Dazzle - The Complete Unabridged Trilogy

by Judith Gould

  'An execution, the newspaper says it was,' Inge whispered hoarsely as she read the article which Senda could not bring herself to read.

  'Executed!' Senda cried. 'You mean murdered in cold blood, don't you?'

  'I'm just telling you what it says here,' Inge said. 'And it says that a gun was held against the tops of their spines. All it took was a single shot each. Death was apparently instantaneous.'

  'Oh, God,' Senda said softly, shuddering as if something cold and wet had rubbed against her.

  A SINGLE SHOT EACH. THAT WAS ALL IT HAD TAKEN...

  'It's supposed to have been the way the Okhrana executed Bolsheviks during the reign of the Czar. But now . . .' Inge's whisper dropped even lower as her eyes scanned ahead to the next paragraph. 'Now the Bolsheviks' Cheka is hunting down White Russian emigres abroad, killing them in the same fashion! Good Lord, it says it's happened in Berlin and Paris, too!'

  'And now here.' Another icy chill slithered through Senda. She covered her face with her hands. No matter which way she turned, it seemed defeat was always there to greet her.

  Inge shook her head and pushed the newspaper aside. 'Ironic, isn't it?' she said softly. 'A crook like Kokovtsov is safe and lives in jail while his intended victims are dead. Murdered by someone else.'

  Senda felt suddenly too weak to move.

  Death. Death and violence. For too long, they had been part and parcel of her life. Was there no escape?

  Senda's health took a sudden swing for the worse. She had put so much stock in Vaslav's helping her secure a future for Tamara that the news of his murder was the final nail in her coffin. Her racking coughs increased. Her lungs burned with an even fiercer, more unbearable fire than before. Each day her handkerchiefs became soiled with larger amounts of blood.

  Inge cared for her as best she could, summoning expensive doctors who could do little but prescribe cures at an expensive spa. Senda refused to go. The money from the sale of the brooch was all gone, and Inge had already had to sell the ring as well.

  She wasn't about to let any more of the precious, dwindling money be spent on her deteriorating health.

  Only one last dream kept Senda going. For too long, she, Inge, and Tamara had been roaming without a country, citizens of nowhere. Even if she herself would not live long enough to enjoy a secure future, Tamara could—with Inge's help.

  'We're leaving, Inge,' Senda said one evening. 'We're going to Hamburg. With luck, there'll be just enough money to get us to America.'

  Inge stared at her, wondering if Senda was lucid. 'America!' she exclaimed. 'This is out of the blue! You're not in any condition to tra—'

  'America.' Senda's voice, weak and wheezing though it was, left no room for argument. Then she doubled over suddenly. She wrapped her arms around her chest as she coughed. She spat bloody phlegm into her handkerchief and wadded it up. 'America,' she said again between rasping gasps.

  Inge shook her head. 'We don't even know any English! We might not even have enough money! How do we know things in Russia won't improve? We might be able to return to St. Petersburg.'

  Senda said, 'We're leaving for Hamburg tomorrow. My mind is made up. Once there, we'll see about steamship tickets.'

  Senda refused to listen to Inge's arguments to the contrary. If it was the last thing she would live to do, she would see to it that the three of them—and if that wasn't possible, then at least Inge and Tamara—would sail to New York.

  For wasn't it in America, she'd heard, that golden opportunities awaited everyone?

  Well, Tamara would have them.

  Senda slept quietly throughout most of the exhausting train journey from Geneva to Hamburg, and Inge let her. She knew that Senda needed her rest. She didn't try to wake her until they pulled into the railroad station at the end of the line.

  'Senda, we're here,' Inge said softly, giving Senda a shake. And then she froze.

  Senda was dead. She had died en-route.

  Fate had reserved its cruellest trick for last.

  The liner Lübeck shuddered and creaked as it plunged through the dark troughs of the North Atlantic. In the cramped confines of the windowless inside cabin, Tamara sat wordlessly on the lower bunk, her lips tightly compressed. She looked down at her hands, in which she clutched a picture of her mother. 'I love Mama,' she whispered, the tears sliding down her cheeks. 'I still love her. I want her to be proud of me.'

  'And she will be,' Inge assured her. 'So she will.'

  'She loved acting.' Tamara licked the salt tears off her lips. 'She loved it so.' Tamara nodded emphatically. 'And so will I.' She turned to Inge. 'I want to become an actress too.'

  'We will see, dear.' Inge smiled gently. 'You've plenty of time to make up your mind.'

  'My mind is made up.' Tamara furrowed her brows and studied the picture in her lap. 'I'm serious, Aunt Inge. I want to become the greatest actress in the world. And I will!' Her little voice faltered, and she clenched her small hands and shuddered. Then she raised her tear-streaked face to Inge's, and at that moment the Boralevi strength shone in her eyes, brilliant, faceted emeralds catching the light. 'I'll do it for Mama,' Tamara said resolutely, her face hardening with an adult determination. 'And myself.'

  It was at that moment that Inge first became truly aware of how much her mother's daughter Tamara truly was. She could not stifle the uncanny sense of déjà vu coursing through her. Tamara's force and determination reminded her so much of Senda that a stab of pain sliced through her. Now that she thought about it, Tamara reminded her of Senda in many ways. She had the same translucent, pearly skin, identical luminous emerald eyes, and precisely the same thin-boned elegance. Only her hair was different, not coppery, but a lustrous, corn-silk gold.

  'I will make her proud of me!' Tamara said forcefully. 'I will.' Then together she and Inge wept throughout the night.

  Interlude: 1926

  The stage for modern Mideast crises was set long before the British control of Palestine. To truly understand the powderkeg that characterizes today's Arab-Israeli conflict, one must study the very first actors in this ongoing drama, the Biblical Israelites of Moses. In the centuries since, the play itself has remained much the same; only the actors have changed.

  —Contrucci and Sullins, The Mideast Today:

  Strategies to Cope with the Seeds of Yesteryear

  Chapter 1

  'Eieeee, but this is some climb,' Schmarya growled breathlessly to himself. Grunting as he summoned up a last great effort of will, he pulled himself up the one remaining outcrop of rock at the flat crest of the sun-scorched cliff. He cursed his useless wooden leg; as usual, the leg which was no longer part of him ached and throbbed fiercely.

  Digging his elbows into the sandy limestone, he crawled forward for a few yards, thankful that he hadn't let his artificial leg hamper his getting around. His body had in some ways compensated for his deficiency, and for that he was extremely grateful. His arms, upon which he had to rely to offset his one useless leg, had become extremely powerful and packed with hard muscle. And his good leg had become much stronger than it had been initially.

  Using his arms and his good leg, he stiffly scrabbled up into a semi-kneeling position, and then pushed himself up. Spread out gloriously below him, as far as the eye could see, was the magnificently arid Negev, its apocalyptical, naked brown hills interspersed with haphazard jumbles of red and purple cleft rock. Overhead, the cloudless sky was blue, the brightest, most uniform shade of incandescent blue imaginable. Far up in that ultramarine a solitary bird circled slowly, a falcon or a hawk cruising for prey. He could only shake his head at the beauty of it all and wonder, not for the first time, if the desert's spectacular ruggedness would ever become monotonous. He didn't think it would. He considered it home.

  To its few hardy, scattered inhabitants, the word 'Negev' was synonymous with 'desert', and when Schmarya had first arrived, he'd been under the mistaken impression that the two words were interchangeable. He soon discovered the Hebrew word meant 'south' and, a
s such, there was no real geographical boundary to it.

  Schmarya had become a 'southerner' by chance and by choice, and in many ways he epitomized the hardy pioneering spirit of those who had settled in this ancient, unforgiving land. At thirty-one, he was no longer the handsome, dashing youth filled with vague dreams. Over the years his blue eyes had taken on maturity, and the slight, parched creases in his sun-darkened skin bespoke both purpose and determination, of dreams becoming concrete reality. The fiery-eyed youth of the Ukraine who'd fought against oppression and left Russia ten years ago had, if anything, become an even more determined, though still fearless, man out to change the world. But now he was armed with a mental blueprint of what he wanted to achieve.

  The journey from Petrograd to Palestine was one he would never forget. It had been long, arduous, and roundabout, some six thousand miles travelled on trains, ships, wagons, and foot. He'd left Russia with nothing other than the thin, torn prison garb he'd been wearing when he was released; the ticket the Prince had arranged for had taken him only across the gulf to Finland, and from there he had been on his own, with no money, no home, no friend or acquaintance, and not even clothes enough to keep him warm. Only his heritage and his determination to help create a Jewish homeland in Palestine had kept him going against all odds. Somehow he'd persevered; it had taken him three long, torturous years to work his way to Palestine and begin to fulfil the dream of all ardent Zionists. The most exciting moment of his life was when he'd stepped off the steamer at Haifa. Overcome by emotion, he had clumsily dropped down on his good knee and bent his head forward to kiss the soil of this land so rich in Biblical history and promise for all Jewish people.

  It had taken many months, working at any menial job he could find, to make his way to Jerusalem, where he found work and a home with a family of Arab street merchants. During this time he learned both Hebrew and Arabic and honed his ambition to join the kibbutz movement. In the holy city, he met up with a small group of Jews heading south to a dot in the Negev where once there was an ancient well. Schmarya joined them, and now, many weeks later, stood atop the wind-whipped cliff surveying the majestic silent terrain. Only the roar of the sandy wind and the flapping of his clothes disturbed what down below would be an awesome, unearthly silence broken only in places where the hot wind managed to penetrate gaps in the canyons so that they moaned and whistled eerily. Overhead, the solitary bird still wheeled lazily, high in the dazzling blue sky.

  He turned slowly, his body buffeted by the wind, but with his back turned to it, the sand no longer blew into his eyes. The force of the wind against his back made walking easier, as though invisible hands propelled him forward with every gust.

  He whistled softly to himself. His fellow inhabitants of Ein Shmona would kick up a fuss when he got back, because for three days he'd been off exploring on his own. He himself had laid down the inflexible ground rule that no one was ever to wander out of sight alone.

  He grinned to himself. What was good for the goose was not always good for the gander. He who made the rules could break them. Besides, they ought to be grateful that he had done so. When he shared his discovery with them, they would have to muzzle their complaints and be thankful to him. Just at the fledgling kibbutz's darkest hour, his sleuthing had provided the salvation for their most pressing problem.

  The well which had initially drawn them into the desert had been slowly drying up, creating a panic. Now, with a little ingenuity and a lot of hard work, the panic could be staved off forever. Halfway up the north face of this cliff, deep in a narrow cleft, he had discovered an abundant source of water— clear, cool, sparkling water which gushed from a hidden place in the rocks and then plunged into a narrow crevasse, where it roared down into a deep green pool before joining an underground stream. He'd discovered it not so much by looking for it as by listening for it, which was the very reason he hadn't wanted anyone to accompany him. He'd needed to concentrate. The faint splashing of water could easily have been muffled by conversation, footsteps, or even breathing. Alone, the silence had guided him to it. The only thing which subdued his discovery's excitement somewhat was that with his artificial leg he hadn't been able to shimmy down into the narrow crevasse and investigate further. One of the athletic young men on the kibbutz would be only too happy to do it. With help, he would get down there somehow, plant some explosives, and blow clear part of the forbidding wall of rock. Then a few miles of pipe could reroute the flow and bring the precious water across five miles of desert to Ein Shmona. The new source of water would more than make up for the stingy well: it would make it obsolete. The source he'd found was pure and apparently infinite. It would bless Ein Shmona with its life force and bring the cracked desert fields surrounding it bursting to glorious life for a hundred years to come. He felt very pleased with himself.

  He limped forward, dragging his wooden leg. He was nearly at the edge of the cliff, at the spot where he'd climbed up. He planted his legs in a wide stance, leaned his torso forward, and looked down. He bared his teeth and cringed. It would be much more difficult getting back down than it had been climbing up.

  He dropped to a prone position and crawled to the edge of the cliff. He stuck his head over the ledge and studied the drop with its outcroppings of rock. Below were gigantic rocks, some the size of houses, jagged and menacing, like pagan altars awaiting their sacrifices.

  Carefully, with infinite slowness, he began his creep downward.

  Veins and bubbles of sweat stood out on his forehead in bold relief, more from fear than from the exertion. One wrong foothold, one loose rock ... He mustn't think of that. He had to keep his mind clear and concentrate on one thing, and one thing only: getting safely to the base of this cliff. Nothing else mattered.

  Ever so slowly, he continued to descend, his feet slipping from the skimpy foothold, his hands raw from grasping the outcroppings. But steadily, inch by precarious inch, then foot by foot, the ground was coming closer.

  Now his blood surged and boiled from the effort and the excitement. This was danger. This was life. This was laughing squarely in the face of death.

  Forgotten suddenly was his useless leg. Clinging to the rock face began to make him feel omnipotent. He had set out to conquer, and conquer he would. It was Schmarya Boralevi alone against the forces of nature, and it didn't matter that he was handicapped. He was in command of his body, and his adrenaline pumped mightily. He could almost hear its powerful rushing roar.

  Pebbles sang and laughed as they slid and bounced. And then, the outcropping he grasped in his right hand suddenly cracked loose from the cliff. He cried out silently in surprise, and hung there, one-handed, for a single long, drawn-out moment before his left handhold too snapped clean from the cliff. For an instant he felt suspended in midair, and then the tunnel of wind rushed upward to meet him as he dived down, down, down through nothingness.

  Chapter 2

  'Allahu akbar. . .'

  God is Great . . .

  The muezzin's chanting prayer rang out clearly in the small Arab oasis village of al-Najaf. The villagers caught out-of-doors dropped to their knees and faced the huge red setting sun and Mecca far beyond. Indoors, the faithful had already unfurled their precious prayer rugs and bowed low, their voices echoing the prayer

  '. . . A shhadu allaa ilaha ilia llah . . .'

  I bear witness that there is no God but God . . .

  The prayer rose in a powerful chant from within the tiny stone houses, from the men still out in the fields, from the camel tenders of the bedouins who had pitched their goat-hair tents outside the oasis, and from the man tending the noria, the huge, antiquated water wheel which scooped up precious dippers of water from the oasis pond and deposited them into the irrigation channels from which the surrounding fields were watered. Only the creaking of the wooden wheel and the restless movement of the animals disturbed the ethereal, cathedral -like aura suffusing the oasis during the evening prayer.

  After the last melodic note of the prayer died into
the dusk, Naemuddin al-Ameer got to his feet, brushed sand off the knees of his robe, and hurried home.

  At forty-three, he was a tall, imposing man with a craggy presence, a full black beard and flowing moustache, and a magnificent hawk's beak of a nose. He surveyed the oasis and the surrounding fields with a countenance which belonged to the prophets of the Old Testament. His eyes were sharp and canny, his black, flowing bisht the same as that of his people, but what distinguished his position was his cleanliness, the maroon-and-black patterned headdress wound around his head, and the grey-and-black fringed shawl beneath it. Only the most important man in the little settlement could afford to wear cloth of such fine quality.

  As the leader of the village, it had been up to him to visit the bedouins camped nearby, who would depart long before daylight, and he had just left their huge black tents when the call to evening prayers had caught him out-of-doors.

  He left behind the miraculously lush and fertile furrowed fields as he made his way toward the date palms which marked the perimeter of the oasis itself. Here a sandy path led past the mean tents and rickety lean-tos of the poorer inhabitants, and then he reached the inky pool of water with its magical water wheel splashing gently, the miniature waterfalls it created flowing from its dippers like liquid crystal. He stood still for several moments, marvelling at its wonderful power as he did each time he passed it, ever since he had been a child. Without it, the village would cease to function and its inhabitants would starve. It was a miraculous invention indeed, as were the large, delicately carved Archimedes' screws which, when the farmers rotated them by hand, raised water from the lower level of the six main irrigation channels into the higher ones which crisscrossed their own small, individually owned fields. Al-Najaf was an agricultural community, and except for its meagre trade with passing bedouins, relied solely on its few goats, sheep, and crops for survival.