The Beauty Queen of Jerusalem

by Sarit Yishai-Levi

  Shocked, Rachelika said, “Surely David will want to name his son after his father, may he rest in peace.”

  “So he’ll have to want!”

  “Luna!” Rachelika said, holding herself back from screaming at her sister. “It’s the custom! The firstborn son is named after the husband’s father.”

  “Since when have you been interested in custom? These days people give their children modern names. It’s not up for discussion! My son will be named Gabriel!”

  “Fine, let’s see you go head-to-head with David.”

  “If we have a daughter, he can name her after his mother. I don’t care. I’d never name a daughter of mine after our mother.”

  “God help us, Luna. Now that you’re almost married you have to be careful of words that kill, so stop it already. What’s become of you?”

  “What’s become of me? Compared to you, I’m an angel. Was it me who put up Etzel posters in the street while my father thought I was studying?”

  “Talk quietly, Luna. If Papo hears I was putting up Etzel posters behind his back, it’ll be the end of me.”

  “So what’s your issue with me when all I want is to name my firstborn son after Papo and give him the respect he deserves?”

  I hope Luna has a girl, Rachelika prayed. Otherwise there will be a third world war.

  * * *

  Each day brought fresh news of Arab ambushes, of snipers killing Jews. The British police favored the Arabs. They would not allow the establishment of new Jewish settlements or the landing of illegal immigrants from the ships bringing refugees from the DP camps in Europe. The threat of danger hung in the air. Every other day there was a curfew; entire areas were cordoned off with concertina wire and no one was allowed in or out. And Rachelika, God help her, almost got caught hanging posters near the public restrooms in Zion Square. Luckily she’d had her wits about her and hid in a stinky stall in the men’s bathroom. For twenty minutes she stood in there, one foot on either side of the bowl, holding on to the filthy tiled walls, waiting for the English bastards to go away.

  Only when she was sure that the English had gone had she dared to emerge from the stall. It was pitch-black outside, and due to the curfew, Jaffa Road and Zion Square were deserted. Fear gripped her chest and she struggled to fill her lungs. Her partner had vanished into thin air. They always went out in pairs and were supposed to stay together, except when they encountered British police. In that case, they’d been instructed to look out for themselves, and that’s what she’d done when she’d hidden in the bathroom.

  British police vehicles were patrolling Jaffa Road and Ben-Yehuda Street. The last time she was out after curfew, she’d miraculously reached Tio Shmuel’s house, but what could she do now? She feared the moment she’d be arrested. All she needed was for her father to find out she was a member of the Etzel. At least she hadn’t joined the Lehi, despite her friend Temima urging her to do so. Most of her friends at evening classes supported Lehi, but there were also a few Haganah supporters and a large group of Etzel supporters too. At every opportunity there were passionate debates in the school yard over the right way to drive the British out of Palestine. In the end it was her classmate Moshe Alalouf, to whom she was secretly attracted, who convinced her.

  “Menachem Begin says it’s a fight to the end!” he had said to a group of students.

  “The Etzel are robbers and thieves!” someone yelled.

  The discussion became heated. “The Etzel doesn’t take the money for itself. It robs banks that hold British money and uses it for the struggle!” Alalouf said.

  “The Etzel murders and kills without mercy!” shouted one of the Haganah supporters. “When they threw a bomb at the high commissioner’s car, his wife was in it too. What’s she guilty of?”

  “She’s there with her husband, so she’s guilty,” Alalouf retorted.

  When classes were finished that day, he came over and handed Rachelika a rolled-up newspaper. “If this is of interest to you, talk to me,” he said and went on his way.

  At the top of the front page was the Etzel emblem: a rifle against a map of the Land of Israel on both sides of the River Jordan, rendering it a big country whose border reached Iraq. At the bottom were two words: “Only Thus!” The lead article attacked the Labor Movement leadership, calling them “liars, cowards, and traitors.” A particular target was Moshe Shertok, who had suggested to the high commissioner that a special unit be formed to combat Jewish terrorist organizations.

  When she’d taken part in Haganah youth activities, Rachelika’s instructors had heightened her opposition to both Lehi and Etzel, but she never opposed them as fiercely. She’d noticed the posters stuck on trees and buildings by the organization known as Mishmar Ha’uma, the nation’s guardian, which warned that Jews donating money to the terrorist organizations were undermining the community’s security and hopes of Zionism. The posters were printed in big bold letters and called upon people to report any such case to a public institution or reliable public figure.

  “Do not give in to blackmail and threats!” the black letters warned. Now she saw Etzel’s response in the paper that Alalouf had given her: “No more restraint! We shall not be intimidated by persecution or death! We are prepared for any suffering and sacrifice! We shall strike the Nazo-British enemy!”

  Rachelika was deeply affected by what she read. She met Moshe Alalouf the following day and told him she wanted to join. When he shook her hand, a shiver ran down her spine. She was excited. She had never experienced such a thrill, the feeling of exhilaration mixed with danger. Luna would probably know what she meant.

  As he walked her home after school, a distance that for her seemed far too short, Rachelika felt light on her feet. Being with Moshe Alalouf invigorated her. She was quiet for most of the time, and when she did speak, she had trouble finding the words. He, on the other hand, talked and talked, enthusiastically lecturing her on Menachem Begin’s doctrine—to establish a Jewish state through struggle, not passivity.

  “My father thinks that isn’t the right way,” she said, trying to get a word in. “My father thinks that the Haganah’s moderate approach is the right one.”

  He barely let her finish the sentence before his face flushed and he waved his fists. He said defiantly, “They’ve spilled our blood! They’ve tortured our comrades! They’ve handed our people over to the Nazo-British enemy! They kidnapped and beat them half to death, and we held back. And why did we hold back? Because Begin said we should for the sake of national unity, but no longer! From now on it’s an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth!” Rachelika knew he was quoting from the article in the paper, speaking a language and using words that weren’t his own.

  When they had almost reached her house and before they said good-bye, he asked, “So what do you say? Are you willing to swear allegiance and join the struggle?”

  Rachelika was a tall girl, but Moshe Alalouf was a head taller. She raised her face to him and her eyes met his, which were half closed as if he was praying. She so much wanted him to bend his head and kiss her, but he made no move to. Disappointed, she came back to earth and said, “I need time to think about it.”

  All at once he seemed to wake up. “What do you have to think about when the Land of Israel needs you?”

  “I’m still not sure I’m ready to die for anything, not even the Land of Israel!”

  “First of all,” he replied with infinite seriousness, “people don’t die so quickly. And they’re not accepted so quickly either. You have to prove yourself first.” He raised a clenched fist and proclaimed, “Only thus!” and went on his way.

  That night Rachelika was so excited she couldn’t sleep. Moshe Alalouf, the Etzel, all whirled in her mind. She tossed and turned until Luna, who had shared her bed since they’d been forced to move from the big apartment on King George Street back to Ohel Moshe, gave her a kick and said, “What’s the matter with you? You’re keeping me up.”

  “I can’t fall asleep.”

  Lu
na sat up. “Has something happened?”

  “Keep quiet, you’ll wake Becky,” Rachelika whispered.

  “Becky’s snoring like a pig, nothing wakes her up. What’s happened? Why can’t you sleep?”

  Rachelika told her.

  “Are you out of your mind?” Luna whispered. “If Papo hears about this, he’ll lock you up in the house for life. You won’t even have a wedding.”

  “Nobody must know! It’s a secret!” Rachelika leapt out of bed and stood facing her sister. “If you tell I’ll never tell you anything ever again, and I won’t let you tell me anything either.” And Luna, who was scared to death by the thought of her sister not listening to her secrets, swore she would keep her mouth shut.

  After classes the next day, Rachelika waited for Moshe Alalouf by the school gate. Without a word he motioned for her to walk with him. Unlike the previous day, when he hadn’t stopped talking, now he was silent. They headed down King George Street, and she felt a tiny pang as they went by her former home. They passed Gan Ha’ir, continued toward the Rehavia neighborhood, and went into the garden on Ramban Street. Moshe took her elbow and led her to one of the benches. As soon as they sat down, he put his arm around her shoulders and embraced her intensely. Her heart skipped a beat. “Pretend you’re kissing me,” he whispered in her ear.

  “Pretend?” She was confused. “What do you—” but she didn’t manage to finish the sentence because he pressed his lips to hers hard. She wanted to open her lips, kiss him properly, but the way he was pressing her mouth to his made her realize that he really was only pretending. Disappointed, she pushed him away and moved to the end of the bench. He slid over to her and whispered, “What are you doing?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Didn’t you see the kalaniot passing?” he said, and from behind a bush he took out a tube and a tin.

  “These are the posters,” he whispered. “And this is paste. We’re to stick the posters onto trees and buildings.”

  “And what do we do with the posters and paste if kalaniot come along?” Rachelika whispered fearfully.

  “We hold them between our bodies and hug each other tight. They won’t notice. I’ve done this a thousand times!” he said in a tone meant to boost her confidence, but which only heightened her anxiety.

  They didn’t see any more kalaniot that night. There was no need to embrace and kiss like a couple on a park bench. When they reached the Shaarei Hesed neighborhood he said good-bye with “Only thus!” and walked off, not even offering to escort her home. Disenchanted and angry, she started toward Ohel Moshe, and only when she made it home was she able to get her breath back.

  “What’s the matter, querida, why are you out of breath?” Rosa asked her.

  “It’s dark out and I was scared, so I ran home.”

  “Maybe going to your classes is too dangerous, mi alma. Perhaps you shouldn’t go at a time like this?”

  “Enough, Mother!” Rachelika replied in an assertive tone that left Rosa agape.

  “I’m sorry,” she quickly apologized to her mother. What was happening to her? She couldn’t recognize herself, kissing a strange boy, putting up posters after dark, fleeing the kalaniot, being nasty to her mother. This game wasn’t for her. Starting tomorrow she wouldn’t be sticking up any more posters. Basta, it wasn’t for her.

  But she didn’t stop, not the next day or the day after that. She simply could not.

  Rachelika now belonged to a group of boys and girls in the service of the underground and was increasingly absent from her classes. She didn’t think about what would happen if her father found out, didn’t want to think about it. She wanted to carry on putting up posters, work her way up through the ranks so she could be assigned the more dangerous tasks that were spoken of only in whispers and total secrecy.

  As on previous occasions, this time too she hadn’t known her partner for the mission. He was a bespectacled boy who said very little, and they walked hand in hand as they’d been ordered, two strangers pretending to be a pair of lovers. He held her little finger with his own crooked around it. “It’s how my kibbutznik brother walks with his girlfriend” were the only words he uttered. They walked in silence until they reached Haneviim Street and stopped outside the English Mission Hospital. Opposite was a small garden surrounding the house where Rachel the Poetess had once lived, and they easily found the posters and paste under the garden bench and didn’t even have to pretend to kiss. They’d been told to put up the posters in Zion Square near the cinema’s box office so that the posters would be in the faces of people buying tickets. They walked quickly so they could finish the job before curfew, but they didn’t make it. As they passed Dr. Ticho’s house on Rabbi Kook Street, British police vehicles driving down the streets announced the start of the curfew. Rachelika had been putting up posters after classes for weeks now, but never during a curfew. She’d told her family that she was studying for exams at Temima’s.

  At first her father was against it. “You’re not going out at that time of day!” he’d said.

  “But, Papo querido, when can I study? I’m in the shop until late afternoon. When else do I have time?”

  Fortunately, her father had bought her story. But what would happen when exam time really did come around? When would she study then? She knew that no one would believe that she, Goody-Two-shoes Rachelika, was the one putting up Etzel posters. But the way she felt when she was putting up posters—the adrenaline coursing through her veins, the sense of purpose—was addictive and had clouded her judgment.

  A cat jumping out of a dumpster shook her from her thoughts. She clung to an outer wall of the public restroom like a shadow. In a quick decision she threw the posters and paste into the dumpster. She’d pay the price for it tomorrow, but right now she had to save herself, so she started walking home. If the kalaniot caught her, so be it. She could tell her father that she was at school until late and didn’t make it home in time. Wai de mi sola, I’m more frightened of my father than I am of the British police! When did I start thinking like Luna? She prayed she’d be able to lie to her father’s face, but before she could plan her lies, she found herself having to lie to the British policemen approaching her from their vehicle. “What are you doing out? Don’t you know there’s a curfew?” one shouted.

  “Yes, sir,” she said, putting on the expression of an innocent lamb. “I was at school until late and didn’t notice that the curfew had begun. Sir, I’ve got to get home, please help me. My parents must be worried sick.”

  But instead of softening, the English policeman hardened and ordered her to take out the contents of her bag. Luckily, all she had were homework books and textbooks. She silently thanked Luna, who had advised her to cut the Etzel newspaper into shreds and flush them down the toilet. She thanked God that she rid of the posters and paste.

  The policeman instructed her to put her books back into the bag and then ordered her into the vehicle. Quaking with fear she did as she was told, imagining being dragged to the Kishle and locked up behind bars. Papo will never forgive me, she thought. He’ll imprison me in the house. And worst of all, he’ll think I’ve become like Luna. She knew how hard life was for him and was afraid of disappointing him. She saw how he’d been aloof, ravaged with worry, bitter. But he always kept his anger bottled up, didn’t shout, didn’t get upset, and that was far worse.

  “Address,” snapped the policeman.

  Rachelika gave him the King George address and immediately corrected herself. It’d been almost ten months since they’d moved back to Ohel Moshe and she still hadn’t gotten used to it.

  To her horror, the driver turned on the siren. The noise sliced through her ears, and it became clear to her that they would stop at the police station and she’d be kept in a cell for who knew how long. But the vehicle passed the police station and stopped at the Ohel Moshe gate, and Rachelika was ceremoniously escorted to her house by two British policemen, one on either side.

  What happened in the next hour Ra
chelika could never have imagined even in her wildest dreams. The policemen banged on the door. “Open up, police!” they shouted. And Rachelika, terrified, knew all the neighbors were now spying from their windows and seeing her, Senor and Senora Ermosa’s quiet daughter, escorted by two English policemen, and rubbing their eyes in amazement.

  Her mother opened the door. “Thank God, you’ve given us a heart attack again! We thought something had happened to you.” And before she asked the policemen what they wanted, she pulled Rachelika inside. “Gracias el Dio, Gabriel, Rachelika’s home.”

  Her father got out of his chair and turned off the radio. He staggered slightly, held on to the back of the chair, and looked questioningly at Rachelika and the two policemen. Luna and Becky came out of their room as well.

  “Forgive me, gentlemen, I’m very sorry,” Gabriel said, moving heavily toward them. “The bane of raising daughters. I’m sure you know how difficult it is to raise daughters these days.” To his daughters, who were standing as if nailed to the floor, he said, “Why are you standing there like dummies? Introduce yourselves to the gentlemen.” Then he turned back to the Englishmen and with exaggerated politeness introduced the girls: “This, gentlemen, is my eldest daughter Luna, our baby Becky, and you’ve already met my middle daughter Rachel. She’s a good girl, but a bit of a dreamer. This isn’t the first time she hasn’t come home in time before a curfew. I forgive her, and I hope you will too.”

  The policemen smiled at the sight of the three lovely girls, and Rosa, who until then had been standing rooted to the spot by the door, suddenly came to life and offered the policemen seats at the table. She hurried to set a bowl of fresh bizcochos on the table while urging Luna to serve the guests. Gabriel went to the carved wooden cabinet, took out a crystal decanter of fine cognac, and poured it into crystal glasses. He and the policemen toasted the troubles of raising daughters.