Isaac's Beacon

by David L. Robbins

  Hugo said, “The Arabs won’t let this go. There will be reprisals.”

  “I’ve got to let Rivkah know.”

  “She knows.”

  “I need to get her out of there.”

  “If you do, if you even try, you’ll lose her. You understand that.”

  “She’s hardheaded.”

  “She’s a Jew of Massuot Yitzhak. Who among them is not? It’s your bad luck to have one for a lover. And soon a child.”

  Hugo strode away. Vince’s shoulder ached; the morning pain shot had worn off.

  Chapter 108

  Rivkah

  April 23

  Gush Etzion

  Gabbi fanned a timid flame under the cauldron. The top of Yellow Hill had little to burn, only sticks. The winds had blown away the dry leaves, and the spring scrub was still green. Gabbi was losing patience. She told Rivkah, “Go find more.”

  Rivkah went to forage down the slope. She picked her way through spring thorns, away from the Palmach’s lean-to shelters and hasty cabin, sandbags, trenches, and guns. Every part of the bloc lay in sight from the crest of Yellow Hill, with a clear view of the Hebron road.

  Rivkah wandered far until she found a dead tree; she filled her arms with twigs, sure this would please Gabbi. She returned to the hilltop before the flame petered out and dropped the sticks at her sister’s feet. They built a crackling fire.

  Finally, the water boiled. The fire made a comfortable glow in the warm dusk, and the sisters held hands in the unneeded warmth outside the Palmach cabin. They exchanged quiet moments like gifts.

  Rivkah said, “Happy Passover.”

  “Pesach sameach.”

  Into the boiling water, Gabbi lowered a cheesecloth wrapped around the utensils for the meal. The knives and forks went in terefah, then came out kasher.

  Rivkah held the door for Gabbi into the busy cabin, then followed. She stayed on the threshold to see her sister disappear among the ten Palmachniks, her brothers, making preparations for the Seder.

  Weapons were leaned against one wall; they, too, seemed present for the ceremony. Rivkah was seated at the far end of the table from the new commander of the Haganah’s force in Gush Etzion. A glass of red wine waited at each place. The commander reached first for his glass, the others joined and, before drinking, all leaned to the left; in Egypt, when the Jews were slaves, only the free were allowed to recline while eating.

  Water was drizzled over each pair of hands. Herbs were eaten, then a matzoh broken, for the parting of the Red Sea. The cabin hushed to its bare rafters and the little snaps of the campfire outside. The young commander nodded at Gabbi, the youngest commando at the table. She asked the question of the child.

  “Why is this night different from all other nights?”

  The commander said, “If we were in our homes tonight, our fathers would read us the Haggadah. We do not have a Haggadah on Yellow Hill. What we have is twelve around this table, five at their posts outside. We are all of the same blood, with a shared story that our people around the world will tell this night. But you and I, around this table, on these hills between Hebron and Jerusalem, we have a story only we share. Only us. So, let us have our own Haggadah tonight.”

  The fighters took each other’s hands and Rivkah’s, then held them high, a passion for one another and the circle they made. By lantern light, the commander spoke.

  “We thank God for taking us out of Egypt. For the ten plagues that set us free. For dividing the waters that let us cross into our own lands. For bringing us here. When I say this, I mean you and me, to this place, to this hill. We are the defenders of Jerusalem tonight. We are the plagues.”

  The commander squeezed the hands he held, then let them go. The rest followed.

  “A great war is coming. The Arabs expect it will take a matter of days. They are leaving their homes thinking to be back to water their gardens.”

  The commander took up one of the broken pieces of matzoh. He snapped it to hand the pieces around the table. “The Arabs intend to conquer Jerusalem. Gush Etzion has a role to play to prevent that. To reach the city from the south, they must go past us. For that, we are thankful to God.”

  The commander chewed the bit of matzoh and closed his Passover story. He raised his wine and, with the company of free men and women, leaned to drink.

  The young fighters took their weapons and departed from the cabin. In the newness of night they filled their bunkered positions on Yellow Hill. The campfire had burned out. Before taking her post, Gabbi said goodnight to Rivkah. The commander hung back, as well. The young fighters argued from their positions over the ten plagues, who would be the frog, who the gnat, who the fly, who the angel of death. In the darkness, Gabbi shouted out that she would be the angel.

  The commander asked Rivkah, “Will you walk with me? You and your sister?”

  After nightfall, the view of Gush Etzion from the top of Yellow Hill was beautiful and strategic. Perimeter lights glowed around each settlement, and Jews on guard were hidden in the starry landscape. The commander said to Rivkah, “Thank you for coming.”

  “Thank you for inviting me.”

  “I was told about you on the day I arrived.”

  “Told what?”

  “You’re pregnant. In Gush Etzion, that’s a brave thing. The father is in Jerusalem?”

  “Vince.”

  “The American newspaperman.”

  “He was wounded at Nebi Daniel.”

  “I’m sorry. I trust he’s healing.”

  “We don’t know. I haven’t heard in three weeks. The planes are taking off from Tel Aviv now, so there’s no mail from Jerusalem.”

  “I’ll see what we can do. Perhaps we can arrange a short radio chat.”

  “That would be wonderful. Thank you.”

  He walked them across uneven ground, north over the hillcrest.

  “This place would make a fine orchard. I’m amazed at what you settlers can do.”

  Gabbi held an open hand to Rivkah for the credit. Gabbi had never wielded a tool; she became a soldier days after arriving.

  The commander said, “I was a farmer in Galilee. I can’t imagine planting anything in this.” He kicked a rock. “I can understand your attachment to the place.”

  They walked further, to Yellow Hill’s northern slope. Rivkah didn’t ask where they were headed as the commander led them down the incline.

  Gabbi cut through the hush with long strides. The commander admired the stars and the mild air, hands in his pockets.

  “I wanted you to come with me because you’ve been asked for. Both of you.”

  Gabbi and Rivkah slowed, the commander strolled backwards.

  “Come on, then.” The commander turned and walked on.

  Rivkah asked, “By who?”

  The incline eased as they entered the flats below Revadim.

  “I think this is far enough.” He raised his chin to listen into the dark wadi. He appeared boyish in this mystery of his; it occurred to Rivkah that, away from the table of his Palmachniks, the commander was younger than she.

  In the notch between Massuot Yitzhak and Revadim, not far into the night, a camel barked.

  Malik swirled out of the night. His robes kicked and his great hands reached for Rivkah. He pressed her against his chest, smelling of sweat, leather, and herbs. Malik reeled Gabbi in, too. Rivkah stayed encircled by his arm and heart, until Malik pushed the girls back and reached for the commander’s hand.

  “Commander.”

  “Malik of the Tarabin. I’m glad to meet you.”

  “Thank you for bringing my friends.” Malik beheld Gabbi. “I could turn three circles and each time I faced this young woman she would become more fearsome. Look at you.”

  Malik faced Rivkah. He stroked his beard as if composing a poem on the spot. He wore Mrs. Pappel’s p
inky ring.

  “You’re with child.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Do you not own a mirror?” Malik asked the commander, “Do you not see?”

  “I do.”

  Malik smoothed the rough backs of his fingers against her cheek. “It is strange. I have never been able to lie to a woman. I have never known when they lie to me. But this.” He extended both hands. “Wallah. This is a great truth from God.” Malik folded his arms. “Vince?”

  “Yes.”

  He pretended a grave displeasure. “I will speak with him.”

  “Malik, what are you doing here?”

  Somewhere in the dark, his camel bleated, perhaps to say we should not stay long. Malik kneeled, weighed a pebble, then tossed it away.

  “I sent word to your commander. I wanted to see you both. I cannot bring guns, so I bring him what I have in trade.”

  Gabbi said, “You’re an informer.”

  Malik answered without looking up at her. “At the moment.”

  The commander kneeled with him. “I thank you.”

  Something in Gabbi’s unsympathetic tone, in the commander’s kind crouch, made Rivkah say, “We’ve known Malik for two years. He believes we can all live together. He’s never wanted bloodshed.”

  Malik selected another stone. He didn’t toss this one away but closed it in his fist. “I cannot stop it, child.”

  He rose to his full height and slid his hands inside the sleeves of his robe, his fighting posture, not to fight but to be seen as a man who has.

  “I am no traitor.”

  The commander stood with Malik. “Of course not.”

  “But I know this. If Arabs take Jerusalem, this will become a war of forever.”

  “I agree.”

  Malik turned to Gabbi. “You will forgive me.”

  She laid a hand softly on Malik’s arm. “I spoke without thinking.”

  Malik nodded. “The British no longer control Hebron. It is under the Arab Legion now. Five hundred fighters from Jericho have arrived. These are not villagers or Bedu, but trained in Trans-Jordan, with good weapons. They have British tanks. They have the armored vehicles they took from you at Nebi Daniel. Five thousand villagers have ridden their mules to Hebron to take part in an attack. The Legionnaires held a parade. Their leader said they must open the road to Jerusalem, and they must do it soon. If Gush Etzion continues to block them from the south, Jerusalem cannot be taken. If Jerusalem does not fall, the courage of the entire Legion will fail.”

  The commander made a short bow. “I’m pleased they’ve noticed.”

  Out in the night, the camel woofed. Malik’s time inside Gush Etzion was short. He took a backward step; in this small distance he began to fade into the dark.

  “Hear me. Right now there is no intention in the Arab Legion to eliminate your settlements. They want to move forces to Jerusalem, that is all. The British also want the road open so they can bring their troops up from the south to leave Palestine, and to transfer others down to Egypt. With every convoy you attack, every hole you blow in the road, and every mine you lay, you place a bigger target on your backs.”

  Gabbi said, “And Jerusalem lives another day.”

  Malik retreated another eclipsing stride. “Goodbye, Gabbi.”

  “Goodbye, Malik.”

  “Commander. Hebron will turn their attention to you soon. Be advised.”

  The commander said, “Malik of the Tarabin.”

  To Rivkah, Malik said, “Stay a moment.”

  Gabbi and the commander walked off. Malik waited for their footsteps to rise up Yellow Hill. He retreated again, became an outline.

  “I inform only this once. So he would bring you to me.”

  “I believe you.”

  “Child, in Hebron there is madness. They scream Deir Yassin. Deir Yassin. If they can, they will visit the same on you. Beware. Do you hear me?”

  “I do. Will you see Mrs. Pappel?”

  “I cannot.” He backed again, shedding more light. “I cannot. Tell her something for me.”

  “Yes.”

  “I am her friend. I will always be her friend.”

  “I will. Is there more?”

  Malik’s eyes were too dark and his beard too black to shine in the stars.

  “Yes.”

  His next step away made him vanish.

  Chapter 109

  Hugo

  May 1

  Jerusalem

  She rolled to her side, reaching for the cigarette pack on the nightstand. “Do you want one?”

  From behind, Hugo touched her bare shoulder. “No.”

  “Did you ever smoke?”

  “I did.”

  “When?”

  “In Leipzig. I quit.”

  “Why?”

  “They were hard to get in the ghetto. Impossible in the camps.”

  She put the cigarette to her lips for a grey breath and lay back. “True.”

  “Why do you smoke?”

  “My husband did. I picked it up from him. I might stop now.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Hugo propped his head on his palm. She gazed up into her own cloud.

  “What were the odds of us seeing each other again?”

  “Very good, apparently.”

  Hugo’s window was slid up. Jerusalem lay quiet this warming noon, with little traffic on Julian’s Way. Birds twittered; a bicycle bell far below sounded just like them.

  With a deft flick she sent the cigarette butt spinning out the window. She rolled to her front, elbows on the sheets. “I’m glad you recognized me this morning. I didn’t see you.”

  “You were wearing green.”

  She ran a finger in the furrow between two of his ribs. Hugo said, “Please don’t.”

  She withdrew her touch. They looked at each other with too much understanding. Her camp eyes were gone; she’d gained weight, married for a while.

  She asked, “When was the last time for you?”

  “A few years ago.”

  “Where?”

  “We were trucked to a village after a bombing. Some women were brought from the Gotha camp to work. One woman and I found a spot in the rubble. I don’t remember it as sex. Not really.”

  “What was it?”

  “I think defiance.”

  She blinked, something melancholy behind her eyes. “Do you go to synagogue?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t either, not for a long time. A month after you and I jumped off that ship, I married the Palmach who rowed me to shore. We made a home in Jerusalem, that was enough. I slept most nights. He was killed on one of the convoys. After that, I couldn’t sleep by myself. Nightmares. Sometimes about my husband, though I didn’t know him very long. Mostly I dreamt about the Nazis. Them I knew.”

  She swung her legs off the bed to shake another cigarette from the pack. Hugo walked fingertips up the knobs of her spine. He asked, “Do you pray?”

  “No. But I go to synagogue anyway. Can I ask you something else?”

  “What.”

  She struck a match for the cigarette. The open window seemed reluctant to pull the haze from the room.

  “Are you lonely?”

  Hugo rolled away on his side of the bed. His pants lay on the floor. He stepped into them, then searched for his shirt and socks. In the mirror, he buttoned up his shirt, covered his reedy chest, then pulled up the suspenders. Hugo found his socks and shoes and moved to the chair to put them on.

  He stood. Everything he owned, he wore.

  She said nothing as he left the room. Hugo took the many stairs down from the YMCA tower.

  On the patio, the sun, the umbrellas, and the waiters greeted him. Hugo’s table was vacant. He let a lunch come to him that he would not pay
for, that he felt he’d already paid for. If she came down in her green dress to join him, Hugo would have them serve her, for she had purchased it long before, too.

  Chapter 110

  Rivkah

  May 4

  Massuot Yitzhak

  Rivkah had never before seen tanks.

  She stood on the quarry path to watch three climb the rocky heights rising from the Hebron Road. Even at two miles off, the tanks were clanking leviathans. In the road, three dozen armored trucks disgorged a thousand Arabs. This time they were not villagers but Arab Legionnaires. Malik had forewarned this day, exactly this.

  With a booming smoke ring, a tank fired the opening salvo. The round struck a stone wall of the old monastery on Russian Hill, built in the last century to house Russian Christians in the Holy Land. The monastery commanded a view of the Brakha Valley and the road. When the dust cleared, the wall had held. The blast sent all the settlers watching with Rivkah sprinting to their sandbag bunkers, to trenches and foxholes, to the orchard hill, to Yellow Hill and Lone Tree Hill. Rivkah dashed up to her house, to tell Mrs. Pappel the fighting had started and she was headed to it.

  Mrs. Pappel sat at the table. She slid a sealed and addressed envelope to the center of the tabletop, so anyone entering would see it.

  “It’s a letter to my son.”

  Rivkah darted to her bedroom for her canvas bag of medical supplies. Before leaving, she embraced Mrs. Pappel. “You’ll write another one tonight. We’ll mail it tomorrow.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “The monastery. There’s going to be wounded.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “Stay here. The kitchen will need to prepare food. It’s going to be a long day.”

  Mrs. Pappel took hold of Rivkah. “All this time. I never told you something.”

  “What.”

  “I hate cooking. Morrie had to get rich so we could hire someone to feed him.”

  Rivkah stroked her thumb down Mrs. Pappel’s cheek. Shouldering her medical bag, she rushed down the quarry road, running between Rock Hill and Yellow Hill where Gabbi was at her post. She hurried across the airstrip, into the Wadi Shahid. In the flats, dashing for the embattled monastery, Rivkah was joined by a medical team from Kfar Etzion, two women and two men carrying folded stretchers.