by Meyer Levin
So this was the big, startling event that Jabotinsky had been hinting about. The squads fell into disarray. Everyone who got hold of the paper read the announcement out loud. An official declaration from Lord Balfour to Lord Rothschild. The good Rothschild, Edmond.
Dancing over the field, the men were slapping each other on the back like Englishmen, shooting their rifles into the air like Arabs, yelling and even weeping. At last Gidon knew that everything he had done in coming here was right. Oh, these British! In spite of everything, how decent they were, how good they were! They understood the Jews!
Already the men were discussing: Wait, wait, don’t get too excited. Clearly it is good politics for them. Maybe it is all a political trick? Here, see what it says exactly. A Jewish homeland. Does that mean a nation? It can mean anything. Yet questions were raining on everyone from Eretz, on Gidon, on Herscheleh, on Tuvia—could a man really make a decent living there, in Palestine? And how bad was the heat, was it bearable? And what about the Arabs, could one live with them?
In the excitement, Gidon would have dismissed his men from drill, but all at once his schneiders leaped back into their ranks, “Come on! Don’t waste time!” Never had he seen such a transformation. They couldn’t wait for their turns on the shooting range.
In the following days the recruiting too was transformed. Jabotinsky’s meetings were packed, crowds sang Hatikvah and God Save The King, the blue and white flag appeared in every shop-window in Whitechapel, and even in shops in Piccadilly.
One day, receiving a new batch for training, Gidon was astonished to recognize among them his bony-nosed revolutionist. As he read out his name, Nathan Pekovsky, Gidon couldn’t resist asking, “What brings you here?”
Pekovsky looked him directly in the eye. “Well, comrade, now that we Jews are going to have a nation, I bloody well want to make sure it’s international.”
On the barracks wall, a detail map of Palestine was pinned up. Herschel, now posted to headquarters, came running a dozen times a day to move the pins. Gedera was captured! None of their original Zion group was from Gedera, but they had a pardessan’s son, Zussman, from Rehovot, and he took to dogging Herscheleh’s footsteps. The day Herscheleh called out “Rehovot!” it was Berl Zussman personally who ran to the barracks and moved the pin; you would have thought he had captured the town himself.
* * * *
To the south the whole night was filled with wagons, carts, cannon, horsemen, Turkish forces hurrying to reinforce Gaza, and in the midst, coming the other way, there was a tangle of wagons piled high with bedding, chicken coops, children, Jews from Ruhama, from Gedera, in flight before the battles. Now was the dangerous hour for which Eli and Rahel, Dov and Menahem had prepared the hidden weapons. In each village, chalutzim and sons of grove owners together took their posts each night to prevent pillage and murder and rape. From Eli’s Gymnasia group, three young men arrived to protect Leah’s kvutsa of girls. Everyone was in a fever; there was even some merriment.
Heavy early rains fell, all was mud and bog, and into this like a flashflood into a wady there suddenly came a flood of defeated Turks, stumbling and lashing and staggering past the village, leaving only a debris of wounded, of broken men and broken carts, of mud-covered crawling wraiths begging for bread.
Gaza, that had twice thrown off the English, this time was taken. As Zev had said it would be. Such force, the fleeing Turks related, had never been seen. From the enormous cannon of their warships there at sea, from swarms of airplanes, from crushing masses of artillery brought on the railway they had built, the British had buried the Turks in fire.
And more. Dov, in the midst of the Turkish retreat, two wounded Turkish officers flung across his cart, halted for an exultant whispering. Beersheba too! British cavalry, uncountable in number, had swept around Beersheba to reach for Jerusalem. With the butt end of his officer’s quirt, Dov drew it all for Leah in the mud before the cabin door, reminding her that such also had been the path of the scouts sent by Moses into Canaan: In an arc from Beersheba, up through the Hebron hills, where even today you found the same large wonderful grapes of Hebron that the Biblical scouts had carried back to Moshe Rabenu!
And Leah could almost hear poor miserable Zev exulting: Through Beersheba! Just as we told them!
Was he yet alive? Would he know, before they hanged him?
Then a whole day of emptiness passed, hushed, still as Yom Kippur.
The night too was without movement.
Then, in the early daylight, from the hill at the furthest edge of his orange grove, Smilansky came running. He had gone out to his grove. Only Smilansky would be stirring at such a time. And there, at the gates of his pardess, he had found Arabs from Nukeiba, waiting with large baskets strapped onto their donkeys—to buy oranges!
Oranges?
“They’ve come!” Didn’t anyone understand? British soldiers were already buying oranges from the Arabs of nearby Nukeiba!
Still the British did not appear, but instead, at midday, from the north there came back a line of Turkish cannon. Children were pushed indoors. Shutters were hurriedly closed. The girls sat together in a circle on their cots and Leah tried to start them singing. The cannon were ranged on the hillock at the edge of Smilansky’s grove, and now the firing began. The British were sure to return the cannonade, and the town would become a battlefield. A shellburst was heard toward the Yemenite quarter. Then, just as strangely, the firing ended. Mules were dragging the Turkish cannon back through the mud, in the ruts they had made when they came. Shutters opened again, then doors. Children ran after the Turks, jeering and laughing, some, from a safe distance, even daring to fling gobs of mud. The whole village was laughing. And the next day before the sun was high on the very hill where yesterday the Turkish cannon had given their last bark, there appeared three horsemen from the south. Soon it was a wild holiday, a Purim feast! The first three rode down into the town—giants! they rode on high steeds, and wore broad-brimmed hats like pictures of American cowboys, and when the entire population of the village engulfed them, they alighted and stood taller than the high heads of their horses. Australians! Australians, the cry spread. The word evoked gales of laughter. Who would have thought of this? Australians! The soldiers themselves laughed. From “down under” they proclaimed, drawing circles in the air to represent the globe, and thrusting their hands underneath. From the bottom side of the earth!
Gottenu! It was a jest! God in heaven was a jester! Australians he had sent, instead of the Messiah! Who had even known of them? Were there Jews in their land—down under? —But why show such ignorance? Right here in Rehovot there had been a planter who had moved to Australia and settled there to grow sheep; had everyone already forgotten him? Laemel Weiskopf. An uncle even remained here, old Sholem Weiskopf.
By now, more of the giant cavalrymen had arrived, and in the hubbub there came a great cry—“He knows Weiskopf.” A soldier had recognized the name. “Owns a boot shop in Melbourne,” he said.
The town dignitaries in a body were advancing toward the liberators, led by the rabbi bearing bread and salt on a silver salver.
A young officer appeared and graciously accepted the welcome offering, making a little speech in English. Masha Weiskopf, who had been studying English (as everyone knew, the rest of the family had quietly been planning to leave Eretz to join the brother in Australia) now translated the officer’s words into Hebrew. “We Australians, the youngest people on earth, are proud and happy to greet you Hebrews, the oldest people on earth!”
Applause burst out. What a beautiful speech! Several of the enormous Australian horsemen surrounded Masha to speak English with her; bottles of wine were being handed to the men, “From our own grapes! Yes! Our own vineyards, our own winery!” And all the while, a complete army was entering. A row of gray mud-spattered automobiles appeared, stretching back out of sight. Young boys were already racing down the road to count them. There were huge motor lorries, pulling enormous cannon, bigger than even the bi
ggest German artillery. What army in the world could stand before such machines!
In the outbreak of joy, of pure happiness, all problems vanished. By evening the Australians were encamped in tents among the heavy-scented orange trees. In the town hotel, officers and councilmen feasted at a long banquet table, and in every house soldiers sighed blissfully, some with tears in their eyes, “White tablecloths! Real crockery! Home-cooked food!” Most of it, they themselves had contributed from army stores. And their eyes never left the movements of the women, the mothers, the daughters, but no one need fear. They gazed in a kind of awe, almost in disbelief.
In Leah’s kvutsa, four men to each girl had collected, and because of the size of the troopers the cabin seemed about to burst its walls. From somewhere a music box with a horn had appeared, a Victrola—a scratchy thin voice sang English songs. The machine was not unknown, even in Rehovot several of the orange-growers possessed Victrolas, but to have one right here in the kvutsa—! Already great wonders were arriving.
Soon the men’s voices drowned out the machine, “Ta-ra-ra-boomdeay!” they sang; was that English? Great laughter exploded at the question. Now they sang “It’s a long long way to Tipperary” and several of the girls solemnly tried to learn the words. At their mistakes, there was even greater laughter. Then the girls were teaching songs to the men—“Hava Nagila”—Masha Weiskopf was trying to translate the meaning. Soon cots were piled one on the other, couples were dancing, and an Australian with a farmer’s large hairy-knuckled hands stood before Leah, indeed above her, so huge a man that she had to turn her face upward to his! What a curious joy coursed through her. So this was how feminine little girls felt, always turning up their faces. How sweet it was! And the Australian roared something to his comrades that brought gales of friendly laughter, while the fellow put his arm around her waist.
“What? What did he say?” she called to Masha.
Her cavalier repeated his cry. “A real woman! A man-size woman at last!”
But what was happening, could the soldiers at last tell them what was happening in the outside world? Leah led her cavalier to a corner where Masha and another trooper sat down with them. “Jerusalem by Christmas!” Leah’s giant cried, continuing to beam his broad, good-natured smile on her. “That’s the order, my girl!”
Their Christmas—it came soon after Chanukah. And Chanukah was barely a month away!
“And the Jewish army?” Leah asked. Did he know? Had he heard of a Jewish army coming from England, from America? She could already see Dovidl and Avner, marching with Trumpeldor and Gidon at the head of vast Jewish hosts, carrying the blue and white flag of Zion. As they arrived, the men of each settlement flocked in behind them, swelling their ranks, marching on to Rishon, to Ness Tsiona. They freed Tel Aviv, they marched on Petach Tikvah—quickly they must come, surely the British would let them go forward first, in the forefront, to free Jerusalem.
The Australian’s eyes had become dense, like some schoolboy’s when he tries hard to understand a subject he has not been told to study. “Why, no, ma’am.” —Why, no, he hadn’t heard of any such unit. They had an Indian unit just behind them, Gurkhas, no, not Indians from America! They were Indians from India. And with this, he guffawed happily, draining his wineglass.
But there had been fighters from Zion with the British in the great battle for Constantinople, Leah said. Still the Australian was puzzled.
“Gallipoli,” she said.
“Ah, yes.” His face lighted, then darkened. “Gallipoli,” he repeated. “That was a bad one.” His own company had not been there at Gallipoli, but many an Australian had fallen.
“My brother was there,” Leah told him. “My younger brother escaped from here to Alexandria, and the British made our boys into a Jewish unit, the men of Zion.”
“Right you are, my girl,” but he was still foggy.
“His name is Gidon,” she said, and suddenly a glimmer came into his face.
“Gidon. Gideon, that’s how we pronounce it. Gideon! That was a great Jewish fighter in the Bible!” He became solemn, gazing at her with a new admiration. Jewish fighters. Hebrews. The Hebrews. Gideon! Joshua! King David! Raised on the Bible, he was. Say! It was here! Right here! “David—and Bathsheba!” he cried happily. Now he had his bearings. Now he was back with this great fine girl. With moonish radiance, he burst out into a declaration, pointing to Leah, pointing to himself.
“What does he want?”
“He says he wants to take you back to Australia,” Masha translated.
Laughingly, Leah thanked him. No, no, no, he was in earnest, her suitor declared. His name was Arthur. And for some reason he brought out his soldier’s paybook. Arthur Selwyn. He began to describe his sheep ranch. The man’s eyes were so earnest, his face was so decent, so good—oh, if one could only embrace a life so simple, so clean, so free of the Jewish struggle.
One more desperate question, Leah tried. “And Russia? The revolution in Russia?” Had these soldiers heard any news?
The baffled look returned to Arthur Selwyn’s face, only this time with a touch of suspicion—was she perhaps making a joke of him? Shaking it all off, he sprang up, he wanted to dance. “Come on, my girl, what do you say?”
Though Leah’s face still held a smile, the man caught the momentary dark in her eyes. “What’s wrong, Leah girl? Aren’t you happy? We’ve got the old Turk on the run for you!”
Happy? Yes, yes, she was joyous. How could she be so ungrateful! Yet it was like being told a dear one was saved, would live, and yet knowing the fever still remained there in the body, and who knew when it might rise anew?
“Muchrachim l’hiyot sa-mey-ach!” the girls were singing, and Masha was translating, “Sa-mey-ach—it means happy. Happy, happy we must be!” Army boots stamped, the walls shook, heavy feet learned the hora, the circle swelled, bulged out through the open cabin door, “Sa-mey-ach” the shout rose high with heavy men’s voices roaring and the girls’ voices shrilling above them, “We must be,” “Muchrachim! Muchrachim! Muchrachim!”
30
ALL MORNING Reuven worked by himself with his mattock around his pistachio transplants, sending his helpers to other tasks as though this were something that required his hands alone. The feel of the mattock, the steady stroke of his labor, somewhat helped him, keeping down the tumult. What was done in the square he did not want to see.
But late in the morning he was called to accompany a group of high officers from Constantinople for a tour of the Pasha’s gardens, to show them his rarities. And then they must tour the avenues and be shown the flowered embankments, the fountains and the long park, the great pride of Djemal Pasha. There was no way to avoid the central square.
As the motorcar approached, the sounds from the crowd rolled toward them in waves like from cannon bursts. “Yahud, Yahud,” and as they came closer, “Traitors, death, death to all Jews!” Reuven sat rigid, silent. Did these officers know he was a Jew? They made a few remarks amongst themselves; he tried not to hear but heard—was he craven? should he announce, Sirs, I am a Jew? The car plowed steadily into the multitude. Gesticulating, shouting with sudden spurts of laughter and outthrust arms, people half-clambered over the vehicle, pointing with enjoyment, triumph and anger to the gibbet as though these high officers would answer their cries and at once issue the command, Hang them all! Hang every Jew!
Quite close now, the car brought them amidst the inner circle of spectators who stood transfixed, gaping as though they expected something more to happen, some added gratification.
Not high above their up-angled heads hung the two figures in long white gowns like shrouds, their heads askew as in some inquiry, but in a different way—wrenched. On the death-garments large placards were affixed proclaiming their crimes. Traitors. Enemy spies. Jews.
The boy Naaman, Reuven had not known; his round young face had a look of protesting surprise. But Zev was himself, his face excited, his parted lips about to break out with some astonishing proposal that would sa
ve him.
One of the visiting officers carried field glasses and offered them now to Reuven. Was it brutal irony? Almost absently Reuven raised the glasses toward Zev. There were flies over the dead man’s mouth, in his nostrils, and crawling over his open eyes.
That night a great need came to Reuven to be among Jews. Not merely to seek out a few of those from Eretz who were, like himself, in the Turkish army; this was rather a feeling as though to stand in a crowd around the door of a shul, to immerse himself amongst Jewish folk, and it led him to the Harat al Yahud.
The street was barred—at least Djemal Pasha did not want a pogrom. Reuven’s officer’s uniform was enough, though he thought he heard one of the guards mutter something to his companion after letting him through.
Hardly a sliver of light could be seen from the heavily shuttered windows high in the walls. His own steps in the ancient deserted lane almost unnerved him.
At the Shalmonis’ it was the voice of the master of the house himself that came from behind the thick carved door in a hesitant whisper, “Who?” In their salon Reuven saw a few like himself in Turkish officer’s uniform, men he half-casually knew, one or two stationed in Damascus as translators, interpreters. Also there were a few well-connected community leaders from the Yishuv who had, instead of being sent to prison, been ordered confined to the city. And there was the brother of the exiled Nadina, the tall engineer from Haifa, Lev Bushinsky, indispensable to the Pasha. For the rest, it was the Shalmoni family, in an atmosphere of dignified calm. The daughter, Elisheva, was at her piano turning over music, though she did not play. It was in this room, with Elisheva, that he had sat with Sara Aaronson.
“Has the city quieted?” Shalmoni asked, and Reuven said, “The streets are quieter. The cafes are full.”