“It was close. The last few had to jump.”
“Were you one of them?”
“No. I was caught.”
“Ahh.” Emile liked an adventure story. “Were you in Cyprus, too?”
“No. I stayed in Palestine for about a year. Then I went home. And I came back.”
“Home? Where is home?”
“I’m an American. A journalist.”
“An American?” Emile’s smile struggled to remain. “Are you Jewish?”
“I’m not.”
“Why do you speak German?”
“My parents are from Munich.”
“What were you doing at Fulda?”
“Press Corps, with Patton’s Third. I arranged the train you put us on.”
Emile stopped walking. Rivkah and Vince halted with him; she reached for Vince and stood in front of him.
“Emile?”
“I should like to know your friend’s last name.”
Vince answered, “Haas.”
“The American reporter.”
“I already said that.”
“The Herald Tribune.”
“You got it.”
“You are quite well known, Mister Haas.”
“In some places.”
“May I ask, what are you doing in Gush Etzion? Are you reporting?”
“I was.”
“You were. And now?”
Rivkah said, “Emile, stop.”
“I mean to ask Mister Haas if his presence here is because of his newspaper? I haven’t read any of your writing in a while. Since last year, I think.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Doing what?”
Rivkah couldn’t fathom what was going wrong. Emile had turned rigid and guarded. This couldn’t be jealousy, not after eight years. Around them, settlers lugged boxes; some sang Hebrew fieldwork songs. Vince hooked a thumb at the hastening settlers, for Emile to see that he’d been doing the same as them.
“Defending this place.”
“This place.” Emile pointed to a machinegun behind a sandbag wall and the two young men behind it. “This place is not yours to defend.”
“That’s not yours to decide.”
“When I leave, you will leave with me.”
Vince retreated a step, out of Rivkah’s reach. “No, I won’t.”
“You will. On my authority. And my authority is ample.”
Rivkah asked, “Why?”
“In Germany, in France, even Italy, the local papers sometimes printed articles by Vincent Haas. We admired the American who rode an illegal ship to Palestine. Who wrote about the hangings, the bombings, the settlements. We were admirers, Mister Haas. I am. May I ask one question?”
“Go ahead.”
“I recall you wrote beautifully about the Exodus 1947. Billy Bernstein. The American second mate. He was beaten to death by the British.”
“He was.”
“Two other Jews were killed on that ship. They were not Americans. Tell me their names.”
“I don’t know them.”
“That is my point. Zvi Yakubovich, a seventeen-year-old orphan, and Mordechai Baumstein, twenty-three, a survivor of the German camps. I won’t have an American die in Gush Etzion. Especially a famous American. Yours will be the one name everyone remembers.”
Rivkah reached to Emile. She put both hands against his tunic as if she might push him. He gripped her wrists to see that she didn’t. Emile, gentle, let her loose.
She said, “I’m pregnant.”
“Don’t,” Vince spoke behind her. “Don’t beg him.”
Emile beheld her, amazed for the moment. She nodded that it was true.
“Then you should come, too.”
“No.” She answered quickly for him to understand there would be no argument. “He’s done nothing wrong. He’s a part of the kibbutz.”
Emile beckoned two of his Haganah soldiers to come.
“A moment ago, when I asked if he’d been sent to Cyprus. What did he say?”
“He’d gone home.”
“Home to America.”
“Emile, it’s his child.”
“His child is a Jew.” To Vince, he said, “Do you think others aren’t away from their loved ones? Their children? These people were sent here by history, not their newspapers. This is their struggle. It’s just your story. I can’t let your name mean more than theirs.”
Emile turned again to Rivkah. He aimed a finger at the ground.
“You have no other home. Not in America, not in the world. The same for your child. You may stay here if you want, you and your baby. Defend your home.” Emile positioned his two guards to flank Vince. “We leave in ten minutes. If you resist, I’ll put you in handcuffs. Give me your word.”
Before Vince could reply, Rivkah said to Emile, “You have his word.”
Chapter 92
Vince
Vince held Rivkah the way he had on a blanket at the concert in Ein Harod. In his memory of that field, it felt like he’d never let go. He held Rivkah like that now, with ten minutes left.
She asked, “Where will you go?”
“Jerusalem.”
“Will you write from there? For your newspaper?”
“I suppose.”
“Palestine needs that from you.”
“What do you need?”
She pulled back her head, the first step toward releasing him. “To know you are safe. To see you again soon. To put your child in your arms.”
Fifty replacement fighters tramped up the hill from the wadi. More made their way to Kfar Etzion. Each carried a gun and an unyielding manner. The bloc had braced itself with cement defenses, fortified positions, minefields, barbed wire, rifles and mortars, two hundred Haganah, and three hundred farmers.
“Tell Missus Pappel goodbye. And Yakob.”
“What about Hugo?”
Vince could tell Hugo himself. The little man strode their way.
Rivkah said, “He has a knack for showing up.”
“He does.”
“I love you.”
Vince kissed her. He wanted to lift Rivkah off the ground.
Hugo spoke as he approached. “People are watching.”
The barrel of Hugo’s rifle bobbed over his shoulder, always there. He halted, hands on hips, pretending to complain.
“Tired of unloading trucks?”
In the valley, the Auster fired up its propeller to lead the column away. The metal gates of the vehicles slammed shut, drivers and Emile’s troops climbed into the cabs. Engines awoke.
Vince said, “I have to go.”
“Go where?”
“Jerusalem. With the convoy.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know.”
Hugo looked to Rivkah to make sense.
“Vince is going to write for his paper again. He’s needed. He’ll stay until the war is over. It won’t be long.”
“I’ll go with you.” Hugo hoisted a hand before they could ask. “I think I’m done. Yes. To tell you the truth, I’m done.”
From his back pocket, Hugo handed Rivkah a pair of wire cutters. He pecked her cheek.
“I’ll see you again. Tell Missus Pappel. And red Yakob.”
He handed his rifle to the first settler who passed. A Haganah man pointed Hugo to the lead truck. Nimbly, he hopped on the bumper, over the gate, and vanished.
Rivkah smiled as though she’d just witnessed something good.
She said, “It won’t be long.”
“If there’s any way to get back to you, I will, as fast as I can.”
The eight trucks revved, ready to roll. The Auster took to the air and banked north. Emile’s pair of guards moved toward Vince.
She
said, “I’ll be here.”
Vince rubbed the back of her hand with his long thumb. With guards on either side, he left Rivkah.
Chapter 93
Hugo
Massuot Yitzhak’s white days and sparkling nights were not so soothing. Hugo admired the stars no less than the next fellow, but kibbutz life was not loud enough to quiet him. He needed a city. Hugo would go to Tel Aviv.
He was finished with guns, making them and firing them. He’d fought enough Britons and Arabs; he could sit in any company and tell his own tales. Hugo had no medals; he had scars. He would accept work as a plumber until he could start his own company and hire others. He’d get rich in this new country by its water and its shit and be glad of it.
Hugo took a seat on the open floor of the first transport’s bed. He breathed exhaust while the engine idled; he rattled his head at himself. He was leaving the bloc exactly as he’d arrived, in the back of a truck, empty pockets, wearing the clothes he’d been arrested in.
Vince swung over the tailgate, to fold beside Hugo on the wooden deck. Vince dropped his head into his crossed arms, hiding his face. The vehicle jolted forward; the column followed.
Hugo patted Vince’s knee. “What happened?”
“I got thrown out.”
“Did you fight with Rivkah?”
“No. The captain in charge of the convoy. You remember Fulda? The Aliyah Bet man?”
“With the scar.”
“He’s an old friend of Rivkah’s. He didn’t want me there. Said if anything happened to an American in the Etzion bloc, it might take attention away from the settlers.”
“Did he say settlers or Jews?”
“Jews.”
“Ah. That’s a Zionist. Pinchus is like that. And you may not like to hear it, but he’s right.”
Hugo got to his feet to watch Massuot Yitzhak disappear. The column crossed Hugo’s air strip, then rolled between Yellow Hill and Lone Tree Hill. In the Wadi Shahid, the armored buses of the departing fighters joined the emptied trucks and the Haganah’s armored escorts. All got in line behind the goliath roadblock-buster. A thousand feet up, the buzzing Auster lazed above the Jerusalem road.
Entering the highway, the convoy picked up speed. In minutes, the hilltops of Gush Etzion fell miles behind, four emerald perches against an unblemished sky.
On the bouncing deck, Vince curled up in his scarecrow way. Over the wind and motor, Hugo asked, “What are you going to do?”
“Go back. First chance I get.”
“Really?”
“Rivkah. The child. I have to.”
Hugo sat again beside Vince. “What’s it like? To feel like that?”
“It’s probably like being a Zionist.”
“You don’t care.”
“I don’t fucking care.”
Among sere foothills, the convoy continued north on the slow rise to Bethlehem. Weeds, shrubs and wildflowers dotted the rocky slopes on both sides of the road. The Haganah’s column stretched more than a mile with the Auster circling above. No other traffic was out, not even fellahin and mules.
Ten minutes outside Gush Etzion, the column halted. Hugo knocked on the cab wall. The driver’s assistant slid back the rear window.
“What’s going on?”
“No radio. You know what I know.”
Hugo climbed the slat wall of the truck bed. The blockbuster had left the convoy to charge up the hill alone.
A hundred yards ahead, the truck rammed something. Dust and white bits splattered off the plow and the giant bulled through. The column surged on behind it.
Hugo’s truck flew past rocks littering the road. Two hundred yards further, the blockbuster collided with another roadblock. Again, the column hurtled through the breach.
Ahead on the winding road lay Solomon’s Pools. The brushy slopes, bareknuckle ridges, crevices, and patchy wildflowers; this was the spot where Hugo had been attacked before.
Chapter 94
Vince
The Jerusalem Road
The blockbuster smashed through a third rockpile. The truck where Vince and Hugo rode raced into the gap even before the dust settled. Three trucks back, one speeding vehicle failed to negotiate the opening, glanced the debris and careered off the road to trip on the rocky slope. The truck tipped on its side and skidded sparking down the hill. The rest of the transports plunged through. An armored car pulled over to rescue the scrambling driver and assistant.
Near Vince’s truck, the first bullet zinged off the asphalt; a hidden rifle snapped. Arabs in the crannies of the hills aimed at the convoy’s tires. Beside Vince, Hugo gripped the cab roof and faced the wind.
The blockbuster plowed through a fourth roadblock, then a fifth and sixth, all in the span of a half mile. Every collision rang like a smith’s anvil. Emile and his men inside the buster were taking a harsh beating out front of the convoy.
More gunplay clapped from the hillside. The truck right behind Vince shrieked and jolted; a tire had been hit and blown out. The driver didn’t slow but ran hellbent on the rim to get out of range of the Arabs’ rifles.
The road rounded a rising bend. The scout car and blockbuster disappeared behind a slope. When Vince’s truck cleared the hillside, his driver braked hard: one hundred yards ahead, the buster and scout car had stopped in the roadway, stymied by a rock pile too big to be butted aside.
Dozens of stones, each larger than a steamer trunk, barred the path. This blockade, the seventh, had been the labor of a hundred men. The convoy ground to a halt and bunched up. From the hills, the Arabs opened fire.
The first barrage was aimed at the tires. Down the long column, the armored cars and buses returned fire. The road rippled with flying bullets. Vince and Hugo had no guns, nor did their driver and his assistant. Vince jumped out of the bed to hide behind the truck; the drivers joined him, then Hugo, cursing.
The buster set to work against the roadblock. It swung a steel crane into play to lift the boulders out of the road one by one. Some rocks it managed to nudge aside with the plow. The Arabs poured a torrent of gunfire against Emile and his crew. The convoy fought back to hold the Arabs in the hills.
Hugo put his back against the rear tire. Vince pressed close, trying to share the cover of the wheel. The driver and assistant did the same behind the front tire. Over Hugo’s head, a bullet splintered a plank of the sidewall and showered him with shards. Hugo grumbled again that he was done.
In the convoy were two hundred armed fighters. Their firepower roared back with rifles, Stens, and Spandau and Bren machine guns, an awesome response. If the blockbuster could free the column in time, they might survive.
Vince ducked under the truck to watch Emile’s buster struggle to clear the roadblock. The giant mashed against one of the biggest stones, too large for the crane, to shunt it out of the road. The rear tires burned against the tarmac; the rock gave way only inches. The driver shifted into a higher gear for more push, but the plow slipped off the stone. Before he could back off the throttle, the truck shot forward, glancing the rock and turning the truck sideways. The wheels spun too fast, the boulder no longer held it back, and the blockbuster surged across the road before the driver could hit the brakes. The great truck slammed into a ditch.
The buster tried to regain the road, but its front tires and plow were mired deep. The rear wheels fumed and screeched, but the truck only bucked.
The scout car reversed and raced back to the tightly packed convoy. Gunfire swelled as Arabs descended on the trapped column, shooting as they came. Rounds pattered the road, the air zipped over Vince’s head. Hugo leaped into the truck’s driver’s seat shouting “Get in!” The driver and assistant had no quarrel with Hugo firing up the engine and crammed into the cab. Vince scrambled into the truck bed.
The scout car whizzed past. The Haganah officer driving yelled at every truck: “Turn around, tur
n around!” With lightning hands, Hugo backed the truck, butting into the fender of the vehicle behind still limping on its flapping tire.
Hugo had little room to maneuver; ditches bracketed the road. He wheeled the truck south and belted out the window to Vince, “Back to Rivkah!”
Vince thumped on the cab roof. “Go!”
The scout car raced down the convoy’s length ordering retreat. In moments, the column was reduced to bedlam. Trucks swerved into one another, several slipped or were shoved into the ditch. Armored cars and buses bumped the supply trucks out of their way. Drivers tried to make sharp turns on flat tires or bare rims, a few jackknifed and tipped over. Chaos squirmed down the long line, every vehicle under fire. The convoy became a squealing, tightening snarl. At the tail end a half-mile away, the scout car burst free; five trucks and five armored escorts followed south. The rest of the forty trucks stayed gridlocked, and the Arabs crept closer.
Chapter 95
Hugo
Hugo leaned on the horn, so did others while the column scrambled in disarray. Vehicles that could still move blocked each other and honked in panic. Armored trucks and buses blazed guns at the hills and ledges where the Arabs fired down. Hugo shifted madly, looking for any path through the maze, but only made matters worse with others trying the same.
He struck the steering wheel. Beside him, the driver moaned, “We’re stuck.”
At the front of the convoy, the Arabs focused on the blockbuster. Bullets plinked armored sides and bounced off the road as if the truck stood in a rain. The crew had to stay inside or die.
Vince shouted, “What do we do?”
Hugo muttered, “Shit,” before he climbed out. Vince jumped down with him. A bullet whizzed over their heads. “We can’t stay here.”
Vince ducked behind the truck. One more time, they kneeled shoulder-to-shoulder behind the rear wheels.
Hugo asked, “What would we be doing right now? If I’d taken your advice and gone to America. Where would we be?”
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