Pursuit

by Robert L. Fish

  “If you’re going to be shot, you’ll be shot,” Grossman said coldly. “Are you ready?”

  “I’ve been ready for a week, for God’s sake!”

  “Good.” Ben raised his voice; he could not keep the excitement out of it. “Open the gate!” The gate swung back. “Lights!” The floodlights suddenly flared, making day out of night. “Go!”

  At the Arab encampment the sudden blaze of light caught everyone by surprise. There was a sudden rush for guns, and then the men hesitated. A single jeep, with what looked like only two men in it, was emerging from the gate. A surrender? The robed troops relaxed but still held their guns tightly, wondering at the strange excursion.

  In the jeep, Wolf pressed nervously on the accelerator; the vehicle seemed to leap forward and was suddenly slowed as Wolf quickly braked, slowing down, staring about. The road was clear enough in the strong light of the floodlamps reflected by the mirrors behind them, but in contrast the shadows were sharper, blacker, everything took on a different appearance than during the day. Wolf felt a band of sweat run down his stomach into his crotch and a part of his mind wondered if he had wet himself. God! Was that lump one of the mines they had planted, or was it just a lump? Why had they smoothed the damned things over so well they were impossible to see? What had made him think he could recognize where the blasted mines were laid? But he couldn’t go back now, the danger of that was as great if not greater. He crept along, sweating, trying to make out small landmarks that might help him identify the mine locations.

  “How far have we come?”

  Jesus Christ! He had forgotten to check the odometer, and they had been driving for what seemed like an hour! He looked down and felt a momentary relief.

  “Two tenths of a mile, plus a little …”

  He shut his eyes a second and then instantly opened them, cursing himself, and then he knew that in all that brilliant light and with those elongated blackened shadows and under that pressure, he had no idea where the mines were. He tried to assure himself that he would automatically miss the mines, that that would only be fair since they were, after all, his own mines; he tried to assure himself that there were, after all, only eight of them and he must have passed at least four so far. But he knew he was steering the jeep blindly, weaving for no real reason at all—

  “How far now?”

  Shit! He had forgotten to look again! This wasn’t his bag of tricks; he was a cook, and now that he was probably going to be dead in a few minutes it wouldn’t hurt to tell the truth, which was that he wasn’t even a very good cook, but he promised if he ever came out of this he would learn; he would become the best cook in—

  “Wolf! I said how far now?”

  Oh, God, he had forgotten again! He looked. “Four tenths,” he said, his voice uneven, “plus a little.”

  “Then stop. Stop!”

  He jammed on the brakes and sat there trembling. They had missed all the mines. How was it possible? If they weren’t killed, if they managed to find their way back one way or another—and he intended to walk back, at least fifty feet from the road—he would even go to synagogue. Then he smiled wryly. He wouldn’t and he knew it. He glanced back toward the settlement, directly into the glowing lights, surprised they were so close; and in that moment two things happened: the lights were suddenly extinguished, leaving him half-blinded, and there was the soft cough of the mortar as Grossman fired the first round.

  There was a brief pause, then Wolf’s vision cleared as the beach seemed to rise in the air, taking his mind from everything except the reason they had come on the insane mission in the first place. The mortar shell had struck one of the beach fires at the extreme edge of the small enclave; embers flew through the air, making a pyrotechnic display that brought Wolf back to his childhood but which did little damage to the Arabs. But the thing worked, Grossman’s idiot mortar really worked! With a grunt Grossman made a small adjustment and dropped a second charge into the open maw of the tube; another cough, another pause, and the encampment on the shore of the sea seemed to explode, scattering bodies. Now Grossman was feeding his remaining six charges into the mortar as fast as the weapon could deliver them. Between the crump, crump, crump of the striking shells they could hear the screams of the wounded men, and in the light of the blazing trucks they could see the wildly agitated shadows of men scattering from the range of the mortar. A personnel carrier started up and was immediately swamped with men trying to climb aboard; a truck limped from the devastation with a shattered wheel, covered with men, only to give up the impossible flight as the men fled to other transports or charged blindly down the dirt road in the dark, seeking escape.

  Grossman was out of shells but there was no way for the Arabs to know that. The two men in the jeep watched the grotesque scene, each trembling but for a different reason, Wolf from nerves now that the peril was over, Grossman from the pleasure of victorious battle. Together they watched the few undamaged vehicles gather together the remnants of the attacking force and disappear into the night, fleeing for home. In a few minutes all Wolf could see where the small encampment had stood were the flickering flames from the dying fires where the mangled trucks were burning themselves out, belching black smoke from the acrid rubber, licking at the edge of the sea. All he could hear were the oddly out-of-place sounds of night birds returning to investigate the torment of sound that had sent them scattering; and the ragged beating of his own heart.

  The battle for Ein Tsofar was ended.

  The troops of the Hebron British garrison were bivouacked some twelve miles south of Dahiriya, their tent stakes only a few hundred yards from the edge of the road, when the remaining trucks and personnel carriers of the attacking Arab force returned toward Hebron. The command car at the head of the line pulled out of formation and drove toward the encampment while the rest of the battered line pulled over and rested. The Egyptian colonel descended wearily from the command car and identified himself to the sentry; minutes later he was joined by Captain Wiley, who had been wakened from a sound sleep and had only removed his mustache guard and pulled on some trousers before confronting the colonel.

  “The Jews have heavy artillery,” the Egyptian informed the captain in his faultless but stilted English. “They have heavy guns, mortars, and endless ammunition. The area on all sides of the settlement is thoroughly mined. It is against the mandate to allow the settlements to be armed, as you know. What do the British intend to do about Ein Tsofar?”

  “Why,” said the captain, pleased by the ease of the solution, at least as far as he was concerned, “I shall have to return to Hebron at once and explain the situation to my colonel.”

  “And what will he do?”

  “I imagine he will inform Jerusalem.”

  “Who in turn will inform London,” the Egyptian said sardonically, “who in turn will inform their representative in the United Nations, who in turn will eventually inform the General Assembly—and by that time you will have been out of Palestine a long time.” The Egyptian colonel sighed but it was largely acting, as Captain Wiley clearly understood. The Egyptian had not really expected any action on the part of the British; he was merely establishing the credentials for his failure to take the settlement, which Captain Wiley was expected to pass along the chain of command until it reached the ears of the Egyptian’s superiors.

  The Egyptian shook hands solemnly, saluted briefly, and waved to his driver to proceed. Behind him he left a happy officer. Captain Wiley looked at his wristwatch. It was four-thirty in the morning. If they broke camp now they could be back in Hebron Fortress in time for a decent breakfast, which would be a vast improvement over the slop the field cooks dished up. He called over the sentry and gave the appropriate orders; five minutes later, when the bugler had had time to soak his head in water to wake up a bit, the bugle went to work and the camp came to life.

  A good campaign, Captain Wiley thought, and began to build it up in his mind into a proper desert battle à la Lawrence of Arabia, to intrigue his wife a
nd son when he got home. And the best part of it was, he knew Colonel Fitzhugh would be pleased, and when the colonel was pleased life was generally more tolerable throughout the Hebron garrison.

  Eleven members of the Ein Tsofar kibbutz, plus Dov Shapiro, who had only come to help, had fallen in the fight and were buried the following day with due ceremony within the borders of the settlement itself. Sixty-four Arab bodies had been recovered along the slopes and by the shore of the sea, and these were laid to rest in a shallow mass grave at water’s edge where their bodies could easily be recovered during a truce Perez intended to ask the British to arrange before they left Palestine for good. Twelve Jews and five Arabs occupied litters in the makeshift hospital, recuperating from their wounds; the Arabs could be transferred to ambulances during the truce. The mines in and along the road had been properly located and every person at Ein Tsofar now had those locations firmly engraved on his or her memory.

  Wolf, remembering the position of each mine perfectly in the daytime, could not imagine how he had managed to drive through the field the night before without blowing both Grossman and himself to bits. The hand of Max Brodsky’s God? Well, if that was the case he just wished Max Brodsky’s God had given some advance notice of His intentions; it would have saved much anxiety. And Wolf had an additional thought: Grossman, the night before, had to notice how nervous he had been, but Grossman had never said a word to the others. A pity he disliked the man, because he had to admit Grossman had done a fine job the night before. An odd person, Grossman.

  When an exhausted Deborah and a very tired Ben Grossman dropped into their common bed that night, they held each other without speaking for a long time. By common silent agreement neither mentioned the battle; it was enough that they had both survived and each had done his best for the common survival. There was no need to discuss it. And they still had each other, which was the most important fact of the moment.

  Deborah had her head tucked tightly into Ben’s shoulder, her arms about him, pressing him tightly to her. He stroked her head, running his fingers softly over her hair, feeling her breath warm on his bare skin, and then found himself bringing up the one subject he had meant to put off as long as possible.

  “There’s something I want to tell you—”

  “There’s something I want to tell you, too.” Her voice was muffled by his arm.

  He glanced down at her profile, faint in the little light that filtered into the room through the curtain. “What is it?”

  “You first.”

  He smiled at the little-girl ploy. “All right. Max says they want me to go to Switzerland. To buy arms.”

  “I know.”

  “You know?”

  “I saw Max this morning. He came to the hospital to check on the wounded. He said you had agreed to go.”

  “Yes.” He pulled enough away from her to try to see her eyes; she turned her head and her eyes glinted in the faint light. “I want you to come with me.”

  “You know I can’t, darling. My job is here, or wherever else they send me. I’m not needed in Switzerland—”

  “You’re needed there by me.”

  She kissed his cheek and lay back again, smiling contentedly.

  “You’re not going away forever, darling, just for a trip. You can stand being alone for a while. We’ve been with each other so much I’d think you would welcome a change.” He was staring at her, his face a mask. “Well then,” she said lightly, “rush through your job and get back quickly.” He didn’t answer; she looked at him curiously. “What’s the matter?”

  “What would you do if I didn’t come back?”

  “You mean, if something happened to you? I don’t know. I’d die, I think.” She shook her head angrily. “That’s morbid! Nothing is going to happen to you!”

  “I don’t mean that,” he said slowly, wondering why he was talking about it and wondering why he didn’t stop. But he could not. “I mean, what if I chose not to come back to Palestine? What if I chose to stay in Switzerland, or go somewhere else from there? Would you leave this place and join me wherever it was?”

  She removed her arm from about his body and sat up in bed, completely at ease in her nudity before him. Her breasts, outlined in the light from outside, seemed fuller than usual; even in the shadow he could picture her in his mind in every detail, every curve, every beloved feature. Of late she seemed to be gaining weight, but she was still the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He reached for her but she put her hand on his chest, not pushing him away, but merely forestalling him until she could speak.

  “Darling,” she said softly, “I know how you’ve hated this place. I know you came to Palestine because you were forced to come, and that you came here to the desert for the same reason. I’m glad you did come; if you hadn’t I would never have known what it is to be in love as much as I am. It’s a wonderful feeling. It’s made me feel like a woman, and never as much as right now.” She paused a moment, searching for the proper words. “But, darling, we can’t abandon reality. We don’t live all by ourselves in a vacuum. My country is at war, Ben; we buried twelve of our people this morning. I can help here; I’m needed here. If this were a normal country, or if these were normal times, I would go anywhere with you. You know that; you must know that. But we’re at war, and we’ll probably be at war for years. Maybe all our lives. It isn’t possible, darling. I’m sorry.”

  She reached up and touched his cheek, running her finger down the scar that lined his jaw, then touching his lips with the tip of her finger as if to keep him silent until she was finished.

  “I didn’t ask you to marry me because I didn’t want to add to your feeling of being under compulsion, of being forced into something against your will. I know it’s happened to you many times; I didn’t want to make it happen again. I know you felt you were in a prison here at Ein Tsofar, and I wanted you to feel free, at least as far as we were concerned. You’re still free, darling. I have no claims on you. If you want to come back to us, to me, when you’re through with your work in Europe, you will. I’ll still be here. If you don’t, you won’t. I wouldn’t force you if I could; that isn’t what love is about. At least not my love.”

  She withdrew her fingers from his lips, indicating she was through. He stared at the ceiling in silence, his hand continuing to softly stroke her hair. The sad thing was that he would not return from Switzerland; he knew that to be the truth. He would miss Deborah; oh, he would miss her! But he could never return to the misery of this barren land he hated. Just a woman, even as fine a woman as Deborah, was not enough for him to throw away the future.

  He leaned over to kiss her, and kissing her, slid down in the bed, pulling her to him. They made love with a passionate fierceness that was unusual with them, a violent coupling that seemed to acknowledge the approaching finality of their parting; and then fell apart, gasping, not speaking. Each turned away from the other as if to avoid the pain of discussion, seeking surcease in sleep.

  But Benjamin Grossman could not fall asleep. The excitement of the battle for the settlement, the exhilaration of their tempestuous love-making, the fact that in a short while he could actually be quitted of Ein Tsofar and the hated desert, of Palestine altogether, filled his mind with thoughts that raced. Switzerland! He would actually be there soon, walking down civilized streets, taking an aperitif in some civilized hotel lounge in some civilized town among civilized people. He glanced at Deborah’s back, wondering if she were asleep. Maybe when she realized he really was not coming back, maybe then she would join him. Nor would she be sorry. With the money in Zurich they could live where they wanted, how they wanted. France, possibly, or in Portugal. Why hadn’t he considered those places before? Or on a Mediterranean island, one of the Ionian islands, possibly. It would be close to Palestine if Deborah ever wanted to come back for a visit.

  He closed his eyes, determined to go to sleep, and then suddenly remembered something. He rolled over, speaking softly, hoping Deborah was still awake.


  “You said you had something to tell me, too.”

  She spoke without turning back, her voice wide-awake.

  “It was nothing important, darling. Go to sleep.”

  Chapter 5

  Shmuel Ginzberg snored. This is not uncommon among elderly men, of course, but Ginzberg’s snores were in a category by themselves. They were not the simple rasping sounds one associates with mouth-breathers, nor were they the half-muttered, grunting, intermittent noises one pictures as possibly accompanying some interesting dream. Ginzberg’s snores were loud, earth-shattering, heart-rending, clamorous eruptions that seemed to reveal some inner torment too tragic for expression except through this gasping, snarling, half-neighing racket. He sounded as if he were drowning. Benjamin Grossman had learned to sleep through snores early in his camp experience, since otherwise one received no rest at all, but nothing he had heard before compared to the sounds that emanated from Shmuel Ginzberg.

  They had arrived in Geneva after midnight, following a trip that had taken nearly twenty hours from the time they left Lydda Airport outside of Tel Aviv, by way of Cyprus to Athens, then to Naples, on to Rome, a further stop at Milano, and finally Geneva. They had taken the airport bus into the center of the city and from there, with Grossman carrying the luggage, had walked to the small cheap hotel where their reservations had been made in order to save taxi fare. The limited condition of their finances—for money was not meant to be wasted on personal comfort when the need for more important purchases existed—dictated the necessity for sharing a room, and since Shmuel Ginzberg was by far the senior in age, he commandeered the bed without putting the matter to a vote, leaving the lumpy couch for Grossman. After merely removing his elastic-sided shoes, his black hat, and his stiff collar, the old man fell upon the bed, wrapped himself in the single comforter the bare room provided, and almost instantly began to snore.

  Grossman’s first reaction on hearing the unprecedented racket coming from the bed was to overlook his previous intentions, and instead go through Ginzberg’s pockets, extract enough money for the fare to Zurich, and be on his way since it was obvious he was not going to get any sleep. He was, after all, in Switzerland at long last—a fact he found hard to believe, although he knew it would grow upon him once he got a chance to get about in daylight and renew old memories. But while he had known that his visit would eventually end up at his bank in Zurich, he had fully intended to first help Ginzberg in his purchases of arms. To have done anything else would have been to estrange Deborah for all time, and he still had never abandoned the hope of eventually pursuading the girl to join him and share his life somewhere other than in Palestine.