Dazzle - The Complete Unabridged Trilogy

by Judith Gould

  Naemuddin raised his head. At sixty-four he was still tall and imposing, but the strain he was under was showing. The proud, flowing black beard and moustache surrounding his hawk's beak of a nose were shot with grey, and in his gaunt face the bones were becoming more and more pronounced. His eyes, once sharp and canny, had become increasingly sad and confused.

  'I fear there is much to worry about, my wife,' he said gently. 'For two days now, my half-brother's men have been oiling and cleaning their weapons. Now they are preparing to sharpen the knives in their scabbards. Do you think they do that in order to feast and celebrate?'

  'Abdullah always feasts at the expense of others!' she spat in disgust. 'Because he refuses to labour honestly, tending the sheep and goats, and he will not soil his hands with the crops.' Then her voice grew softer. 'But he is young. In time, perhaps he will see the er—'

  'No! He wants only to play at death and destruction.' His hands trembled and she clung to them. 'But it is no game. He and the others will not be satisfied until the desert runs red with the blood of the Jews. You will see, my wife. Before the sun sets on three more days, their guns will be empty and their knives will drip red with blood.'

  'You have only to speak to make them see the folly of their ways!' she urged.

  Naemuddin grunted. 'You know I have done so many times. It is useless.'

  She tightened her grip on his hands. 'Then speak to them again! You are their leader! They will follow you as the sheep follows the shepherd.'

  He shook his head. 'It is too late. Their ears are deaf to all reason.'

  'Perhaps if you show them your strength,' Jehan suggested, and then she felt the blood rush to her head. She was amazed at her own audacity: the words seemed to have burst forth of their own accord. Swiftly she looked away from him in shame.

  Naemuddin regarded her sadly. 'I have tried, my wife, but they refuse to listen to words which they no longer wish to hear. They think me weak because I urge peace, and they think Abdullah strong because he rages for blood.' Again he shook his head. 'They do not understand that bloodshed will only beget more bloodshed.'

  'But they still come to seek your advice,' she said stubbornly. 'Surely you can see that. Why else would they come here, as they will again in a half-hour's time?'

  He shook his head. 'The only reason they come now is out of courtesy and respect for a weak old man. Do not fool yourself, my good wife. I am no longer the leader of our tribe.' His cracked lips trembled and his voice took on a bitter self-loathing. 'It is time my young half-brother wore the distinguished headgear of the leader. It is no longer mine to wear.'

  'Naemuddin!' She looked shocked. 'You know that Abdullah only wants power and war! You cannot seriously hand him the headdress of chieftain!'

  'I will. I must.' He nodded gravely, and she could not bear the depths of torture she saw in his eyes.

  'Nae—'

  'Do not try to dissuade me. What good is a leader if he leads his people in name only, or splits their loyalty in two?' He paused, but she had no reply, as he knew she would not. 'No, my wife, my time of abdication has come. There is nothing more I can do. Abdullah has gained the respect of everyone. Now everything is in the hands of Allah.'

  Jehan squeezed his hands to let him know that she shared in his pain and humiliation. Her eyes shone brightly with tears.

  What her husband said was true, she thought. Abdullah had become the true leader of the tribe. Subtly at first, and then with increasing boldness, he had undermined her husband's authority until his power had steadily diminished to uselessness. Abdullah's rousing, feverish speeches against the Jews had inflamed the men's passions and won them over. His image as fearless warrior was respected by young and old alike, and, regrettably, was even being emulated by the children in their games. His ability to procure weapons and ammunition and to raid armouries had astounded them all. And his teaching the men to use them had sparked off a bloodthirst which went back to primitive times and made them hold their heads high and walk tall. Yes, Abdullah had given them something her peace-loving Naemuddin had not been able to provide—a feeling of confidence and pride, a fighting spirit in a new age. Through sheer strength and willpower, Abdullah had moulded the men of the tribe into a cohesive militant group with a purpose, and his cries against the Jews had been taken up until there was hardly a man other than Naemuddin who did not echo it.

  How like men, she thought grimly, as soon as they had guns in their hands they immediately became fierce warriors.

  For that, she knew, was Abdullah's appeal. He fed upon and nurtured the Arabs' fear and hatred of the Jews, a fear which was increasing with every passing year. Although she had never left the oasis since she and Naemuddin had returned from their holy pilgrimage to Mecca nearly thirty years before, how many countless travellers passing through had told story after story of the Jews taking over, pushing the Arabs from their lands? Even from a distance, they said, one could immediately differentiate a Jewish settlement from an Arab one. The Jewish settlements were always green and lush, the Arabs' invariably dun brown or yellow.

  Was this not irrefutable proof, they argued—and none with more passion than Abdullah—that the Jews were draining the land of its precious resources, just as they were draining al-Najaf of its precious water?

  She thought suddenly of the first Jew she had ever met. How many years had passed since then? She couldn't remember exactly, but it seemed only yesterday that the injured one-legged stranger had been a guest in this very room, had been nursed back to health by Jehan herself. Since then, the community of the Jews was said to have thrived beyond comprehension while their own had fallen upon bleak and fruitless times. It was as if the Jew she had nursed had been sent to al-Najaf as a portent heralding changing fortunes and bitter times and, yes, ultimate doom.

  Yet, was this not the very same Jew who visited on occasion, who honoured her husband with the Arab-like gestures of obeisance which, as leader of the tribe, were Naemuddin's due, who brought them gifts of green crops and sometimes even a whole lamb, and who talked with him far into the night, discussing peaceful cohabitation? Was this not the same Jew who brought word of the far lands beyond the seas, of cities where magic boxes whisked people to rooms high in the sky, of a land so huge that part of it was sleeping while part of it was awake and strange rainbow jewels hung in icy skies?

  She could only shake her head and wonder. Sometimes it was all too much, even for an intelligent woman like her, to comprehend. Like Naemuddin, she was confused by how the world was shrinking; how al-Najaf was no longer a secluded little community surrounded by rock and sand. Jews and all sorts of Europeans . . . from everywhere, strangers were crawling across the sands, strangers who, Abdullah roared, were infidels and must be slaughtered . . . and strangers who, Naemuddin argued, they must live peacefully beside.

  But she felt no fear for herself or her husband. They were both aged and had lived contented lives; their remaining years were in the hands of Allah. But what of Najib and Iffat? Her precious grandchildren had their entire lives ahead of them. What would this shrinking, violent world do to them?

  When he spoke again, Naemuddin's voice was weary. 'Now go, my wife,' he told Jehan, 'and join the women. We have talked enough. I wish to have a little time alone to pray. Soon the men will be here, and I must formulate my thoughts before they come, or else I shall be as stupid as the goats we tend.'

  Jehan nodded. 'I shall do as you wish, my dear husband,' she said with automatic obedience. She let go of his hands and rose to her feet. But she did not leave. She hesitated, lowering her eyes demurely. 'No matter what happens, I am proud of you, my husband,' she said softly. 'Few men know that only through peace and without bloodshed can we be fruitful and multiply. To me, you will always be a great leader.'

  He regarded her fondly. Despite her age, Jehan was still a handsome woman, broad of shoulders and square of face. If anything, the passing years had only ennobled her features, and there was a strength behind her intelligent eyes th
at shone clean and bright and sure. In many ways he found her even more attractive now than he had during her more youthful years.

  'And no matter what happens,' he replied gently, 'you will always be my beloved wife, Jehan.'

  'If it is the will of Allah,' she replied quickly.

  He nodded. 'May he be merciful and beneficent.' Then he glared up at her, his eyes suddenly flashing like heat lightning, and his voice rose to a thunderous roar. 'Now, go and join the other women so that I can enjoy some peace from your jabbering tongue, woman! Or Wallah! By God! I will toss your useless carcass out into the desert where the birds will feast upon you and your bones will turn white under the sun!'

  'Dani!' Tamara called out in a pleased voice when she heard him come in. 'You're back so soon!'

  She tried to hurry toward him, but her movements were slow and clumsy. The size of her stomach and the weight of the baby made her walk like a duck.

  He took her in his arms and kissed her. Then he pulled away and looked down at her belly. 'How's the little kicker?' he asked in Hebrew.

  'Kicking,' she laughed, also speaking Hebrew, which was now second nature to her. 'Whatever it is, it's sure impatient to get out.'

  'I can't really blame it, with such a radiant mother to look forward to.'

  She couldn't help smiling. Why was it that everyone always had to refer to pregnant women as 'radiant'? 'Darling, I thank you,' she said, 'even though you're obviously biased.'

  She led the way through the living room out to the large stone-flagged porch Dani had added to the house the previous year, and which she had lined with terra-cotta tubs filled with bright red geraniums. Gently she lowered herself into one of the white wicker armchairs she had ordered from London and waited until he pulled one up and sat down also.

  'When do you have to leave again?' she asked.

  'Not until Monday afternoon. There's another boat coming in Tuesday night sometime,' he said.

  She nodded. He was referring to the Aliyah Beth, the illegal boatlift which was bringing Jews, mostly survivors of the Nazi concentration camps, into the country by the thousands. Since the unrelenting British still kept enforcing the White Paper, the only way to enter the country was on the overcrowded ships which dared run the British blockade, usually under cover of darkness. The immigrants then were either ferried in or in some cases had to wade ashore, holding their children and few precious personal possessions above their heads so they wouldn't get soaked. Dani and many others had formed groups who met the ships and helped the immigrants come ashore and disperse to shelters. It was a highly dangerous undertaking, with thousands of potential accidents waiting to happen.

  'About the ship coming in on Tuesday,' Tamara prodded. 'You don't expect something to go wrong, do you?'

  'I'll be there to meet it, as usual, but I think you should talk your father out of coming along this time. He won't listen to me—maybe he will to you.'

  'Why?' She looked at him sharply. 'Do you anticipate any special trouble?'

  'I always anticipate trouble, you know that,' he said, lighting a cigarette, and she nodded. 'That's why we've been so lucky thus far. Not one of us in my group has ever been caught.'

  'But Tuesday. Why are you so worried about Tuesday?'

  'It's that other boat, the Philadelphie.'

  'The French one that's tried to unload twice already?'

  'That's right. Both times it was chased off after the Royal Navy fired warning shots over the bow.' He dragged nervously on his cigarette. 'Right now it's in Cyprus. It's the worst-kept secret in the Mediterranean that they're just waiting to try again.'

  'So there might actually be two boats, not just one?'

  'Not only that, but the British are on full alert because of the one in Cyprus.'

  'Damn.' She looked out at the distant mountains, so jagged and purplish and crystal clear. Then she turned to him again. 'How many people do you think are on each boat?'

  He sighed and shrugged expressively. 'Who can begin to guess?' He flicked a length of ash into the ashtray on the glass-topped wicker table. 'From what we could see from the shore before the Philadelphie was chased off, the decks were teeming.'

  She was anxiously silent.

  'And that last rust bucket that made it through, a week and a half ago, couldn't have been more than fifteen hundred tons, but it had over nine hundred people crammed aboard. Nine hundred.' He shook his head. 'If one of those overloaded tubs happens to sink, it would make for a catastrophe like nobody's ever seen. There aren't nearly enough lifeboats to go around. A lot of those people are old and sick, and there are quite a few kids too. They're not exactly aquatic athletes, not after what they've been through in the camps.'

  'So what do you suggest we do?' she asked.

  'Do? We can't do anything, that's what makes me so damn furious. Until the British lift the immigration restrictions, there's only one way in, and that's through the Aliyah Beth. All we can do is to have as many people as possible stationed ashore to help them.'

  'Well, that's better than doing nothing.' She smiled. 'You know, I'm so proud of you. I've never known a man who's more unselfish.'

  'Me?' He gave a short laugh. 'No, not me. Your father— now he's another story altogether. No matter what goes on in this country, you can bet that he's always in the thick of it, artificial leg and all.'

  'Dani. . . '

  He looked at her, caught by her change of tone.

  'About my father. I've been meaning to talk to you.'

  'So talk.'

  She sighed softly. 'Isn't he getting . . . well, a little long in the tooth for these Errol Flynn heroics?'

  'Old? The wily Fox of the Desert?'

  'He's almost fifty-two.'

  He nodded.

  'I worry about him. I worry a lot.'

  'Rest assured, if anyone can take care of himself, it's your father.'

  'I know that. But can he take care of so many other people as well?'

  'You know that this is his life. What do you expect him to do, sit in the shade and read? He's not that type of man.'

  'But you yourself are worried about Tuesday.'

  'That's right.' He nodded, took one last drag on his cigarette, and stubbed it out. 'That's because, on Tuesday, you can bet that every British patrol on the coast is going to be on full alert. The Navy intends to make an example of the Philadelphie.'

  'One of your spies told you that?'

  'One of our British sympathizers,' he corrected her with a little smile which faded the instant it touched his lips. 'Thank God there are as many of those as there are.' He paused. 'What I'm trying to say is, your father could be walking into a trap.'

  A cold dread left her speechless.

  'You know we can't afford to let him get caught. He's one of the seven or eight men who're keeping all the Jews fighting for freedom as a cohesive group. It would be tragic if he were arrested.' He added gravely, 'That's why I want you to try to keep him from being on the beach on Tuesday.'

  'I'll try.' Sighing, she laced her fingers across her belly and stared out at the sawtooth mountains. They always reminded her of her father; they were as inflexible and unmovable as he. After a moment she turned back to her husband. 'I'll do what I can, Dani, but you know my father as well as I do. Once his mind is made up about something, there's no changing it. He's as stubborn as you are.'

  'Then use your wiles. They work on me, so why shouldn't they work on him?'

  'Because I'm his daughter, and feminine wiles can't be used on fathers.'

  'Ah, but daughters' wiles can. Use whatever weapons you must. Use . . . the baby.'

  'The baby!' She stared at him.

  'Tell him you're developing pregnancy difficulties. Dr. Saperstein will back you up. Explain to your father that since I'll be needed when the Philadelphie makes her run through the blockade, you need him to stay here with you.'

  'I'll try my best,' she repeated with little hope.

  'Good.' He smiled. 'Just make sure you talk with Dr. Sape
rstein first, so your stories match up.' He got up from the chair, leaned down, and kissed her cheek. 'Don't look so worried. Everything is going to be fine.'

  She nodded absently. She wasn't so sure. Her father had been taking chances for years now . . . decades, surely. Only his wits, and sometimes good luck, had kept him from getting caught. She wondered how many lives he had used up already; she could only hope that he had more than a cat.

  While the men met in her house, Jehan and the other women gathered at the house of her daughter, Tawfiq. Although they were well aware of the men's reason for meeting, the women, in keeping with womanly propriety, did not so much as mention the subject. Instead, over sweet date cakes and tiny cups of thick, syrupy coffee, they chattered like magpies, exchanging gossip and recipes, admiring each other's clothes, and discussing such heady topics as child-rearing and marriage contracts.

  Just as Naemuddin kept himself removed from the men, so too Jehan maintained a distance from the women. She sat near the open front door where she could keep an eye on her own door, a hundred paces away. She did not join in the women's conversation, nor did she care to. Her mind was too preoccupied with what was transpiring in her own house, but every now and then fragments of what the women were saying filtered through to her consciousness:'. . . I think it is scandalous. Her parents are asking twice as much as that Diab girl's parents. I always say, deal with your relatives. Distant cousins are much cheaper . . .'As she waited, Jehan became increasingly agitated. A half-hour passed, then one, then one and a half, and still the men were in her house. '. . . Yes, but with the price of brides, who can afford a divorce . . .' Jehan's heart began to beat rapidly, unevenly.'. . . He is a good son, my Salam. Two years now have gone by since he went to Suez to work, and he sends us money every three months . . .' Jehan drummed her fingers on her draped knees, her eyes never leaving her door. She gave a start when Tawfiq touched her arm and leaned down.

  'Your thoughts are not with us, Mother,' she whispered reproachfully. 'You know that if you continue to stare out the door and do not soon say something, the others will gossip about you. By the way they glare at you, I know they find your behaviour strange.'