by Ruth Gruber
“Come in, Miss Levy.” Mrs. Cantor smiled expansively. “How would you like to go to a dance for the soldiers tonight? The Women’s Committee for Soldiers asked me to send fifteen of my prettiest nurses.”
Raquela blushed. “But I—I have classes tonight.”
“You can get there after classes. Eight-thirty would be fine. It’s at the Menorah Soldiers’ Club. You can go there by bus with the other girls I’ll be inviting.”
Raquela raced up the stairs. She had never been inside the Soldiers’ Club. She had never been to a formal dance before. Upstairs in her room she found Judith waiting, holding on her arm the four evening gowns her mother had packed in Czechoslovakia. Debby lay on her bed, watching.
“I thought one of these dresses might fit you,” Judith said. “The women usually wear long gowns at those dances. Maybe some glamour helps the soldiers forget the war.”
“You’re very kind, but I can’t borrow one of your dresses. What if something happened to it?”
Judith smiled. “I’m your ‘mother.’ Come on, let’s see how they look. Try this one.”
She handed Raquela a turquoise gown of shimmering satin. Raquela stepped into it, turning slowly in front of the mirror over the desk. Her skin looked golden against the turquoise; the skirt billowed out as she turned.
“Every soldier will flirt with you tonight,” Judith said approvingly.
Debby bolted from her bed and stalked out of the room.
“What’s bothering her, I wonder.” Raquela turned to Judith.
“I think she’s worried. Her probation period is almost up.”
The Menorah Soldiers’ Club was a low, one-story building set inside a garden gate. Two flags fluttered from the rooftop—the British Union Jack and the blue and white flag of Zion.
The nurses Mrs. Cantor had chosen stood shyly at the entrance door. Dance music drifted out to them. They looked at one another. Do you ring a bell? Do you just march in?
A committeewoman standing near the door spotted them. “We’re so glad you came. And you all look beautiful. Come with me; we need help pouring tea.”
They walked across the brilliantly lighted ballroom floor. Men and women in British uniforms milled around, some holding drinks in their hands, some talking animatedly, some wandering under the tinted photographs of King George, the reigning monarch, and Queen Elizabeth.
Long tables stacked with food lined the walls. Raquela, standing behind a buffet table, began pouring tea from an antique silver tea service.
In Europe, the front was exploding; here they were dancing, drinking, eating, squeezing in a few days of respite, away from the war.
Words floated to Raquela through the smoke-filled air: Tobruk…El Alamein…North Africa…Italy. Palestine had become not only British headquarters, with a network of army camps, training schools, and airfields, but also the favorite rest-and-recreation area for soldiers on leave.
Politely they took the teacups Raquela handed them, thanking her in all the accents of the Commonwealth, including those of Palestine.
A middle-aged major waited his turn at the table.
“May I give you some tea?” Raquela asked.
He shook his head. “Would you give me the honor of this dance?”
A committeewoman next to Raquela spoke up quickly. “Of course, dear. You go right ahead; I’ll pour.”
Soon they were fox-trotting on the crowded floor. In silence.
Finally he spoke. “I’m Major Thomas,” he said. “From London.”
“And I’m Miss Levy,” she said, “from Jerusalem.”
He concentrated his energies on his feet.
A tall blond second lieutenant tapped the major on the shoulder. “May I cut in?”
“Of course.” The major handed Raquela over reluctantly.
She stared. She had seen this face every night. On Debby’s shelf.
The fox-trot had changed to a Strauss waltz; the young lieutenant was holding her close, whirling her around the floor, smiling. The same movie-star smile.
“You don’t know me,” she said, “but I know you. You’re Carmi Eisenberg.”
“What are you, psychic?”
He stopped dancing in the middle of the floor.
“You’re Debby’s boyfriend,” Raquela said. “She’s my roommate.”
His cheeks flushed. “I was her boyfriend.”
“That’s not what she told me. She said she and you—”
He interrupted. “It’s over. We’re finished. Believe me.”
He put his arm around her and slowly began to dance again. “I didn’t want to come tonight. I figured these committee ladies would all be like my mother’s friends—all looking for a husband for their daughters.”
“Had any good offers tonight?”
“I didn’t give the ladies a chance. The minute I saw you, I said, ‘This is for me.’”
Was he telling the truth? Then why did Debby keep his photo on her shelf?
He broke the silence. “You still haven’t told me your name.”
“Raquela Levy.”
“Raquela! I’ve never heard that name before.”
“It’s Sephardic; it’s the Spanish ‘Raquel,’ with a Russian diminutive. My father wanted to name me Balforia because I was born on Balfour Day. But my mother had promised to name me for my grandmother.”
“Let’s go down to the garden,” he said impulsively, dancing her toward the back door of the ballroom. “It’s too hard to talk with all this noise.”
They walked down a short flight of stairs. The garden, filled with palms and fragrant winter-blooming flowers, lay in wartime darkness. The Jerusalem sky was deep blue and hung with silver stars.
“How did you know I was Debby’s boyfriend? How did you recognize me?”
“Debby has your picture right next to her bed.”
“If she has any illusions, it just means she refuses to face reality. We broke up a few weeks ago. It was all wrong. We just weren’t meant for each other. You do believe me, don’t you?”
“I don’t think you lie.” She said it without thinking, then realized that she wanted very much to believe it.
A wind blew through the palms. Carmi pulled off his British army jacket. “Here, put this on.” He slipped it around her shoulders.
“If I were wounded—” He stopped short, drew back, and cupped her face in his hands. “If I woke up and saw a white uniform and your beautiful face, I would never want to get well. I’d want to have you take care of me forever. ”
Through the open door, they could hear the musicians strike up a tango. “La Paloma.”
In his khaki shirt, he drew himself up in the stance of a flamenco dancer. He brought Raquela toward him, gracefully flung her away, then drew her back and kissed her.
She shut her eyes.
Her body ached with his nearness.
She wanted him to hold her, as no one had ever held her before—none of the boys in school, who took her walking through the quiet tree-lined streets of Bet Hakerem; none of the Haganah boys, Jacob’s friends, who kissed her, brotherly-fashion, on her cheek.
She had never felt so intoxicated.
But what if he were lying about Debby? What if he were one of those soldiers she was always reading about. The kind who believed everything was fair in love and war. Live today, for tomorrow you may be…
The word “dead” had never frightened her before. She lived with it twenty-four hours a day, in the classrooms, in the textbooks, in the wards. Why now did it make her tremble? She had just met Carmi, yet already she felt a sense of loss clawing inside her.
Outside the garden, a jeep revved up its engine, patrolling the blacked-out streets.
“Raquela,” Carmi whispered. “It’s the most beautiful name in the world.”
He drew her close. Inside, the musicians were still playing.
“Raquela,” he said. “Raquela…Raquela…Raquela.”
FOUR
FEBRUARY 1943
The next
afternoon, the telephone rang down the dormitory hall. Raquela was called to the phone.
“Hello, Raquela.” Her heart catapulted.
No one had ever spoken her name as he did. Carmi was talking urgently. “I’ve just got orders. My unit is leaving tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow!” She heard the dismay in her own voice, and it startled her.
“I’ve got to see you before I leave.”
“Of course. But I have classes until seven.” Her mind was in turmoil. Should she cut school? “Will seven give us enough time?”
“I’ll be there. Good-bye…Raquela.”
She struggled through the afternoon classes. One of the senior doctors from the hospital was teaching anatomy, but she kept seeing Carmi’s face, hearing him whisper in the dark flower-scented garden: If I was wounded…and saw your face…
Promptly at seven, Carmi appeared in the lounge. Raquela raced down the stairs to greet him. He stood near the grand piano in his British-army uniform, six feet tall, golden, burnished.
“I couldn’t leave without seeing you.” He took her hands in both of his. “Can we go somewhere, where we can be alone?”
“We can walk right here on Mount Scopus,” she said, her heart still palpitating. “I’ll go up and get a sweater. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
In their room, Debby lay on her bed, her eyes shut. She opened them a slit, watching Raquela go to the closet and take out a white woolen sweater she had just finished knitting.
“Hm, going somewhere?” Debby asked. “Got a date?”
Raquela moved closer to Debby’s bed.
“Debby”—she leaned toward her red-haired roommate—“is something worrying you?”
She nodded. “It’s near the end of my probation. And you know how tough Mrs. Cantor is.”
On the shelf over Debby’s head, Carmi smiled down at both of them.
“Debby, I’d like to ask you something. Are you still seeing Carmi Eisenberg?”
Debby looked stunned. Without answering, she reached her arm up to the shelf, pulled down a textbook, and opened it.
Raquela persisted. “Are you still seeing him?”
“Sure,” she said. But her voice sounded unsure to Raquela. “Look, you’ve got a date,” Debby said. “And I’d better memorize this junk, or next thing you know I’ll be kicked out. Then what’ll Carmi say?”
Raquela was confused. Who was telling the truth?
She descended slowly to the lounge. “Sorry I took so long,” she said.
Carmi took her arm. “You’re here. That’s what counts.”
He opened the glass door and led her out of the school. “Let’s walk to the university garden,” he said.
Raquela walked with her eyes to the ground as they trudged along the narrow dirt ridge that led to the campus of the Hebrew University, some two hundred yards from the nursing school. Mount Scopus seemed to divide two worlds: on one side lay the Old City and new Jerusalem, rising on the hills; on the other, the Judean desert. Looking west, civilization, ancient and new; looking east, the strange untamed wilderness, and beyond the wilderness, Transjordan, Iraq. For six thousand miles eastward, this was the only university; and Hadassah, the only medical center.
Three Arab boys approached them, whipping their donkeys. The boys waved their hands and smiled at the attractive young couple in uniform, he in army brown, she in white with the little probationer’s cap in the pompadour of her hair. The boys were probably on their way to Issawiya, a little Arab village that lay on the slope of a hill just below the hospital.
The Arabs of Issawiya were in and out of the hospital constantly, as workers and as patients. Even the three boys grinning appreciatively seemed familiar; Raquela was sure she had seen them often on the hospital grounds.
As the boys waved good-bye and descended the ridge eastward to Issawiya, their donkeys’ bells seemed to be tolling peace on the biblical mountain, while Carmi was marching off to war.
Raquela clung to Carmi’s arm, her body taut with excitement. But she was troubled by doubts and guilt.
Should she even be walking with him?
Ahead of them, the cupola of the great National Library loomed up; here and there lights shone in the buildings; a few students hurried past them; others strode like lovers, arm in arm.
They entered the pillared pergola linking the library with the tall Humanities building. They paused for a moment, looking through the open colonnades at the terraced garden below; then they made their way down the steps into the garden and gravitated toward a large circular bench, with an unobstructed view of the Old City.
Carmi took her in his arms and kissed her. The wind hurried through the Jerusalem pines.
She shivered, chilled and warm, exhilarated and uncertain. They sat on the bench, looking at the luminous panorama below them.
The Old City looked magical. The golden Dome of the Rock stood out like a jewel amid the spires and minarets and the battle walls that framed the ancient city where David had reigned and Solomon had built his temple. The sky darkened, suffusing the bustling courtyards and streets where Señora Vavá and all the generations of Papa’s family had lived and loved and died.
Beyond the Old City, new Jerusalem rose up on the gentle hills in the west and the south—Bet Hakerem and its neighboring Jewish and Arab suburbs catching the last light in the sky.
“Carmi”—Raquela broke the spell—“I must know the truth.”
“What truth? What greater truth is there than this sight we’re looking at? I want to imprint it, like a woodcut, on my brain. From now on, no matter where they send me, every time I think of you, I will see you here, on Mount Scopus, looking down on the Old City.”
“Carmi,” she said, “Debby says you still see each other.”
“Its not true. We haven’t even spoken to each other for weeks.”
“She told me you even plan to get married when the war is over.”
Carmi turned his body toward her and put his hands on her shoulders.
“Now, listen to me, Raquela. Debby and I had it out. She’s too jealous. I couldn’t take it any more. She was always complaining that I didn’t love her enough. Every time I sneezed, she thought it was an excuse not to see her. If I met an old schoolfriend on the street, she asked me if I had been in love with her, and maybe still was. I told her we were finished.”
“But she’s a bright girl. Why doesn’t she believe you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it was something in her childhood. She lost her father when she was still living in Haifa and she was about five. I think she blames him for deserting her. I don’t think she can trust any man. She’s always looking for love—and then she can’t accept it when it comes. She’s bright, all right; but as I got to know her more, I knew our relationship was all wrong for both of us.”
“I guess her pride is hurt,” Raquela said slowly. “Maybe that’s why she still keeps your photo on her shelf. It’s very fashionable to have a boyfriend in the army.”
He smiled. “Now you have one, too.”
He embraced her again. She felt his strong slim body, his masculinity, his love, enveloping her.
“I’ll be thinking of you every minute while I’m away,” he whispered in her ear. “And I’ll write you every single day.”
He was crushing her against his uniform. “Wait for me, Raquela.” He breathed the words. “I’ll come back from the war. Wait for me.”
She trembled in his arms.
“I’ll wait, Carmi.”
Silently, she added, “Carmi, stay alive!”
At lunch in the dining room the next day, Judith pulled up a chair beside Raquela.
“Debby’s telling everyone you stole her boyfriend.”
Raquela stopped eating. “What?”
“She says someone saw you kissing him last night.”
“I’m going up to talk to her right now.” Raquela ran out of the dining room.
Upstairs, Debby was tossing clothes into her bag. The shelves over her b
ed were bare.
Raquela’s anger subsided. “You’re leaving?” The guilt was back.
Without looking at her, Debby shouted, “I never want to see you—never—for the rest of my life.”
Raquela tried to grab Debby’s hand. “Please don’t leave. Please. Is it because of Carmi?”
Debby shoved her aside. “Leave me alone.”
“Please don’t throw away your whole career.”
“I hate you.” Debby turned her rage on Raquela. “I hate you both!”
She stormed out of the room.
Raquela dragged herself to the French doors and slowly stepped out to the balcony. Tears welled in her eyes, blurring the Judean wilderness and the Dead Sea.
Judith’s voice brought her back into the room.
“I just heard the news, Raquela.”
Raquela brushed her cheek. “What news?”
“Debby’s probationary period ended today. She failed all her exams. Mrs. Cantor told her she doesn’t have the qualifications to be a nurse. She’s been expelled.”
Winter yielded unwillingly to spring, the winds of Mount Scopus howling their last farewell.
Carmi was somewhere in Egypt with the British Eighth Army. Raquela wrote him every day. In her spare time, she knit khaki gloves and mufflers and mailed them to him, care of a British-army post office.
His first letter took weeks to arrive. Raquela found it in the wooden honeycomb where the students received messages. She bounded up to her bedroom and slit open the blue airmailer.
Dear Raquela:
We traveled 24 hours by train from home to get to this base. I’m covered with dust from head to foot. Dust and sand are everywhere—in the water, in the food, in our lungs.
To write you the truth, it’s very hard to get used to camp life now that I’ve met you in Jerusalem. On the whole train ride, I thought about you every minute.
My soul is tied to yours.
Raquela shut her eyes. Slowly, she reread the line. My soul is tied to yours. She read on.
I love you, Raquela, with all my heart, and I will love you until I die.
MAY 1943
Carmi was back for a week’s home leave.
Raquela was to meet him at seven. She pulled off her blue uniform, changed into a frilly white blouse and skirt, and flew down to wait in front of the building.