She took his hand. “Vince, I’m frightened. Not for me; I’m old enough. I could keel over tomorrow and it’s been a good life. For them. You are, too.”
“You asked me to help.”
“You’ve run them around the kibbutz for five hours. You’re pushing. They can see how worried you are. They’ve faced death before. Respect that.”
“How?”
“Believe in them.”
“I do.”
“No, you don’t. You want to, but you can’t. I couldn’t either until I saw what they’re capable of. They changed me. I made a choice to link my life to these young people. To these hills.”
She kissed her fingertips, then pressed them to Vince’s cheek.
“Bless you, my boy. But you’re the only person in Massuot Yitzhak who hasn’t picked this place to be his grave. Get them ready, but stop being afraid for them. It doesn’t help. And if, God forbid, you see them fight, you’ll see a marvel.”
“What about Rivkah?”
“She’s not going to leave Massuot Yitzhak.”
“That scares me the most.”
Mrs. Pappel led him back to the house. Rivkah waited on the porch. The workshops stayed silent; no one in the kibbutz would work tonight after their first day of carrying weapons and digging trenches.
Rivkah kissed Vince and Mrs. Pappel for their arrival home. She went in to shower before the evening meal, Mrs. Pappel made tea, Vince went over his hand-drawn maps.
Chapter 76
Rivkah
November 29
Massuot Yitzhak
The great bonfire in Kfar Etzion cast shadows into the valley. Ein Tzurim’s flames were small, and tiny Revadim’s only a flicker. Massuot Yitzhak’s own fire shot sparks high because some spirited boys had dismantled two walls of a barn, claiming they’d go to Jerusalem tomorrow to replace the planks. The boys danced on the rooftop of the dismembered barn and emptied their throats into a mad orange glow while the rest danced to violins and an accordion. Along with the fires, the sure brightness of stars lit Rivkah’s steps down the quarry road.
She carried a blanket and the last bottle of kosher wine from the dining hall. The wine was for prayers, and prayers had been answered, so why not?
Halfway down the hillside she halted. In the darkness the little stream trickled.
“Vince?”
From foxholes, hidden settlers echoed her call, “Vince?” until his tall figure loomed out of the night and he came to take her hand. Malik’s old rifle rode on his back.
“What are you doing down here? The party’s up there. It’s what you’ve all been waiting for.”
She held out to him the blanket and wine. “Come on.”
Vince led her to his foxhole. The hole was deep enough to cover Rivkah up to her armpits, Vince to his belly. The dirt was chilly like the night. Rivkah lay the blanket on the dirt floor.
He asked, “What was the final vote?”
“All of western Europe said yes. Then the Caribbean and South America. And Canada. Then America.”
“Good.”
“The big surprise was the Soviet bloc. All in favor.”
“The Arabs?”
“All against.”
“Britain?”
“Abstained.”
“What was the final tally?”
“Thirty-three to thirteen.”
“Hand me that bottle.”
Rivkah had brought no glasses down the hill. With his knife Vince pried off the bottlecap. He offered her the bottle. She pushed it back.
“You first. You helped it happen.”
Vince raised the wine by the neck. “To the UN.” He took a good swig, then handed the bottle to her. Rivkah held it like Vince had, by the neck. She raised the wine to Massuot Yitzhak, to the bonfire there and the boys who’d stripped the barn to make it, to the hora she’d danced until she was dizzy. She took a deep swallow and kept the bottle. Rivkah kneeled in the foxhole.
“You’ve never asked what I’ve been waiting for.”
A second time, Rivkah lifted the bottle to her lips. The wine was bitter, not made for happy occasions. She set it on the lip of the foxhole and pulled Vince down.
Chapter 77
Rivkah
December 10
Rivkah sat alone, draped in a shawl. The pioneers had vanished indoors to wash off the day’s work. Two days ago, the bonfire’s ashes had been shoveled into wheelbarrows and carted to the ash pit, but Massuot Yitzhak still smelled smokey.
The scuffing of feet gladdened Rivkah. Malik arrived with the dusk; he dismounted close to the porch. The camel eyed Rivkah, then shambled away. Rivkah didn’t call inside for Mrs. Pappel and Vince but kept Malik to herself for a moment.
“You’ve come to say goodbye.”
Malik stepped onto the porch. He took a knee before her and extended a hand.
“May I?”
Rivkah nested her hand in his. Malik wore a ring on every finger and thumb. He lowered his big brow to the back of her hand. He held like this, then released her and took a chair.
“I tried to write a poem, so I could bring it to you. I rode in the desert all day. I listened to the sun and read the faces of rocks. I was given nothing. The world feels very new right now. I am better with the ancient. I am sorry.”
“It’s alright. We’re not strangers.”
“We are not.”
Vince came out on the porch. Malik got to his feet; with his girth and robes he seemed a thousand blackbirds launched from a tree. He greeted Vince with a two-handed clasp.
Vince asked, “How’d you get past the perimeter?”
Malik patted Vince’s hand. “I came a way only one man on a camel can come. A thousand will not do that.”
“Why all the rings?”
“They are my wealth. And the old camel. I do not know what will happen. But where I go now, they are with me. Where is Mrs. Pappel?”
“Here.”
She stood in the doorway. Malik opened his glinting hands. Mrs. Pappel stepped onto the porch with her palms up to admire the rings.
“They’re magnificent.”
“Take one.”
“Truly?”
“Truly.”
From his left pinky, Mrs. Pappel slid a ring, silver studded with small gems. She held it close to her eyes, turning it in the late daylight. She went inside the house, to return quickly.
“I offer you this gift, Malik of the Tarabin.”
The great Arab examined the ring she handed him.
“This was Morrie’s pinky ring. He had big hands, too.”
Malik slid the band on, pleased at the fit. He bowed. “I am in your debt. I shall remain so.”
“Sit.” Mrs. Pappel pointed Vince and Malik to the open seats. She went inside for a chair. Around Massuot Yitzhak, one house after another lit candles and lanterns, hearths, stoves, and oil heaters. Rivkah took Vince’s hand; Malik raised not an eyebrow. When Mrs. Pappel returned, Rivkah did not let Vince go.
Rivkah spoke first, so Mrs. Pappel would not have to ask it of Malik.
“Has the war begun?”
The old Arab scratched his beard as if consulting it. “It has not.”
He slid his ringed hands inside his sleeves. Malik spoke with a graven stillness, only the motion of his lips inside his great beard.
“There has been a call for an Arab boycott inside Jerusalem. Yesterday, my nephew Walid left Nahalin to join the strike. He fell in with two hundred other angry boys. Inside the Old City, they went on a rampage. They burned and looted Jewish shops. They carried only knives and clubs. The British police did nothing to stop them but joined in the ransacking. On Jaffa Street, Walid and his rabble ran into an armed band of Haganah. The Jews fired over their heads, but a few fired into the mob. Walid returned home to my sister with a
bullet in his shoulder.”
Rivkah said, “I’m sorry. He’ll recover?”
“Yes.”
She pressed. “When will it start?”
“When we stop arming ourselves with stones and knives and turn guns against you. When one violent day does not pause into the next. The killings of Arabs and Jews will mount. We will not go to war. We will awake in war.”
Malik’s camel, which had never been named by him, had not wandered far. Without a call from Malik, the beast mooched to the edge of the steps. He ducked his long neck to poke his nose onto the porch. The camel came close, bulging eyes and long lashes, to sniff Mrs. Pappel. She petted his dusty crown; the camel closed his eyes. With a moan, the beast withdrew. Malik stood as though summoned.
“Please, do not rise. Let me leave you all like this, together on your porch. Safe in your village.” He pressed his ringed hands together. “I wish you peace. Farewell, my good friends. Ma’a Salama.”
The camel folded in stages, knobby knees to the dirt for Malik to climb on, then hoisted him. Rivkah let go of Vince’s hand to step into the glossy light. Malik reined the camel east, to saunter down into the Wadi Shahid. A long rifle rode in the holster. He didn’t circle back to give it to Rivkah or Mrs. Pappel as he had on other visits. This gun he kept.
Chapter 78
Hugo
December 11
Jerusalem
A jangle of keys awoke Hugo. He muttered, “No,” before he’d opened his eyes and jerked up on the cot. He said again, “No,” when the warden stepped out of the morning dark. The warden put a skeleton key into Hugo’s barred door. Hugo shoved out a hand when the man entered his cell.
Hugo reeled in his legs to pull himself into a ball against the wall. He had nothing to grab onto and said, “Nein.”
The warden waved both white palms. He repeated Hugo’s name, but that was the name of the condemned.
Through pounding eyeballs, Hugo watched the warden backpedal from the cell. The warden did not shut the barred door but left it open. He’d come alone.
Hugo became conscious of his own untamed breathing; this helped him slow it. The warden continued to speak in English. A stack of folded clothes lay on the floor where the warden had dropped them. The clothes were not striped or gray or red. Over the back of the chair hung a pea coat. The warden wouldn’t lower his hands. Through quickened breaths, Hugo asked, “What are you doing?”
“I apologize. I’ve surprised you.”
“Are you here to hang me?”
“Heavens, no.” The warden indicated the pile of clothes. “Get dressed.”
“Why?”
“Have you heard nothing I’ve said?”
“Not much.”
“I’m letting you go.”
The warden eased into the cell; cautiously he pulled out a chair for himself.
“We are leaving. And before we go, there may be some settling of accounts. By the police and the army. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“You mean to say, me.”
“I do. I don’t know if anyone will come looking. In any case, it’s best if you’re not here. Neither of us can say what your Irgun chaps would do if you did get hanged, after all. I believe I may be saving some poor soldier’s life along with your own. Do you trust me?”
In the camps, there had been no need for trust. The Nazis kept their word.
“Yes.”
“Then you are free. If you will get dressed.”
The urge spawned in Hugo to run from the open cell. Waste not a second. Instead, he stood over the clothes on the cold floor. They were his, what he’d been wearing five months ago at his arrest.
The warden said, “The winter coat should fit. It belonged to a fellow who’ll be here a bit longer.”
Hugo lifted the white shirt to smell it for no reason he could fathom, some animal sense to find himself in the fabric. He pulled death row’s scarlet tunic over his head and tossed it aside. Hugo had a circlet of fat at his waist, evidence that he’d been well-fed. Buttoning on the white shirt calmed him.
Hugo asked, “Will you get in trouble?”
“I’m sailing out on the first boat today. I will claim no knowledge of your disappearance, Mister Ungar. The beauty of your Irgun is that they may be blamed for many things.”
Hugo tugged up his pants and suspenders.
The warden continued. “Do not stay in Jerusalem. In case someone does look for you.”
“My flat is gone by now.”
“Do you have any money?”
“No.”
“Friends?”
Hugo sat on the cot to lace his leather shoes. “I have one.”
“Where?”
The pea coat fit well.
“He may be at Massuot Yitzhak.”
Hugo followed the warden out of the cell.
“In the Etzion bloc?”
“Yes.”
“You realize that’s in Arab territory.”
“Will you pay for a taxi?”
“No taxi will take you. The road has been blockaded.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s been sniping south of Jerusalem. The Arabs are trying to shut down the road.”
The warden walked Hugo down the white halls, past inmates sleeping or whispering messages to him.
“May I suggest you consider somewhere else?”
Where could he go? To Julius who’d arrested him? Pinchus who’d deserted him?
“I have nowhere else.”
The warden stopped at the door to his office. “Then come inside.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Make a few calls.”
“To who?”
“Who do you think? The Jews.”
Hugo waited outside the Russian Compound. A taxi arrived and asked for him by name.
The taxi took off into the Jewish Quarter. The driver, a timid Pole in thick glasses, crept along on the tight roads and would not pass horse-drawn carts or delivery lorries. The ride became an affair of patience for Hugo.
He considered making conversation; it would be his first in a while not through bars. The weather had cleared. The taxi was clean; the Pole seemed a fastidious man. He had a large nose and would need a shave before day’s end. Perhaps he was a new immigrant and unsure, the way he leaned forward to grip the wheel with both hands.
Hugo said, “I was on death row.”
The driver checked his rearview mirror. He couldn’t look long at Hugo because the car entered a curve. When the narrow way straightened, the driver gained speed and asked nothing.
Shops and kiosks for cheeses, meats, herbs, and produce melted past. On Mamilla Street, near the bazaar, the taxi stopped; the warden had given the driver this address. Hugo stepped out of the taxi with no money nor thanks for the Pole. Not waiting for either, the taxi motored off. Hugo entered the souk.
The cobblestones of the Mamilla market bustled. Shoppers brushed past while Hugo stood still, unprepared for the flowing crowd. Bicycles and hand-pushed carts wheeled by, women shouted in the ghetto languages of Europe and in Hebrew. A child chased a cat, old men debated over newspapers, and a merchant poured figs onto a scale. In prison Hugo had existed for months without the smells and sounds of the living Jew. He jumped when a man took his arm.
“Hugo Ungar.”
“Who are you?”
“Come on.”
The man, redhaired, lean, and Hugo’s age, led through the throng. He wasn’t shy about elbowing his way. He squeezed past a pack of women in headscarves and long coats and beamed back at Hugo.
“Kharda, you don’t remember me?”
Hugo wracked his brain, hearing the name Julius had given him.
“Were you Palmach?”
“The coast guard station at Sidna Ali. Tw
o years ago. You drove us.”
“You got shot in the leg.”
“At the riot in Shefayim, you stayed with me. You scuffled with the cops to keep them from taking me away.”
“Yakob.”
Pressed between the satchels and handlebars of the market crowd, Yakob reached back for a handshake.
Hugo asked, “Are you still Palmach?”
“I spent some time in jail. Now I just come when they call.”
“I was in jail, too.”
“I know.”
Yakob forged a path through the souk. Hugo followed the man’s fiery hair, trying to take on Yakob’s nimbleness; the dizziness of the bazaar faded. In two minutes Hugo had walked more than he had in half a year of prison.
Yakob led him into a crevice between shops, one selling candy, the other books. Both merchants looked elsewhere when Hugo slipped behind Yakob into a passage so narrow they had to turn their shoulders.
They emerged into an alley behind the Mamilla market, under clotheslines and archways. Gangs of men loaded four pickup trucks with foodstuffs, feed sacks, and ammo crates. Eight British policemen stood guard, armed and hawkish beside their armored car.
Hugo asked red Yakob, “What is this?”
“A convoy.”
“The warden didn’t say anything about this. He just said he found me a ride.”
“If you want to get into Gush Etzion, this is how you go. For the last week, the Haganah’s been supplying the bloc.”
Hugo indicated the policemen. “Why them?”
“They go along as escort.”
“Why?”
“Arabs tend not to shoot at the British. We leave in five minutes.”
“Will I get a gun?”
“If you want one.”
“I do.”
Eight policemen climbed into their armored vehicle. The Haganah men, Hugo among them, boarded the four supply trucks. The first truck was bound for Kfar Etzion, the second for Ein Tzurim, the third for Massuot Yitzhak, and the rear truck, the smallest in the convoy, had been loaded for Revadim.
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