Hugo jumped off the rock. Both thighs flared as he dashed up the hill. Again, the rifle put him off-kilter. Yakob’s red hair stood out against the hillside.
“Arabs!” Hugo yelled. “Arabs!”
Yakob’s rifle reared, pointed past Hugo but he had no one to fire at. Hugo limped to the foxhole and tumbled in. Yakob lifted him to his feet.
“What did you see?”
Between shallow breaths, Hugo told of the sixty women and children in the ravine. Yakob gave him the rifle and jumped out. Hugo had two rifles when he didn’t want one. Yakob unpocketed six clips of ammo.
Hugo said, “No, no. Where are you going?”
“Those are looters. There’s an attack coming.”
“Wait.”
“I’ve got to warn the kibbutz. You can’t make the run.”
“I suppose not. Alright. What do you want me to do?”
“Is it not fucking obvious?”
“Shit. Go.”
Yakob dashed uphill. Hugo bent his eye behind one of the rifles and aimed at nothing. He’d fire at the first thing that moved on the sterile slope.
The foxhole was too big without Yakob, too quiet. He cradled the rifle stock to his cheek but the pulse in his hands and his heaving lungs ruined any chance at shooting well. He needed to find his courage and hold his ground. Hugo flung curses down the hill at the invisible Arabs, trying to stir himself.
He arrayed eight clips on the ledge and chambered a round in the old Dutch rifle. Down in the Abu Rish, outside the perimeter fence, a shadow in the cemetery came unstaked from the ground. It might be a man. Hugo shot to see if it would hide, or fall.
Chapter 83
Rivkah
Rivkah flung open the door. Yakob stood huffing, hands to his knees. He raised his beet-red face.
“Arabs. On the south hill. Hugo.”
Mrs. Pappel hurried to the door beside Rivkah.
“Hugo what?”
Down the quarry road, a gunshot popped. Before Yakob could answer, the same gun fired again. “That’s him. Where’s Vince?”
“In the orchard. How many?”
“Sixty. Women and children, but there’ll be fighters. I don’t know how many.”
From the east, other guns crackled, rapid and nasty. Yakob straightened.
“Ring the alarm.”
He whirled away and leaped off the porch. Mrs. Pappel hustled to her room to arm herself. She belted at Rivkah, “Go!”
Rivkah broke into a run. She wanted a single moment, one last peaceful tick and tock before war, but gritted her teeth and dashed for the bell.
Two girls saw her running for the dining hall; instantly, they pivoted to their own homes, shouting. Rivkah didn’t slow until she braked against the hall. She yanked the bell’s lanyard hard, one two three, one two three. When she stopped, she heard nothing but the clanging. In seconds, the settlement became a crossroads of streaming, shouting farmers.
Massuot Yitzhak’s fifty weapons were clutched in unsure hands. The haverim upended tables in windows, teenagers lugged ammo boxes. Yakob rounded a corner ahead of a pair of Palmachniks. Spotting Rivkah, the redhead rapped a fist to his heart to bolster her. Leading the two, he disappeared down the quarry road.
She ran to the guest house which served as the clinic. Rivkah stayed outside the door, reluctant to be out of sight in case Vince came looking. The bell stopped ringing in her head, and she heard the gunplay on the southern hill: Hugo.
Mrs. Pappel hustled to her through others crisscrossing. She took Rivkah into her arms. “Be safe, child.”
“I need to find Vince.”
Mrs. Pappel shook her head no. “Listen to me. You can’t ask him to think about anything else. Not today.”
“What if we die?”
“Then we’ll die the way we set out to. In Palestine.”
Massuot Yitzhak flurried on all sides. The settlers ran and were changed as they ran, into soldiers. On the slope below the orchard where Vince had gone, bursts of gunfire rocketed above Massuot Yitzhak.
Mrs. Pappel pressed a hand over Rivkah’s stomach. “We won’t die today, Liebling. Stay with the clinic. I’ll see you soon.”
She walked off calmly, pistol on her hip, so much rising around her. Rounding the corner, Mrs. Pappel drew her gun, turned downhill to the sound of fighting, and hastened.
Chapter 84
Vince
Up in the settlement, the alarm rang. This was no drill.
Vince stopped digging. Nothing moved on the parched western slope below the orchard.
A small dot of sound, a little pow, swept from the south. A gunshot was followed by another.
Vince tossed away his pickaxe to sprint through the saplings. He reached the top of the incline winded and took a moment before shouting at the eleven haverim arriving full-out, carrying six long rifles and two Stens. Three ammo bearers skidded in, loaded with boxes. Vince tramped along the crest of the hill, calling each into place behind the sandbag redoubts they had built a month ago.
The western approach was cleared, elevated, and commanding. In the morning light among the crouching boys, Vince stood with hands on hips. Nothing came their way through the Wadi Abu Rish. More shots crackled from the south, then in the east from Yellow Hill.
Young faces watched Vince pace, each cheek smooth and cherry-red from the chill. On the plain, beyond their rifles’ range, a hundred Arabs emerged from below a rise. They advanced in a steady saunter without vehicles or camels. Vince’s instinct was to run and find Rivkah, get her away somehow. In these first moments of seeing their enemy come, the young kibbutzniks around him wanted the same, to be somewhere else, live without killing, die on a different day. Vince watched each eye blink to clear a tear or a fleeting thought, then lower to a gun.
Hugo and Yakob were together on the south slope. Was that Hugo running through his ammo? Vince’s nerves made him laugh; Hugo always claimed to be an awful shot. The Arabs wouldn’t know that. Vince’s laugh might have sounded brave; his eleven boys picked it up and laughed too.
Below in the west, the Arabs split their force in two. Half continued their approach, the rest lagged.
The attackers came within four hundred meters on the stony flats. Vince told his boys to stay hidden behind their sandbags and rocks. The Arabs wore keffiyehs, bandoliers across their chests, some in robes, others in jackets and pantaloons. They had beards and moustaches, they were villagers, a rabble, and might not fight well.
“Remember. They’re out in the open, you’re not. They’re climbing a hill, you’re not. You’ve got a hundred rounds each. Stay in your firing lanes. Make every bullet count.”
Two hundred yards distant, at the base of the hill, the first wave reached the perimeter fence. They used wire cutters to nip the barbed strands.
“Stay down.”
With the fence cut, the first rank of attackers started the long climb. A few out front gave a yell, then ran up the bare slope. Their first shots at the orchard were wild. Vince took cover.
The cleared hillside gave the Arabs nowhere to hide. Even so, a second rank lurched up the hill. Behind them in the wadi, fifty Arabs bided their turn.
“Wait.”
At a hundred yards below the orchard, the first wave stopped shooting to climb faster. At their backs, the second wave did the same. Then, at the base of the hill, the reserves began their ascent. All one hundred Arabs labored up the slope, looking for cover that wasn’t there.
“Wait.”
The slope steepened as it neared the crest. Some Arabs stumbled as they moved within range of the six Dutch rifles and two Stens.
The fellahin in the lead closed to thirty yards from the orchard. Vince popped his head up from behind the sandbags. The Arab out front, not a young man, realized his mistake.
Vince called to him, “Turn around.”
&
nbsp; The Arab shook his head without sadness.
Before the Arab could surge the last distance, Vince shouted to his eight guns, “Now.”
Vince’s boys kneeled behind sandbags, beneath winter-naked trees, and emptied everything into the Arabs coming up the hill.
The charge fell apart. The defenders of the western slope unleashed a final fusillade, the loudest of the day, like a firing squad. The Arabs withdrew, shouting no longer. On the hillside and in the wadi, they left ten bodies but took away their wounded. Tonight they’d return, specters on the dark slope, to carry off their dead. Vince told his boys not to fire on them.
He got to his feet, creaky from the cold. Vince sent five of his eleven boys to the dining hall to eat and bring back blankets, then send the others. He thanked none for the killing they’d done that cold morning. No one exulted, none were hurt, all had shown valor. They would stay in position through the night and he would stay with them. First, Vince went to find Rivkah.
He walked through Massuot Yitzhak, sensing the exhaustion. He entered the dining hall. Bread, eggs, and meat stew were on every table; the kitchen wasn’t going to stint today. Little Hugo wasn’t among the fifty haverim in the hall. At a table in the rear, Mrs. Pappel rose with Rivkah. Both waved. Vince stepped into Mrs. Pappel’s outstretched arms for a strong, telling hug. He reached for Rivkah’s hand, then sat holding it.
Vince asked, “You both alright?”
They nodded. Mrs. Pappel asked, “Are you?”
“Tired. Hungry.”
“Will they come back?”
“I don’t think so. I’ll spend the night in the orchard. What have you heard?”
“A thousand Arabs attacked across the Gush. We beat them with two hundred rifles.”
“How many settlers hurt?”
“We don’t know yet.”
Rivkah said, “Get something to eat.”
In line, Vince asked for a half-portion, to leave more for the fighters and ammo runners, for Hugo still guarding the quarry road. The cooks dishing out the food felt the marvel of being alive and wouldn’t hear of anyone taking less than a full share. Vince accepted two eggs, two pieces of bread, a bowl of lamb stew, and a cup of water.
Yakob entered the hall and came to the table with Vince, Rivkah, and Mrs. Pappel. Blood marred his hands.
He said, “Listen to me. That was a miracle.”
Undeterred by the scarlet stains, Mrs. Pappel took Yakob’s hand while he spoke.
“We had three killed on the south slope.” This was where Yakob had been, laying down a corpse.
Vince asked, “Hugo?”
“He’s alright. He’s a terrible shot.”
Rivkah said to Vince, “Come outside.”
He followed through the tables. Outside, Rivkah turned to him with arms crossed. The noon sun made short shadows for them to stand on. Vince moved closer, but she didn’t unfold her arms.
“It’s an awful day. And a miracle. I don’t know which today is.”
“What’s going on?”
“This isn’t the way I wanted to tell you.”
“Rivkah?”
“I’m pregnant.”
Vince stepped back, to behold her head to toe.
“Are you happy about it?”
“It’s a hard thing to say with blood on the ground. I feel guilty. But yes.”
Vince stepped to her now. They held each other for uncounted time while settlers pulled tables down out of their windows and hugged others who’d come through alright.
“How long have you known?”
“A little while.”
“Mrs. Pappel knows?”
“She does.”
“Gabbi?”
“No one else.”
Hugo trudged up from the quarry road. The barrel of his rifle rose far above his shoulders. He walked alone, dog-tired like a soldier. He stopped for a hand on Vince’s shoulder. Vince didn’t take his arms from around Rivkah.
Hugo said, “That’s pretty. Is there food?”
Rivkah said, “Eggs, bread, and stew. And water.”
Hugo shuffled to the dining hall. “Great. Prison food.”
They watched him go inside.
Rivkah said, “Don’t tell him, or anyone. I’ll choose when to tell.”
“Alright. But why?”
“The mothers have all been sent to Jerusalem.” She pulled back from his arms. “I won’t leave Massuot Yitzhak.”
“Should we talk about this?”
“What is there to talk about?”
Vince pressed his hand behind her head, to pull her tighter to him.
“Then we’ll stay.”
Chapter 85
Hugo
January 15
In the parlor, Hugo dropped his pants.
Mrs. Pappel stopped him. “What on earth are you doing?”
He showed her a jar of the concoction he’d made. “I’m going to rub this on my scabs, to keep them from breaking open.”
She took the jar to smell. “Dear God, what’s in this?”
“Honey and onions.”
“Do it outside. I won’t have that smell in the house.”
On the porch, Hugo stepped out of his trousers to knead the ointment into his thighs. No one walked by in the afternoon; most of the settlers were squatting in a hole or behind sandbags, or resting in bed.
The mixture was his mother’s creation. Hugo had burned and mashed many a hand and finger as a plumber in Leipzig. She’d made the oil each time he came home cursing and sucking on some wounded finger or wrist. She would have been miserable here. No corner shops, no vegetable market, no one her age to kibitz with but Mrs. Pappel, though the two would have gotten along. Both women had wisdom won over years. Hugo had no notion of growing old; he couldn’t imagine it.
Mrs. Pappel came out on the porch. She sniffed Hugo to be sure she could sit in his company. She brought her tea and worried quietly.
The Etzion bloc was almost out of ammunition. Medical supplies were finished. Radios down to their last batteries. The roads were blocked. If the Arabs returned before supplies arrived, the Gush would be overrun.
Hugo had not pulled up his pants. He said to Mrs. Pappel, “Stop.”
“I beg your pardon. Stop what?”
“The way you’re sipping your fucking tea. I can hear your thoughts. We’re all going to die. Stop it.”
“Well.” Mrs. Pappel lowered the teacup to her lap, then stood. “I’ll get you some tea and you can listen to you own concerns. Pull up your trousers.”
She returned with her own tea freshened and a steaming cup for Hugo. Teacups in hand, they let some silence hover over the quiescent hills and the dormant orchards and workshops. The onion and honey, bittersweet on Hugo’s hands, conjured his mother and sisters and old Germany. Hugo took a risk and offered the past as a topic to Mrs. Pappel.
To his surprise, she let him recollect. His childhood tales pleased her and in stages evoked her own, of pre-war Austria and Britain. Neither had done this in a long while, remembered and spoken from memory. Mrs. Pappel confided that she’d never reminisced with Rivkah because she didn’t want to upset the girl. Hugo seemed impossible to upset. She told him of her young marriage in Vienna, the long time in London with Morrie. On the porch, after the sun fell, they listened to each other. Neither buried anyone, all were alive in their talk. Hugo made no mention of the camps or the Irgun. Mrs. Pappel omitted the Haganah and guns. They spoke as if they’d never left their homes or come to Palestine.
Chapter 86
Hugo
January 16
Hugo didn’t try to keep up with the running haverim.
Settlers from across the bloc, from Kfar Etzion, Massuot Yitzhak, Revadim, and Ein Tzurim, raced down their hillsides, through the wadis. Vince, Rivkah, and Yakob didn’t w
ait for Hugo but hurried into the blue desert dusk. Mrs. Pappel stayed behind in a wrap against the January chill. She said to Hugo as he left the porch that she was too old to run to or from the dead.
Hugo’s scars gnawed if he pushed too hard. He walked as briskly as he could past the quarry, then up the unpaved road to Kfar Etzion, to arrive with the last stragglers.
Seven British army vehicles were stopped outside Neve Ovadia, the library of Kfar Etzion. Three trucks were open cargo haulers with tarps tied across their beds. The other four were armored halftracks. A tall policeman, patrician in a civilian suit, climbed down from the lead truck. It seemed he’d waited for the settlers to gather en masse before speaking, to address them all instead of piecemeal. Three hundred kibbutzniks formed a large semicircle; solemnly he stepped to the center.
“All the women. Please go to your homes. Now.”
One hundred women hesitated before departing, Rivkah among them. A few at a time, without a word of protest, they turned away, brave enough to know this was not the time to remark. The rest followed, slowly and mournfully, linking arms.
The British soldiers had no delicate way to unload the bodies. With the trucks’ headlamps shut off to do the work in half-light, they handed down corpses to haverim who gripped stiffened arms and legs. On the white ground before the library, the bodies were laid side-by-side. The row grew longer, and with each Jew lifted from a truck, tremors swept through the gathered. Some corpses had limbs cut off; these pieces, too, were handed down.
No one demanded to know how this happened; no one said anything. The settlers only gasped and rapped their stricken hearts. The policeman stood unapproached. Hugo inched through the crowd to stand near the growing row of bodies. Twenty lay in the pale line, like a knocked-down picket fence, then more, another every twenty seconds. When the last body was set down in the failing light, the crowd staggered where they stood or kneeled now that the burden was known. In Hebrew they uttered the number, “lamed hey,” thirty-five.
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