By Dawn's Early Light

by Grant R. Jeffrey

  Michael lifted a brow. “Not even a handshake?”

  “Not in my father’s presence.” She paused a moment to let her words sink in, then gave him an apologetic smile. “This must seem terribly unsophisticated to you, but there is beauty in the old laws. They are what kept us alive as a people.”

  Michael shifted in his seat, realizing that his innocent touch a moment ago must have instigated her comments. “I have no problem with your rules, Sergeant Major.”

  “Please call me Devorah. We are off duty.”

  “Then you must call me Michael.”

  A light smoldered in her gold-flecked eyes as she grinned at him. “I will try.”

  They rode in silence for a moment more, past shuttered stone houses and courtyards that looked at least a hundred years old. Michael had the impression they had turned off a twenty-first-century road and somehow traveled back to medieval times. The streets here were narrow and cobbled, the houses crowded close together, their sloping roofs running into each other at odd angles.

  He reined in his gaze and looked at Devorah as she slowed the car, then he pointed to the pager she wore on her belt. “If you’re off duty, why are you saddled with that?”

  Alarm filled her eyes. “Saddled with what?”

  “The beeper.”

  “Oh, that.” She laughed. “I often forget it is there. Every member of the IDF wears a pager, Captain. Even off duty, we remain in a high state of readiness, twenty-four hours a day. It is just something we have grown accustomed to.”

  Michael transferred his gaze back to the neighborhood outside his window. He couldn’t imagine defending a country smaller than New Jersey with a standing army of only 150,000 troops. Even if Israel called in all her reserves, her army would only number 400,000—an infinitesimal figure compared to the potential armies of the Arab nations. At last count, intelligence reports estimated that the Russo-Arab alliance could field an army of over twelve million.

  Devorah hadn’t mentioned another fact Michael was privy to—it would take forty-eight hours for the IDF to mobilize the Israeli army, including reserves. A hostile fighter could fly across all of Israel, from the Jordan to the Mediterranean, within four minutes while traveling only at subsonic speed. And a single enemy fighter formation could carry more ordnance than the combined warheads of the thirty-nine Scud missiles Saddam Hussein fired at Israeli population centers during the Gulf War.

  He looked at the peaceful neighborhood around him and shook his head. All this could be blasted to powder in less time than it would take Israel to make all those pagers vibrate. Sometimes he thought only a miracle had thus far prevented the nation’s obliteration.

  “Anything else I should know about Judaism?” he asked, looking at her. “I wouldn’t want to offend your father on our first date.”

  “This is definitely not a date,” she responded, her voice light. “And I believe you will be fine. Father is not an ogre; he is a respected and intelligent man. He was born an American.” She stole a glance at his face. “Forgive me if this question seems intrusive, but are you a Christian?”

  “Born-again and baptized,” Michael joked, nodding. “I grew up in a Baptist church and had graduated to usher by the time I was eighteen.”

  The corner of her mouth drooped in a wry smile. “I wouldn’t know about any of that. Just don’t argue with my father and don’t try to convert him. He won’t be converted, and if you argue, you will lose.”

  Michael’s tension level rose a few percentage points. “Is this really a good idea? Perhaps your father would rather you not bring a Baptist home for dinner.”

  “My father is a generous and kind man.” Devorah turned the wheel, expertly navigating a sloping road crowded with black-coated men who spilled off the sidewalk. “But you must remember that our people have suffered greatly in the name of Christ. The Crusades gave European Christians license to rob, pillage, and murder Jews on the way to and from Jerusalem. Even Hitler called himself a Christian—”

  “I certainly would not consider Hitler a Christian,” Michael interrupted, laughing to cover his annoyance. “I don’t know any church who would claim him as a member.”

  Devorah lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “What else are we to think? He graduated from a Christian school. As a boy, he wanted to become a priest. And the Catholic Church scrambled to secure and retain his favor.” Her voice softened. “Hitler claimed he was doing the will of God when he murdered six million Jews.”

  “But surely you don’t believe—” Michael bit off the rest of his sentence. How could he understand what she felt? He couldn’t deny that her people had been persecuted for centuries. He knew very little about what the Jews believed, but he knew about the European ghettos in which they were forced to live, the Holocaust, and the prejudice that still existed in Europe and America. Many of his coworkers, intelligent and otherwise reasonable people, believed the Jews controlled everything from television and Hollywood to international banking systems.

  “I’ll be careful,” he told her, resting his hand on the back of her bucket seat. “I’ll treat your father with the respect due a five-star general.”

  The glow of her smile warmed him even in the chilly afternoon air. “The analogy is more apt than you know. He is a kohein, a priest directly descended from Aaron, the brother of Moses. In military terms, he is rather like a five-star rabbi.”

  Michael looked out on the street again. The crowds were growing thinner as the sun dipped lower in the west. Men and women were scurrying into their homes, children running in from play. And beside nearly every house, he noticed for the first time that a small tentlike structure had been erected.

  “What’s that?” He nodded toward one of the tents.

  Devorah whipped the car into an empty space on the road before a stone house. “That is a sukkah, and it is where we will eat tonight,” she said, glancing up as she turned off the ignition. “Each family erects a sukkah for the Feast of Tabernacles, to remind us of our wandering in the desert. Even as we rejoice, the sukkah’s temporary structure reminds us how precarious and fragile life can be.”

  Michael looked at the flimsy structure and noticed how it swayed in the rising breeze. Not only was life fragile, he wanted to add, but so were nations. At the moment, Israel’s existence seemed as tentative as the delicate sukkah standing beside the house. One strong northern wind might blow it all away.

  If he had not known that Baram Cohen was a high-ranking member of the religious hierarchy, Michael thought he would have deduced that within ten minutes of meeting the rabbi. Rabbi Cohen was a compact, well-built, bright-eyed man whose hand responded to Michael’s tentative handshake with strength and vigor. His handsome face seemed kindled with a sort of supernatural refinement, and the dark eyes that looked out above an untrimmed dark beard were identical to Devorah’s.

  “Welcome to our home.” The rabbi did not release Michael’s hand immediately, but pulled him into the front room, which served as a parlor. He studied Michael’s face with his enigmatic gaze for a long moment, then released Michael’s hand. “I have heard much about you, Captain Reed. Good things, mostly.”

  Michael looked for Devorah, about to ask what in the world she had told her father, but she had disappeared. He dropped his gaze before the rabbi’s steady stare, not certain how to respond. “Thank you for the invitation.” He kept his gaze lowered in respect, then sighed in relief when Devorah’s brother stepped into the room. “Shalom, Asher. It is good to see you again.”

  Asher shook Michael’s hand as well, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a bit of white satin. “For you,” he said, a thoughtful smile curving his mouth as he placed the satin into Michael’s hand.

  Michael stared at the object for a moment, then realization struck. It was a cap, just like the ones Asher and the rabbi were wearing. He plucked at the folded cloth, opened it, and eased the circle of fabric onto his head. A small hairpin had been clipped onto the fabric, and after fumbling with it a moment, Michae
l managed to pin the skullcap in place.

  The rabbi watched, smiling. “The yarmulke becomes you,” he said simply, turning toward a side door. “Now let us go to the sukkah. The hour grows late.”

  Michael followed the rabbi and Asher outside. The tentlike sukkah had been erected against the house. The stone wall of the house served as one side of the structure, while faded fabric hung from a series of wooden poles to form the roof and three additional walls. Michael thought some of the sukkahs he had seen on the drive had been assembled of PVC pipe and waterproof canvas, but Rabbi Cohen’s sukkah was constructed of real wood and silky fabric faded from many years of use.

  A table stood in the center of the shelter, with four chairs surrounding it. The rabbi moved to a chair at the end of the table while Michael took the seat across from Asher. A moment later, Devorah emerged from the kitchen with a tray in her hands. On the tray Michael saw candlesticks, matches, and a golden loaf of braided bread. Several other covered dishes already stood on the table, and Michael idly wondered when the sergeant major had found time to cook.

  “It is time, Devorah.” The rabbi’s voice held a trace of reproach. “The Sabbath draws near.”

  Nodding, Devorah lowered the tray to the table, then moved to the empty chair facing her father. Quickly she drew out a match and lit the candles, then stepped back and covered her eyes with her hands. In a low, throaty voice she recited a melodic Hebrew prayer, and Michael felt himself being caught up in the beauty of it.

  “Baruch ata, Adonai Eloheinu, melech haolam, asher kideshanu bemitsvotav vetsivanu lehadlik ner shel Shabbat. Blessed is the Lord our God, Ruler of the universe, who hallows us with his mitzvot and commands us to kindle the lights of Shabbat.”

  As Devorah sank into her chair, Rabbi Cohen stood, lifting his hands. With his eyes alert and focused upon Asher, he said, “Ye simecha Elohim ke-Efrayim vechi-Menasheh. May God inspire you to live in the tradition of Ephraim and Manasseh, who carried forward the life of our people.”

  He then shifted slightly and looked at Devorah. “Yesimech Elohim ke-Sara, Rivka, Rachel, ve-Lea. May God inspire you to live in the tradition of Sarah and Rebekah, Rachel and Leah, who carried forward the life of our people.”

  The rabbi turned again, and this time he smiled at Michael. “Yevarechecha Adonai veyishmerecha, yaer Adonai panav eleicha viychuneka, yisa Adonai panav eleicha veyasem lecha shalom. The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord look kindly upon you and be gracious to you; the Lord bestow his favor upon you and give you peace. Amen.”

  Michael nodded silently in gratitude as the blessing went on. Though much of it was in Hebrew and the rabbi did not always remember to translate, he could hear a deep undercurrent of reverence and conviction in the rabbi’s prayers. Devorah and Asher both responded in Hebrew, then the rabbi lifted the loaf of bread, which he called challah, and broke it, distributing a portion to each person at the table. Finally, he ended with another prayer, and Michael caught a word he recognized: sukkah.

  “Blessed is the Lord our God, Ruler of the universe, who hallows us with his mitzvot and commands us to celebrate in the sukkah,” the rabbi finished, smiling at Michael. “Eat, and let us enjoy this festive meal.”

  Devorah acted as hostess, passing dishes and overseeing the table. The soft candles lit the space with a radiant glow as the sun faded and disappeared behind a row of houses. The golden atmosphere of the sukkah seemed to wrap around Michael like a warm blanket.

  “This meal is delicious,” he said, his stomach rumbling in appreciation of the succulent roast beef. “But when did you have time to prepare it?”

  “Unfortunately, I didn’t.” Two bright spots of color appeared in Devorah’s cheeks. “When the housekeeper cannot come, Papa gets his meals from a kosher deli in Jerusalem. He understands that my job does not allow me to do . . . many traditional things.”

  “But I also understand that my Devorah will not hold this job forever.” The rabbi’s face was smooth with secrets. “She will marry, and then she will be happy to be what HaShem, blessed be he, intends her to be.”

  Devorah gave Michael a pained smile. “It is forbidden to disturb the serenity of the Shabbat table with argument,” she said, lowering her voice. “Keep that in mind, will you?”

  If the rabbi overheard his daughter’s comment, he gave no indication of it. “What brings you to Israel, Captain Reed?” he asked, cutting his meat.

  Five-star rabbi or not, Michael decided to stick with his cover story. “I’m acting as a liaison for the National Security Agency,” he answered, setting down his knife and fork. “Your daughter has been kind enough to serve as my escort. We are visiting several military bases—just to see that all is well.”

  “Does America not know all about our military bases?” The rabbi lifted a dark brow. “Must you come over and see for yourself how we are doing?”

  Michael curled his hand around his water glass. “It’s a routine mission, Rabbi. We just want to know how we can help keep the IDF strong.”

  The rabbi’s mouth twisted into a cynical smile. “Something tells me you are a master of understatement, Captain Reed. You have your secrets; we have ours. All is as it should be, and I will not pry into your work.” He paused to slice another piece of beef, then shot Michael an inquisitive look. “Have you family at home in America? A wife? Children?”

  Michael gripped the water goblet more firmly. “I am a widower.”

  “I am very sorry.”

  “Thank you. But my wife died many years ago.”

  “Some sorrows remain with us for a lifetime.”

  “Indeed.” Michael sipped from his water glass, then remembered his manners. “I’m sorry, sir, that you have been sick.” He raised his eyes to find the rabbi watching him. “I hope you are feeling better.”

  Annoyance struggled with indignation on the rabbi’s lined face as he stared at his daughter. “I was not sick.”

  Michael glanced at Devorah. A furious blush glowed on her cheekbones as she passed a bowl of mixed vegetables to her brother. Apparently father and daughter did not agree on the subject of the rabbi’s health, but since argument was forbidden at the Shabbat table . . .

  “Abba,” she said, her throaty voice simmering with an unspoken warning, “Captain Reed may be interested in attending the synagogue with us tonight. He has never seen a Sukkot service.”

  “No?” The rabbi took a piece of beef from his fork and chewed thoughtfully, then swallowed. “Then you absolutely must join us tonight. It is a service of celebration.”

  Michael silently smiled his thanks, then met Asher’s gaze. The young man’s eyes stirred with interest, Michael thought, and more than a little pity.

  What is he thinking?

  Devorah tilted her head, straining to see past the woman on her left. Michael sat with her father and brother in the men’s section, his blond hair and clean-cut features shining like a beacon amid a sea of dark heads, prayer shawls, and beards.

  Was he sorry he had accepted Asher’s invitation to dinner? Was he bored? Confused? She had only mentioned the Sukkot service to chasten him for tactlessly mentioning her father’s illness; she had never imagined her father would insist upon his attendance. She lowered her gaze and stared at her hands, folded now around the etrog, a yellow citrus fruit, and lulav, a bundle of palm and myrtle branches. She should have known to expect the unexpected. Lately her father had been anything but predictable.

  She peeked at the men’s section again and glared at her brother’s profile. Asher was an impulsive fool, overly generous and completely thoughtless. He hadn’t even considered how Michael Reed would react to the Sukkot service, to the bearded men who would lift their brows and send questioning glances in her father’s direction. They would not understand why Rabbi Cohen would bring a goyim to their Sukkot service, especially one as unschooled as Captain Reed.

  “Let Israel now say that his mercy endureth forever,” the cantor recited, waving the green lulav. “Let the house of Aaron now say that
his mercy endureth forever.”

  “Let them now that fear the LORD say his mercy endureth forever,” the congregation responded. The air filled with a gentle swishing sound as the participants waved the lulav in the four directions: north, south, east, and west, then waved the fragrant etrog in one hand while holding the lulav in the other. “The LORD is on my side; I will not fear: what can man do unto me?”

  Following the traditional ritual, Devorah pitched her voice to blend with those of the women around her and solemnly wished she could forsake her religion as easily as she had forsaken the things of childhood. These gestures seemed empty, like vestiges of a crutch her people had depended upon during the times of suffering. This waving of citrus fruit and palm branches must seem terribly ridiculous to Michael Reed, who had probably grown up in a staid, serious church where no one ever bowed or danced or wept for the coming of the Messiah.

  She was snapped back to her surroundings by the sound of the cantor’s nasal voice. “It is better to trust in the LORD than to put confidence in man,” he continued. “It is better to trust in the LORD than to put confidence in princes. All nations compassed me about: but in the name of the LORD will I destroy them.”

  “They compassed me about like bees,” Devorah murmured with the rest of the congregation, her eyes seeking Michael’s blond head, “they are quenched as the fire of thorns: for in the name of the LORD I will destroy them.”

  An almost palpable hush fell over the synagogue as her father pulled himself from the rows of men and ascended the lectern. With his prayer shawl framing his face, he recited the rest of the psalm from memory. Devorah closed her eyes as his melodious voice filled the hall. A lump rose in her throat. She could not explain why her father’s sincere belief tugged at her soul, but in that moment she knew she could never entirely forsake the faith of her forefathers . . . of her father. She had already distanced herself as far as she could without breaking his heart beyond repair.