The Settlers

by Meyer Levin

  Once a week Gidon went with Herschel to a brothel, again a superior one which Herscheleh had discovered. It was French style, with a large open salon where girls of all colors, from Europe, India, Africa, hovered about in their French underwear, and you could look them over and choose. Some even sat quietly on a bench waiting without pestering you.

  Gidon never felt at ease, examining girls like that, like in a slave market, Pekovsky said, and the second time, as Gidon glanced over the row, a little black girl put her hand to her breast as if to ask “Me?” so he nodded and she came to him. It went well enough; when he tried a few words in Arabic, she babbled happily. She was Sudanese, she had been here only five weeks, she was fifteen, her father had sold her in marriage to an old, old husband—with her hand she made the sign of a beard down to the floor—so she had run away— But Sudanese did not have long beards, Gidon said, and she laughed and tweaked his nose. The following week, no sooner had he and Herschel entered the place than the same girl ran to Gidon, seizing him by the hand—he was hers! This time when the servant knocked for time’s up, she called a curse through the door, and even at the second knock, she sent the servant away, getting up only at the third, when the madam herself complained through the door. And the girl didn’t even wheedle for extra money. Was it really that she enjoyed it so much with him? Oh, his Halina laughed, she could zigzig with him all the time! And she instructed him to come on Mondays, because then business was slow and he could stay longer.

  Gidon would have liked to try some of the other girls, but then Halina would feel offended. Only once he managed, as she was occupied when he arrived, but the next time she pouted and scolded him, he should have waited for her!

  Still, even if this might be the way she behaved with all her steady customers, the weekly zigzig made him feel cheerful. Presently she instructed him that he should come late, so as to be the last, and he would then not have to get up out of bed but could stay with her the whole night.

  Something in this made Gidon uneasy. Never yet had he fallen asleep with a woman in his arms, and while each time it was an effort to get up and dress and leave, it was as though if he stayed all night he would be endangering, perhaps spoiling, something that he should not risk, as though he would be betraying the as yet unknown girl who might one day be his true wife. Yet he could not stop imagining it, how it would be to fall asleep, and half-wake and feel Halina there, and do it again and fall asleep again. At last he gave in and arrived on a Monday at midnight.

  He was spared the betrayal of his future wife. There was a new crop of girls, and Halina was among those who had vanished.

  But even though they were enjoying the fleshpots of Egypt, the Jewish soldiers were not content to tarry. With Passover came still another incident. Not many of them were observant, but Passover was a different matter, and Passover in Egypt, while they waited to march into the promised land—their British-promised never-never land, as Herscheleh dubbed it—was an anticipation over which even Nathan Pekovsky could not sneer. Yet, despite increasingly frantic applications from their rabbi, the requisition for matzoth remained unfilled. At the last moment, on the morning of the seder itself, the Irishman with the rabbi roared into Cairo to the Jewish quarter to buy matzoth.

  Most impressively, the seder was held, with the entire battalion at the long board tables rising with military precision to their feet to recite, “In each generation each man must look upon himself as though he, in his own person, went out from bondage in Egypt.”

  Never before had Gidon understood it.

  When the mess sergeant put in the bill for the matzoth, it was returned with a note that these were special rations which the men must pay for themselves. It was the last straw. Small groups of grumblers were to be seen, putting their heads together in secretive discussions. Among the schneiders there was an added bitterness, for now that the Bolsheviki had made peace with the Germans, the revolutionaries in the unit were constantly being twitted—had they chosen to go back to join the Russian army instead of joining the Fusiliers, they would now be clear of the war, instead of having perhaps still to go into battle and get themselves shot to pieces.

  One morning the Irishman came bursting out of his headquarters with a face of rage, shouting orders for an immediate full assembly on the parade ground. In tones of brass he read them an order from the High Command. Since several requests for transfer to labor units had been received from his men, the Jewish battalions were to be broken up; the troops would be assigned to various labor auxiliaries.

  “So you want to be slaves!” he shouted into the silent, dumbfounded ranks. “You want to remain slaves in Egypt!”

  Oh, he knew the source of this order. It came from themselves! From a crew of cringing cowards among them! He did not blame the High Command, where certain officers had all along predicted that Jews would not fight. He was simply ashamed. Ashamed.

  His voice had all but broken. “No, I am no Moses. Moses was one of yourselves and a Prince in Egypt. But as I stand here, so Moses stood before your ancestors. Moses knew there were renegades and cowards among them, worshipers of the golden calf, the fleshpots of Egypt, but he knew also that the greatest part of the Hebrews were good men, ready to undergo every hardship and every risk, so as to deserve their freedom in the land God had promised to their forefathers.

  “I have commanded Jews. In the Zion Mule Brigade we also had the normal amount of bad stuff that you will find in any army, among any people. The snivelers and the gold-brickers. But what finally came out of that Zion Brigade was a band of men to make an officer proud. Therefore I was proud to come back to lead a Jewish fighting unit. I know that there is none, not one, among my own Zion men, who asked for this transfer. And I know that among the rest of you the far greatest majority will prove equal to the Zion men, and that, if we are given the opportunity in combat, we will earn the insignia of David that has been promised us. And that is the way it should be. We should earn it in battle. And no small group of renegades, connivers, and grumblers should be allowed to take away from you the opportunity for which so many have petitioned and waited, and which has been hailed by your people all over the world and by the whole world as a great step of justice for your oppressed people. No! no clique of communists, cowards, and anti-Semites, even if they are Jews, will succeed in destroying this unit.”

  Therefore he commanded all those who had signed petitions for transfer to labor units to step forward from the ranks.

  Ten men stepped out, Nathan Pekovsky among them.

  “Are you just plain cowards or do you have any kind of reason or semblance of an excuse? Go ahead and speak freely. I authorize you.”

  Pekovsky was the spokesman. “Sir,” he said, “we do not consider ourselves cowards. But to get maimed or killed is just as distasteful to us as to anyone else. And to get killed or maimed while fighting for an army that does not want us in its ranks, under a High Command that uses every opportunity to humiliate us and discriminate against us, a command to which you yourself, sir, have protested as to anti-Semitic actions, that is plain stupidity.”

  The Irishman answered without rage, gravely. “I admit there is a degree of discrimination and anti-Semitism in the army just as there is in civilian life. And that is why we are here. To fight it. You are mistaken when you say that the army does not want you in its ranks. We are here because His Majesty’s Government wants and has decided to have a Jewish force to participate in freeing Palestine. It is the Government’s declared policy to foster a Jewish National Home in Palestine. The whole world is aroused and inspired by the fulfillment of God’s promise, in this plan. And you men are in the forefront of it all.”

  “The whole world may be aroused and inspired by it, but the commanders in this area seem never to have heard of it, or they don’t want to hear of it, or they want to kill that plan!” Pekovsky replied, and this time Gidon felt the entire ranks stirring. Wasn’t it true? “All the way up to the top! They are all anti-Semitic!” Pekovsky challenged.
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  “Not at the top. You are wrong, and I will stake my army career on it!” the Irishman shouted. “I give you my word as a British officer, the Commander has not got a breath of anti-Semitism in his soul. There may be some dirty conniving in the echelons—all sorts of conniving goes on in every army—and we have got to be men enough to stick it out and root it out! Instead, what do you want to do? You want to confirm their anti-Semitic views. You want to prove for them that Jews are cowardly and shrink from battle. You should not have needed me to remind you that Moses himself had the likes of you to contend with! Now I want every man-Jew of you to withdraw his request, and I will personally go to the C-in-C himself and get this order canceled!

  “Let me tell you now, you will have anti-Semitism at every step. Of course there is Jew hatred, here, there, everywhere! Isn’t it to fight this that you joined the Jewish battalions? Will you turn tail at the first whiff? Let me tell you, you will be fighting the Turks in front while the anti-Semites knife you behind. You still want to quit?”

  He strode closer, marched along the line, pausing before one and another of the rebels, face to face. Never had Gidon heard the Irishman so passionate, so open with his men. Let him believe himself Moses, let him enjoy the adoration of highborn Jewish ladies of Cairo, let him spend his free hours drinking whiskey with his fellow goyish officers—never mind, he was a man who had got to know the inside of the Jew.

  “Who is it exactly that doesn’t want you in the army? If you are not wanted, why has the High Command detailed your own leader, Lieutenant Jabotinsky—thank God he is not here to witness this heartbreaking disgrace—to go ahead to Jerusalem and recruit Jews from Palestine itself for our battalions? Why has Colonel Rothschild”—another one of the “good” Rothschilds—“been detailed as a recruiting officer for this outfit in Palestine? Why is a second battalion, the 40th London Fusiliers, on its way right now to join us?

  “Do you think that I myself haven’t been advised by some of my so-called friends in the service to quit the Jews if I don’t want to ruin my career in the army? Do you think we didn’t have to contend with the same rotten undermining sabotage from this same army clique when it at last condescended to enroll Jews even to be mule-drivers? We came out of Gallipoli with colors flying; why, the name of the Zion Mule Corps was uttered with the same respect a man gave to the King’s Mounted. And I promise you when we come out of this campaign, they won’t sneer about my Jewish Tailors—they’ll say Tailors the way they say Anzacs!

  “Now I don’t know where anti-Semitism comes from. I can say this to you, I’ve known the C-in-C for years, I’ve campaigned with him, I’ve messed with him, I know him not only as an officer but as a man, and I can swear to you he is a man who deeply loves his Bible and has the greatest respect and admiration for the Hebrews. He has commanded men of all creeds and colors. He has no prejudice. Whatever nastiness we run into because of prejudices, if it reaches his ears, he will straighten it out at once. Oh, we’ll have nastiness. An army has its nasty side. There are a million ways to undermine you. Orders and papers go through dozens of hands. A subaltern, a clerk, can turn the C-in-C’s own intentions upside down. Much of the time, I know and you know, it cannot be traced. Pigeonhole this, misdirect that. You men have got to have the patience of your race.

  “Now you can march out of here one day soon as free men fighting for your historic homeland, or you can go back to carry stones for the pyramids.

  “What do you say?”

  He halted before one of the rebels, a real beak-nosed Jew with a squint, Bobkeh he was called, a no-account, one of those who had joined out of fear of being sent back to Russia. Bobkeh’s eyes darted to Pekovsky, but Pekovsky stood rigid as though to declare the proof would be in an honest choice.

  “Look me in the eye!” the Irishman commanded.

  It seemed incredible, indecent, that in this single moment the fate of the entire enterprise might depend on a Bobkeh. Then, his head lowered, the same Bobkeh took a step backward as though not even to decide but to disappear into the ranks. The commander strode to the next man. One after another the rebels stepped back. A few even before he reached them. Pekovsky too in his turn. Only the seventh man, eyes averted, and the eighth with some defiance, declared they still wanted to transfer.

  When the ranks were dismissed, those two hurried to make their packs. The camp atmosphere had changed; even the other eight rebels stayed aloof from the “traitors”; without a goodbye they disappeared.

  Morale became better. Chaim Weizmann himself appeared on a visit; Herscheleh reported that he was on a journey to Arabia, to meet with the Emir Feisal who had risen with the British against the Turks, and to make a treaty over Palestine. With Weizmann came Aaron Aaronson from the Intelligence Section.

  In level tones, Aaronson related to the assembled men how the Turks had tortured his sister, and his father in her sight, until Sara destroyed herself.

  Gidon believed he had seen her once. When he had gone with Reuven to Aaron Aaronson’s experimental station in Athlit, had she not been there? And on that night when he had swum to the ruins and left a message on the plow handle—perhaps that same bit of paper had come into her hand. For an instant there came over Gidon a shock of long-delayed fright. How lucky it was that he had not included, as he had wanted to do, some word, some sign, for the family at home. They too might have been drawn into it all, his own sister Leah like that poor Sara Aaronson.

  And the other one, who had come, here in Egypt, to see Josef Trumpeldor—Avshalom Feinberg the poet, all excited and sure of himself, with his great plans for a landing! He had even taken back gifts for the family.

  When Aaron Aaronson finished telling his story, Gidon had an impulse to go up to him and say who he was, and that it was he who had left the message at Athlit. Yet he held back. Something about the famous scientist, something in the way Aaronson spoke, made him hold back. Though Aaronson had spoken before everyone of the whole tragedy, it still seemed to Gidon that if he came up to the man, he would be intruding on a private sorrow. When the scientist spoke it was like a report, almost as though it had not happened to him, and yet if you went up and talked to him it would be different.

  The Irishman was speaking now. “These were your forward scouts, behind the enemy lines. It was their mission to face the enemy before you, and how nobly they fulfilled their task! They were Jewish soldiers, men! They were the first of you!”

  After being dismissed, the men spoke little of the Aaronsons. Why was it? As though some curse would be awakened by speaking of their fate.

  32

  CEASELESSLY MENAHEM brooded. He must get the prisoners out, he must bring them back to Eretz, why else was he here in Damascus? And in the end, with Young Avram, he devised a plan. There was a railway hospital car that brought wounded and sick soldiers from Samekh to Damascus and carried them back when they were well. Into that car, disguised as recuperated soldiers, prisoners must be smuggled.

  On the hospital car rode a German doctor whom some believed to be a Jew, though he never spoke of it. Menahem had made his acquaintance when the German fliers were stationed in Gilboa.

  Young Avram was now on such good terms with the prison commander who consumed cigarette-packs of gold, that the Prisoners’ Relief Committee was given approval to send in its own physician. This was a well-connected Jewish doctor of Damascus who even secured permission to send sick prisoners to the military hospital. From there, when cured, they were expected to report back to the prison. It would be a simple matter for an officer in uniform, such as Reuven, to take the discharged patient and escort him, instead, to Mama Gelman’s. And at Mama Gelman’s he could change from his prison clothes into an army uniform, ready for repatriation to Palestine in the German doctor’s hospital car.

  Records were scant, confusion was great. Still, Reuven reflected, it was technically a betrayal. But it was not, Elisheva argued, any sort of military betrayal, it was merely the saving of life. True, if there should be an inquiry, Reuven
’s head would fall. It was this risk that made him feel worthy of the joy that had come into his own life.

  At Mama Gelman’s, German uniforms were made ready, as well as identity papers prepared by Young Avram’s expert hand. Once Reuven brought the prisoner from the hospital, he was turned into a soldier, then Elisheva would go for a stroll with him, a loving couple parting tenderly at the railway station, where the German army doctor would slip the lucky man into the hospital car. At Samekh the soldier would descend, walk to Dagania, and remove his uniform. Thus several surviving members of the Shomer were returned to the Yishuv.

  Passing one day through the corridor of the military hospital, Reuven stood aside for the cart bearing the night’s cadavers. Something caught him back. Not so much a sound, it seemed to him later, and not a movement—he could only describe it, when he spoke of it to Elisheva, as a sign of life. Hurrying after the cart, to where it had been left standing by the rear door, he leaned over and saw three cadavers, tangled heaps of rags with tangled clumps of hair and beards, through which one could make out a patch of emaciated cheek, a desiccated pair of lips. There he recognized the remnant of Max Wilner.

  The body was but part of the cart-heap of wasted bones, but the forehead gleamed, even larger than before under the taut skin, the hair having far receded. As Reuven leaned over the cadaver the tongue seemed to touch between the dried lips, and Reuven whispered, “Max? You live?” In a whirled ferment of anguish and memory and grief, their animosity and strife and all they had nevertheless done together, all merged now in Reuven into a surge of will that this comrade-antagonist must live, must survive. The intelligence packed there behind the high forehead, how could it cease to work? Then under his hand, on Max’s brow, Reuven felt the warmth of that determined brain still functioning.