The Last Princess

by Cynthia Freeman

  “You’re going to love the villa I’ve found in Safed, or Tsefat as the Israelis call it. There’s plenty of room for all of us.”

  “If you picked it out, Valerie, I’m sure that it will be fine.”

  Suddenly a dark young Israeli materialized beside them. “Your bags have been taken care of, Mr. Kohle.”

  “Harry, this is Yossi, our driver.” She added, “When the Jewish Agency here heard that the famous Harry Kohle was going to write a book set in Israel, they rolled out the red carpet. Be prepared. You’re going to be wined and dined.”

  “I could look forward to that,” said Harry, pleased that anyone in Israel would want to make a fuss.

  The main road from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem led southeast through the mountains of Judea. To one side was the deep gorge that separated Israel from Jordan. On the horizon were the tower-crowned hills of Micph. The sight was as breathtaking as it was awesome: young trees, pine, eucalyptus, and cedar, had been planted among the ancient boulders.

  In the growing glow of the morning sun, Harry could see burned-out trucks nestled among the rocks and trees—a jarring testimony to the thousands of brave men killed in the defense of besieged Jerusalem during the 1948 war of independence. This was the only monument these heroes had.

  As they went through the Valley of Ajalon, where Joshua had commanded the sun to stand still, the highway divided. The road approaching the inn at Bab-el-Wed was open only to small vehicles. Buses and heavy trucks had to detour to the left.

  As they took the narrower road upward, Harry caught his last glimpse of the Mediterranean. It seemed to him a passage back through the centuries as they made their way past Abu Ghosh with its once majestic Crusader church, near the site of the ancient Gibeonite town of Kiryath-Jearim; and then through the modern farming settlement of Kiryat Anavim.

  Finally, they rounded a curve and there it was: Jerusalem.

  “Pull over, Yossi,” Harry said suddenly. “I want to take a look.”

  As Harry and Valerie walked together to the crest, Jerusalem stood like a jewel among the surrounding hills, golden as the sun. Harry knew that words would fail him if he tried to convey the myriad feelings the site inspired. No artist could do justice to this view, no poet could capture the image.

  Far in the distance lay the old city. Above the ancient wall was the golden Dome of the Rock, the Moslem shrine. Harry could hear the muezzins calling from the minarets while the church bells of the basilica tolled somberly.

  To one side lay the Mount of Olives, a gentle incline covered with ancient, twisted trees and beyond, in the distance, was the dusty white limestone line of the Judean hills.

  How many millions of lives had been ground into that dust over the centuries? Harry couldn’t help but wonder.

  The tinkling of a bell brought him out of his reverie. He turned to see an Arab boy leading his donkey down the hill behind them to cross the road.

  Taking one last look, he savored these first impressions, committing them to memory. But as he turned away from the sight of the exalted place, his joy began to be tinged with anger and regret. Lily should have been here to share this moment with him.

  An hour later, the Mercedes was gliding slowly through the streets toward the King David Hotel. It was magnificent, with high colonnaded arches, smooth stone walls and floors, all befitting the king for whom it was named. In the lobby there were huge urns of fresh flowers. Bunches of people conversed amicably together around low tables.

  It was a strange irony that such an oasis of culture and civility could exist, when only twenty feet beyond, Jordanian snipers sat behind turrets above the old walled city with guns pointed toward the Israeli sector, ready to shoot on sight anyone attempting to enter the Damascus gate.

  There had been no Jordan before 1918—only a sparse population of Bedouins. But after the First World War, Winston Churchill had sat—perhaps in this very spot—and decreed that Palestine was to have another Arab state.

  If the stated aim of the Balfour Declaration, to establish a Jewish homeland in Palestine, ever became a reality, Churchill felt that a buffer state would be needed between the Jews and the Arabs.

  In addition, he wanted to repay a favor to his friend Abdullah ibn Hussein for the aid he had given Britain during the war and thus had persuaded Parliament to bestow this strategic piece of real estate upon the Hussein family and allow them to establish a state and a monarchy where none had existed for centuries.

  And so, Transjordan had come into existence, and instead of being a buffer, it was the bitterest enemy of the new state of Israel.

  As the golden sun climbed to reach its zenith, Harry’s mind gradually drifted from the treacheries of twentieth-century politics to the Mosaic world of the first millennium. It was these thoughts he was entertaining when he saw the Wailing Wall for the first time. The Wall was not a place Harry could ever examine up close—it would be death for a Jew to approach it. But as he stared at it from a distance, it seemed to him that he could hear the prayers of the centuries.

  He found himself softly repeating the prayer he had learned in that impeccably serene, sedate temple where his family had worshipped when he was a small boy, an echo from the past. “Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One. Praise be to His name, whose glorious kingdom is forever and ever. Amen.”

  This wall, the last remnant of Herod’s Temple, had endured through the ages. It had stood through the long wars, the Diaspora, the cyclical destructions and rebuildings of the city—in short, millennia of upheaval. Harry trembled at the miracle of it all.

  Perhaps he had dreamed of this all his life, without really knowing it. Perhaps the latent feelings of blood loyalty and a vague sense of heritage had driven him to begin The Genesis, but until this moment Harry had not truly appreciated what it meant to be a Jew.

  And suddenly he felt a great sense of self-reproach—and tremendous, inexpressible sadness. How little he had given his children! They had been taught a basic code of ethics and morals, but they had been given no sense of the spiritual and religious. Was it because of that deprivation that his children seemed so strangely aimless? Did they perhaps need a spiritual reservoir to draw from, beyond their parents’ love?

  Was it something Jeremy had longed for, however inarticulately? Harry felt a stab of pain as he reflected again that perhaps he was responsible for his boy’s death, yet not in the way he’d always assumed. And despite his own childhood training, Harry himself felt spiritually bereft. His own reservoir had run dry years ago.

  Standing next to him, Valerie tried to divine the tumble of thoughts behind Harry’s troubled face. Spiritual insight was beyond her. She was a woman who lived for today, who would have scornfully dismissed the idea that there was more to life than what she could reach out and grab with her own two hands. But she was shrewd enough to sense that Harry had an extra dimension, one that was being strongly evoked by the dramatic setting of the ancient city of his forebears.

  And so when he finally turned around to face her, a look of sadness in his eyes, Valerie said softly, “The Genesis can’t be written anywhere else but here in Israel, can it?”

  Staring at her with wonder, he said, “You understand that, don’t you?” Then, with a touch of bitterness, he added, “If only Lily did.”

  After he and Valerie had gone to their respective rooms, Harry napped for most of the afternoon while Valerie attended to various chores. They had arranged to meet in the dining room at seven o’clock, but Valerie was already seated before Harry arrived.

  She glanced up and saw him framed in the doorway. She caught her breath at the sight of him. Valerie had never seen him in evening attire, but tonight he wore a white dinner jacket. With his dark hair and olive skin, he could have passed for an Israeli. He was certainly the most handsome man in the room.

  And as he glimpsed her and strode across the room toward her, she felt a thrill of sexuality, remembering how he had felt against her naked, the power in his muscular, sensual body.
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  Her smile of greeting was demure, but as they ordered their drinks, she couldn’t help but think what a fool Lily had been to let Harry go halfway around the world without her. And for what? A charity ball. Clearly Lily didn’t appreciate the gravity of her situation. If, by her own admission, she and Harry hadn’t made love for such a long time, didn’t she understand how vulnerable he’d be, how susceptible he’d be to another woman’s charms?

  The romantic aura of the city had already begun to work on Harry. It might not happen tonight—and Valerie had the luxury of time—but sooner or later they would become lovers again. And this time it was going to last. Valerie was sure.

  Now that she had him all to herself, she was going to make herself indispensable in a way that had been impossible in Manhattan: editing, organizing his research, orchestrating his social life. Soon he would become totally dependent on her.

  But above all, he was going to fall in love with her. She was beautiful, charming, irresistible. By the end of it all, by the time the last chapter was written, she was going to be Mrs. Harry Kohle, with all the fame, fortune, and reflected glory that entailed.

  When Valerie went over their social schedule for the next week, Harry was staggered by the scope of the entertainment planned for him. No effort was to be spared in making him welcome.

  After dinner, as they strolled up King George Street toward the center of town, Valerie described the living arrangements she had made.

  “Wait till you see the house I found, Harry. It’s incredible. Like something out of The Arabian Nights. This big, rambling villa spills down the hillside on three levels. Rafi and Tony have bedrooms on the upper level, I’m in the middle, and your bedroom is adjacent to the study on the lowest level. It will be perfect for your work. The living room and dining room are huge, and beautifully furnished, and although I don’t imagine you’ll spend much time there, the kitchen and servants’ quarters are more than adequate.”

  But Harry’s interest had suddenly dwindled. Before them stood the Mandelbaum Gate. Sentries were posted on either side of it. Beyond the checkpoint was hostile territory. No doubt a thousand enemy eyes stared at them through the night.

  Valerie again recognized the faraway look Harry had in his eyes. He’d been the same way at seeing the Wailing Wall. Instinct told her that now was not the time to push. Though she herself did not feel the same tug, she understood the overwhelming effect this country had on Harry. She smiled to herself. In ways, Israel was a tougher rival than Lily. But Valerie knew that if she were patient, this place would prove as good as any to snare Harry Kohle.

  For the next week, Harry and his staff were entertained by literary groups and by members of Israeli society. While festivities were lavish throughout the week, the final night proved the most spectacular of all.

  They had been warned that the guest list included such figures as David Ben-Gurion, but Harry was nevertheless staggered to find that his dinner partner was to be Golda Meir.

  As they talked, he was fascinated by Mrs. Meir’s extraordinary knowledge of the country. He eagerly plied her with questions. There was so much he wanted to learn.

  Valerie had been paired with Moshe Dayan, the first sabra born on a kibbutz. After dinner, he and Harry became immersed in a discussion of the Israeli soldier. Dayan was so mesmerizing that Harry was shocked to hear the clock strike midnight; he had completely lost track of time.

  Apologetically he said, “I hope you’ll forgive me for monopolizing you.”

  Dayan replied, smiling, “Mr. Kohle, it has been my pleasure. And I want to tell you, I am confident that Israel will someday have cause to thank you.”

  Harry replied, more prophetically than he knew, “I have a strange feeling that someday Israel will be thanking you.”

  Chapter 33

  THE NEXT MORNING, BEFORE the sun rose, Yossi arrived in the van that would be their utility vehicle during their stay. Rafi and Tony were already in the truck and Valerie, dressed in trim khakis, clambered into the back while Harry sat in front with Yossi.

  The day soon grew swelteringly hot. Harry realized why Valerie had recommended that they leave so early.

  It wasn’t until they began wending their way higher into the hills surrounding Safed that they began to feel a gentle cooling breeze blowing in from the Mediterranean.

  Primitive cottages dotted the landscape. Sheep grazed on the hills amid whitewashed shrines. The town itself was nestled under the crest of the mountain, an assemblage of low white buildings with angled roofs on which the burning sun danced.

  This was the ancient home of the Kabbalists, which Harry wanted to visit. But the others were eager to get to the villa to have a tall, cold drink. So they passed the town without stopping, turning instead onto a dirt road that led to the villa.

  Harry emerged from the van and stopped, enchanted. The Judean hills spread themselves before him in dusky magnificence, across a vast valley. What an extraordinary choice Valerie had made! The gentle breeze, scented with juniper and myrtle, felt like velvet on his skin. As he surveyed the picturesque stone villa covered by a gentle riot of roses of Sharon, he smiled at Valerie.

  “It’s perfect. Even more beautiful than you described.”

  His satisfaction grew even greater as she showed him around. The stone walls were so thick that the heat barely penetrated, Persian rugs softened the floors, while the sun filtering through the pierced wood shutters made the rooms soft and welcoming. The villa was owned by a fabulously wealthy Arab who now made his home on the fashionable Avenue Victor Hugo in Paris. His impeccable taste and unstinting purse were largely in evidence here.

  Just as Valerie had promised, Harry’s bedroom was spacious and perfectly situated, adjoining the study, which she’d already equipped with typewriters and filing cabinets.

  As they gathered on the veranda, drinks in hand, Harry complimented her on her efficiency. “On all counts, you couldn’t have done better. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  Valerie blushed, secretly relishing a smug satisfaction. You’re not going to have a chance to find out, Harry Kohle, she thought.

  As the pleasant, smiling houseboy replenished their drinks, Rafi, who was a native of Tel Aviv, said, “Well, it’s great to be back home.”

  Holding his glass aloft, Harry said, “Long live Israel!” The four clinked their glasses in toast.

  Tony intervened dryly, “We had better drink up now, because tomorrow is my first day at Masada.”

  The next morning, after the researchers had gone off in the van, Valerie said, “I can’t wait to show you Safed. It’s absolutely fascinating; you’re going to fall in love with it.”

  They walked into the town as the lightest of breezes was blowing. Under the blazing blue sky, Safed was as much a place of the imagination as something from the palette of Chagall.

  Safed had a history that was as intriguing as it was strange. In ancient times the place had been the northernmost spot in Palestine. Huge bonfires were lit there, heralding the new month and announcing holy days. Not much mention of it was made until the time of the Crusades, when a huge castle was built on the mountain looming over the town. It had passed thereafter into the hands of the Knights Templar and later those of Saladin. After his demise, Moslems killed or expelled all the Jews, but by the sixteenth century they had returned, and it had become a center of Jewish learning during the Diaspora.

  This was the birthplace of the famous Kabbalists, that strange rabbinical sect devoted to word-by-word study of Holy Writ, who believed that every letter, word, and line of the Five Books of Moses had a higher mystical meaning and offered the key to life.

  Later the Jews had been driven out yet again, and by the time of the war of liberation in 1948, the town had become overwhelmingly Arab. It was one of the miracles of the war that fewer than 2,000 Jews had managed to defeat over 12,000 Arabs.

  Now, Valerie explained, artists and craftsmen inhabited the quaint old Arab quarter through which they were walking, wit
h its narrow, twisting cobbled streets, whitewashed houses, and wrought-iron balconies, through which they could hear muted Yiddish and Hebrew.

  Harry was filled with wonder. These ancient walls, the small pristine whitewashed synagogue, the long-ago rabbis who had studied and kept alive Jewish learning in a hostile land. Again it struck him how little he knew of his heritage. How would he ever take in five thousand years of history in such a short time?

  Later, as they stood amid the ruins of the Crusader citadel after a strenuous walk up the steep mountainside, Harry raised his eyes to the horizon and frowned. In the distance was a sparkling blue sea.

  “That’s not the Mediterranean,” he said slowly.

  “It’s the Sea of Galilee,” Valerie told him.

  He was speechless for a long moment. They really were in the Promised Land, a place that had always seemed mythical to him. But it was real, and spreading out before his searching, yearning eyes.

  Turning north, he saw snow-capped Mount Hermon above Lake Hula, a miniature echo of Galilee at the head of the Jordan River. To the east, across a flat plain, was the darker blue of the Mediterranean. “It’s—beautiful,” he finally said in awed wonder. “I can hardly wait to get out there and see it all.”

  “Me too,” Valerie said, echoing his enthusiasm. “I know it’s going to be a marvelous experience.” Only she understood just how marvelous an experience she had in mind.

  That evening, as Harry walked out on his balcony and felt the coolness of the stone under his feet, he relished the evening breeze against his silk robe. Then he was startled by the Arab houseboy, who had slipped up behind him on soundless feet. “Yes?” he said, almost sharply.

  The boy bowed, then said in heavily accented English, “Would you like anything more tonight?”

  “I could use a drink. Bring me—oh, a tall Scotch and soda.”

  The interruption stirred him to think of the work the morning would bring. Sitting down, he began to sketch out an itinerary. Masada, where the Jewish inhabitants had chosen to cut their throats rather than be enslaved by the Romans, would be first. After that, Atlit, where in the early part of the century the brilliant agricultural pioneer Aaron Aaronsohn had proved the desert could be made to bloom.