learn that my prison was going to receive you. Another Irgunist bound for the gallows.” The warden gestured for the guard to stop looming and step back. “The fact that you are being ignored may cause you grief. If one must die, better to do it celebrated, avenged, and all that. But to be truthful, I am safer, my guards and your fellow inmates are safer, if you are forgotten.”
“What if I don’t want to be forgotten?”
“What if you may not die?”
Hugo’s spine straightened off the chair. He palmed another dark checker from the board to bleed off some of his excitement. “Go on.”
“I assume you are unaware that the United Nations Special Committee on Palestine has released its report.”
“When did that happen?”
“Last week.”
“News comes slowly to death row. What did they say?”
“The committee has concluded unanimously that the Mandate must be ended. Palestine should be granted its independence as soon as practicable.”
“I should like to see that.”
“Forgive me, Mister Ungar. I expected a more enthusiastic response.”
“To be fair, I’ve never thought much about independence. I was drawn to the fight mostly because I lost my tolerance for being helpless. I simply wanted to fight. I won’t expect you to understand.”
“I’m trying.”
“I have a friend, an American reporter. He tries to understand, as well. I don’t know that he ever will. May we return to the topic of my not dying?”
“UNSCOP’s report recommends the partition of Palestine into Jewish and Arab states. The Jewish land will contain half a million Jews and four hundred thousand Arabs. The Arab state will hold seven hundred thousand Arabs and ten thousand Jews. The Jews will get land in the Negev, the coast from Tel Aviv to Haifa, and the eastern Galilee. The Arabs get Gaza, western Galilee, and all the highlands of Samaria and Judea, with the exception of Jerusalem. That city will become an enclave under the UN’s protection.”
Hugo wagged a finger. “The Jews will not accept this.”
“On the contrary. The Arabs are the ones who rejected it. Your Jewish Agency has embraced the plan. They’ve argued, of course, that the boundaries are not final. But they see that UNSCOP has finally proposed an independent Jewish nation. It’s considered a start. You realize how that affects you.”
“I will not be hanged in a Jewish nation.”
“You will not. But…there is a fly in the ointment.”
Hugo put the checker between his teeth. He bit lightly, then placed it back on its square.
The warden said, “The committee has advised a two-year transition period. Palestine will continue to be governed by the British, overseen by the UN. Full independence will be granted after constitutions are in place and treaties exist between both states.”
“Two years.”
Hugo wouldn’t survive death row for two years. With no threats from Pinchus, no press from Vince, no sergeants kidnapped on his behalf, the British would have little reason not to settle their accounts before packing up for home.
Hugo rose from the chair. Both armed guards stepped his way. The warden kept his seat.
“Thank you for the update, warden. May we play another game when I’m feeling up to it?”
“Of course. A few items to consider before you go?”
“What.”
“The judge who sentenced you to hang has been reassigned to Tanganyika. The Jewish Agency has their hands full politicking and grabbing all the land they can before the final boundaries are set. Your Irgun and Haganah will fight for every inch of land they wish to hold onto. We British are determined to disentangle ourselves from this country as soon as possible. What I’m saying, Mr. Ungar, is that if you will let yourself be overlooked, then perhaps you will be. Do not agitate. You may be spared. And I will not die in a blast in Palestine.”
Hugo approached a window opening onto the plaza outside the compound. The warden’s apartment was on the first floor. Hugo had no notion of jumping and running. He was not that kind of Irgun. He settled once more into the chair across the checkerboard from the warden.
“Do not ask me again to be a plumber. I should like to keep my word to myself at some point.”
“I understand.”
“I believe it is my move.”
Chapter 74
Vince
September 24
Massuot Yitzhak
When the meal was over, everyone took their plates, flatware, and cups to the dining hall counter. Every child old enough to walk did the same, bearing plates and cups with great care.
The hall settled, the cooks emerged untying their aprons, and the one hundred and twenty-five pioneers of Massuot Yitzhak prepared to hear Vince.
Mrs. Pappel asked him, “Ready?”
Rivkah laid a hand on his arm. She’d tied back her ebony hair, worn longer than when they’d first met, and around her shoulders a deep blue wrap. Vince had not seen her in a swath of color like this, only in white tunics and khaki pants. Her face seemed to rest on a pedestal of sapphire.
Mrs. Pappel moved to the front of the hall. Behind her stretched a wall-length mural of labor, of young women and men planting or rolling boulders; a boy and girl in the foreground held high a sheaf of wheat and a bright red apple.
Mrs. Pappel faced the haverim. She appeared quintessential, as if she belonged in the mural. She was the oldest person in the dining hall. Vince was next.
After a sweeping gaze, Mrs. Pappel said, “Vincent Haas is an American journalist. He’s come to us not as a newspaperman, but as a friend. Vince has spent the past two years covering Palestine. In that time, he’s seen more than any of us. I’ve asked him to speak. Listen to him.”
Rivkah’s hand slid from Vince’s wrist; he rose without applause and took Mrs. Pappel’s place before the painting. The Jews in the dining hall weren’t like the ones in the mural, stylized people working the fields and orchard
s, stripping stone from the quarry. None of the painted figures strained or sweat, none looked exhausted. The real pioneers held children on their laps; they’d smoothed and cleaned their hair and clothes as best they could. They were wiry more than muscular and the wind had scored their young eyes. They were tired to the last of them.
“Massuot Yitzhak. Thank you for welcoming me.”
Rivkah’s blue shoulders stood out from the crowd. Vince focused away from her.
“As you know, yesterday the British rejected the United Nations plan for the partition of Palestine into separate Arab and Jewish states. Britain doesn’t want to stay here two more years. They’re going to leave, sometime next year. There’s no date set, but there’s no doubt anymore. Before they go, the UN will draw a map that will divide up what lands you get and what the Arabs get.”
Among the first tables, a child of eight stood beside his father. The boy swelled his chest as though to make sure Vince knew he was a pioneer, too.
“Massuot Yitzhak is on the frontier. You’re surrounded by Arabs. That’s not going to change. Any map the UN draws will put the whole Etzion bloc inside Arab territory. You’ll still be isolated, still surrounded. But there’s going to be one important difference. Britain is done playing referee. There’ll be no more soldiers or police to stand between you and the Arabs. Not the UN, not Britain or America. No one. The world is going to leave you and the Arabs to figure this out on your own.”
Mrs. Pappel got to her feet.
“The Arabs are not going to let us keep our land. If we want to stay, we will have to fight. Massuot Yitzhak, Kfar Etzion, Ein Tzurim, Revadim. All of us together. Do you understand this?”
The settlers nodded and wrapped themselves in their arms. The little boy with the puffed chest nodded, too.
Mrs. Pappel lay a hand over her heart to say she was sorry, but she could not say or do anything else.
“Some of you remember Mister Pinchus’s visit two years ago. He told us then that a war was coming. It’s here, my friends. I have reached out to him and to the Haganah for training, reinforcements, and weapons.” Mrs. Pappel indicated Vince. “Until they respond, I’ve asked Vince to organize the defense of Massuot Yitzhak.”
Mrs. Pappel returned to her seat. In the dining hall, a hand went up to Vince, a reminder that many of these settlers were still school age.
“Yes.”
“Were you in the American army?”
“I was a U.S. Marine.”
“Did you fight in a war?”
“No. I was in Cuba. On guard duty.”
“A guard?”
“What’s your name?”
“Aharon.”
“Listen to me, Aharon. There’s a hundred of you in this hall old enough to fight. Maybe three hundred in the whole bloc. I don’t know how many guns you’ve got. The Arabs will outnumber you, by a lot. But if you have a plan, if you train, if you build defenses, you’ve got a chance to hold out against greater odds. One defender inside a fortress is worth three attackers, maybe more. We need to make Massuot Yitzhak a fortress. I know how to get you ready. And I have an idea you’ll fight well enough.”
Aharon seemed satisfied with Vince’s answer. Vince waited to allow the next question from the hall. None came.
“We’ll also prepare an evacuation plan.”
Voices raised at this. We won’t leave. We stay. Vince spoke over them.
“That will depend on your government. All I’m saying is you need to be ready for whatever happens. That’s the smart thing. Tomorrow, I want everyone to assemble at noon, outside the dining hall. Then we’ll start.”
Vince took his seat across from Mrs. Pappel and Rivkah. The meeting wrapped up; the haverim went out into the dark, back to their homes. Dozens filed past Vince to thank him. The proud boy and his father walked up last. The father shook Vince’s hand, a firm squeeze, then the boy shook in the same fashion.
Once the hall had emptied, Mrs. Pappel rose. “You did very well.”
“We’ll see.”
“Come on then, you two.”
The walk to their house passed gardens and the mewls of barn animals. Because they would only work half a day tomorrow, a few machinists grinded in their shops; the generators hummed to power them. This made the early night in Massuot Yitzhak unquiet and industrious.
Rivkah sat on the porch in lantern light. She wore her shawl over her head like a widow.
“Tell me the truth.”
Vince said, “Always.”
“Can we win?”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll start setting up a clinic in the guest house. We’ll make bandages, find beds.”
“I want you to be safe.”
“Malik taught me to shoot.”
“You any good?”
“I don’t think so. We’ll see.”
“That scares me.”
“Vince. What will you do?”
He came back to the porch to sit close. “What I have to.”
She lay a hand in his. Vince eased back the hood of Rivkah’s shawl. He pushed her black hair behind one ear, for no reason other than to show he would care for her in every way he could.
Chapter 75
Vince
September 26
Scrub brush dotted the slope. Below the orchard, wildflowers grew in clumps, cyclamens and anemones.
Vince said, “From here up to the grove. Burn everything.”
He hefted one gas cannister, Mrs. Pappel the other. They sprinkled fuel over the flowers and scraggly growth. Vince struck a match to ignite a line of shrubs. Twenty yards away, Mrs. Pappel did the same. Together they charred the hillside, stripped it down to pebbles, leaving nowhere to hide.
They climbed to the orchard above the burning incline. On the edge of the citrus trees, Vince indicated six spots, twenty feet apart. “Three firing lanes, two guns on each. We’ll need sandbags.”
They refilled their cans at the machine shop, then headed for the southern slope to scorch it clean, too. On the long decline to the wadi, Vince made a map of every rut and boulder where an attacker might conceal himself. On the far side of the wadi rose Rock Hill, commanding the valley and the access road between Kfar Etzion and Massuot Yitzhak.
Vince and Mrs. Pappel torched every bush and blossom for one hundred fifty yards, as far as the Abu Rish. He made notes of where strongpoints might be hacked into the slope and trenches dug between them for communications and support. The pioneers had already transformed this impossible land into a garden. They’d need to change again to hold it.
The settlers came in from the fields, shops, tannery, barns, quarry, and kitchen. At noon, they laid aside their tools and arrived outside the dining hall in hats, bibs, gloves, and bandanas.
On a pair of blankets, Mrs. Pappel spread her arsenal: fifteen rifles, ten revolvers, five Sten submachine guns, and fourteen crates of ammunition. The farmers buzzed. They thought these were a lot of weapons. Mrs. Pappel called for their attention.
“There will be a signal.” A bell hung beside the dining hall door. “When this rings, one-two-three, one-two-three, drop what you’re doing. That is the alert. We are under attack.”
With three quick jerks of the cord, she chimed the alarm, let it ring, then repeated. Some children came out of a nearby house and were waved back inside.
“How many of you have ever fired a gun?”
The big lad Aharon, four other boys, and Rivkah raised their hands.
Mrs. Pappel beckoned the six to come forward.
“Pick.”
Rivkah stepped up first. She selected a long rifle to show to Vince. “Malik gave this to me.”
“Let me see it.”
She handed him the weathered rifle. Vince opened the action, looked into the barrel for scoring, and checked the trigger for tightness. The gun had been worked har
d but was cared for. He returned it to Rivkah; he held it with her for a beat before letting go.
The pioneers chose until the weapons were all taken. Vince divided them into three groups—west, north, and south—for the approaches they would guard. The rest were promised guns later. Until then, they’d keep the agriculture and business of the kibbutz going as well as they could.
Stonecutters loaded burlap feed sacks into the cart behind Zipporah, to fill them in the quarry with rock dust and small stones. Another team set off for the southern slope with shovels and picks to hollow out foxholes in the spots marked on Vince’s map.
The rest of the seventy settlers followed him through Massuot Yitzhak. Vince assigned four-person teams to strategic houses. In each, two would shoot, a third would handle ammo and bandages, and the fourth was to run between houses to keep them coordinated. The haverim pushed tables against windows; Vince taught them to stay back when firing to hide their muzzle flashes. To waste no ammunition, they should let the enemy come close.
Vince set up a watch schedule and night patrols. He put two-person teams behind each sandbag bunker in the orchard. In case of a firefight, the settlers must stay out of wooden structures like the barns and shops and get behind stone walls. Vince crossed the orchards, fields, terraced lands, and singed slopes laying out the defense of the kibbutz.
In the late afternoon, Mrs. Pappel stepped in front of him. She announced to the settlers following Vince, “That’s enough for today. She took him by the elbow to peel him away. The haverim dispersed or sat where they were.
“You’re scaring them.”
“They don’t look scared.”
“Did you know that Rivkah and I are the only two in Massuot Yitzhak who weren’t in the camps?”
“No.”
“Every one of those boys and girls has a horror behind their eyes that you and I can barely imagine. You won’t see the fear on their faces. These children don’t show it, not anymore. But the terror hasn’t left them.” She gestured across Massuot Yitzhak. “How else could they do this?”
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