by Alan Gold
Even from the top of the rise, Shalman could see the entrances to a number of caves. There was little disturbance of the vegetation around them and no sign of tracks or footpaths leading in their direction. This fuelled his excitement that this place hadn’t been explored recently – perhaps even for hundreds, if not thousands, of years – and Shalman doubted that many people ever had reason to come to this area.
Though it was difficult terrain and Shalman kept slipping and sliding on the scree, he and Mustafa quickly reached the bottom of the valley and stood in the gorge looking upwards at the steep sides; from the bottom where he stood, only a strip of sky was visible. Yet Mustafa was correct: even a cursory glance showed him that there had once been buildings standing here. It was perfect protection for the ancient inhabitants: far enough from major roads to be ignored by the Romans, yet close enough to Jerusalem to enable them to purchase supplies and trade when needed with only a day’s journey. Shalman looked closely at the layouts of the buildings, and it soon became apparent that they were too small to have been dwelling places.
Pointing out the circumference, and possible internal structures, Shalman told Mustafa, ‘I think that these are temples.’
‘Temples? They’re too small. They’re tiny.’
But Shalman shook his head, and said, ‘The whole area might have been a necropolis, a burial site from ancient times. I’ve read about such places in Greece and Egypt and Turkey, but I didn’t think that they existed in ancient Israel.’
‘But the caves in the foothills of the mountains north of Jerusalem were the burial places of the ancient Jews. Not here . . .’
Mustafa was right. The burial locations had been decreed by Kings Solomon and David and, like so much in ancient Israel, was a ritual born of pragmatism – the southerly wind blew the smell of decay away from the city.
Shalman looked at Mustafa curiously. ‘How do you know these things?’
Mustafa shrugged. ‘A man must know the land on which he lives.’
Shalman had little time to consider the words of his companion before a sound caught his attention. Mustafa shaded his eyes with his hand as he lifted his head toward the sound coming from the sky.
‘It’s a plane.’ said Shalman and grabbed Mustafa’s wrist, pulling him out of the open space of the gorge and towards the caves and small temple ruins.
The sound grew louder still until finally a British Spitfire fighter plane roared into the gorge. Shalman pulled Mustafa down to the ground beside him and watched as the aircraft thundered past them at very low altitude.
‘British air patrol. They’re looking for weapons smugglers.’
Mustafa pulled back from Shalman, whose hand was still on his arm, and Shalman could not help but feel his companion still looked at him with an edge of distrust.
‘They are looking then for your people,’ said Mustafa and it was true. The manufacture and flow of ammunition and arms to Lehi through underground networks and secret factories in remote kibbutzim was key to their struggle against the British. And in the wake of bombings and attacks on their major command structures, the British army had stepped up its patrols, road blocks and searches.
Shalman saw the plane disappear as it rose sharply into the air and away from the valley, the sound of its engines receding and bringing a semblance of peace back to the landscape. But then he saw it bank to the right, its curved wings sweeping up towards the sun and arching around to return and sweep back down the valley once more.
‘Do you think they saw us?’ asked Mustafa.
‘Let’s not find out . . .’ He stood to a low crouch and put a hand out to help Mustafa to his feet. ‘A Jew and an Arab together out here? They’ll think we’re conspiring.’
There was no time to laugh as the Spitfire wheeled about and dived back down the valley. Mustafa and Shalman dashed towards the open recess of a small cave and slipped inside to the cool, dry dark.
Their hearts pounding, they waited for the roar of the plane to grow as it passed overhead, and then diminish as it found the valley empty of life.
The cave seemed bare save for where the roof had collapsed, probably through earth movement or an earthquake, and debris had accumulated floor to ceiling.
They sat there looking out to the narrow space of sky they could see through the cave entrance and listening out for the plane to move on.
They waited for a couple of minutes. They could still hear the plane but could not gauge how near or far it was from the rock cave. But then silence, a biblical silence of the aeons, returned to the landscape.
As though the Spitfire had been an irritant, rather than a deadly weapon of war, Shalman reverted to a previous conversation. ‘You said you wanted to go to university in Lebanon. Why not Jerusalem?’
Mustafa raised an eyebrow. ‘A Jewish university?’
‘There’s nothing to say you couldn’t.’
Mustafa just laughed.
‘I could tutor you,’ countered Shalman and in the moment he was unsure of why he said it or even thought it was possible. Was it guilt? Was it a debt he felt needed to be paid to the enemy who had saved him from the vultures?
‘I will,’ Shalman insisted. ‘I’ll tutor you. I’m coming top of my year. When I learn things, then I’ll teach them to you.’
Mustafa burst out laughing. ‘You’re a crazy Jew. You know that, don’t you?’
‘You have to be a little crazy to be Jewish.’
But Mustafa’s mirth quickly faded and he asked softly, in a voice full of earnestness, ‘Why? Why would a Jew do that for an Arab?’
It was a simple question, and an obvious one, but still Shalman was struck by it.
‘I don’t know. Why did an Arab save a Jew’s life? I could have died out there; the vultures, the sun, the crack on the head. You saved me.’
‘So you owe me? This is to repay a debt?’
‘Perhaps . . .’ said Shalman, suddenly feeling the intensity of the young Arab man’s gaze, ‘. . . or perhaps it’s because I like you. We’re the same age, and if you lived next door to me, we’d be friends.’
‘How could an Arab live next door to a Jew?’
‘With that attitude, we’re never going to be able to share this land of ours.’
Mustafa looked at him in amazement. ‘Ours? Our land? The Jews want all of this land for themselves.’
‘And what do the Arab leaders say? They want us gone so that this land is only for the Arabs. Why is your philosophy better than ours?’
Mustafa sighed. He didn’t answer for a moment. Then he said softly, ‘You’re right. I was reading about that man you told me about: Gandhi in India. Maybe cooperation is the best way.’
Shalman said softly, ‘Unfortunately, he was talking about non-cooperation.’
‘Yes, I know, but I’m only an ignorant Arab. How do you expect me to know the difference?’
Shalman looked across the cave mouth at Mustafa. The young Arab’s face was a mask of innocence. Then they both burst out laughing.
They devolved into silence, but when they were confident that the Spitfire had gone away for good, Mustafa looked deeply into the cave, and said, ‘The roof has collapsed. Nothing here.’ He then turned to leave but something held Shalman back. He looked closely and saw a gap between the top of the pile of rocks and the roof of the cave. Instead of leaving, he climbed to the top of the pile where the rocks had fallen from the ceiling. He began pulling the upper rocks away from the pile.
Mustafa turned and saw what Shalman was doing. ‘Why are you doing that?’
‘I don’t know. I’d just like to see if there’s anything beyond this rock-fall. It might only have blocked this part of what could be a bigger tunnel.’
Mustafa returned, climbed to where Shalman was pulling rocks down from the top of the pile, and joined in.
It took them half an hour to make a large enough space for them to shine their flashlights inside the depth of the cave. The rock-fall had prevented men and animals from entering the cave. So a
s they peered in they saw that the depths had been undisturbed from time immemorial. They pulled more and more rocks down, until natural light from the cave mouth was able to penetrate and shine a dim glow into the interior of the chamber.
The young men climbed over the lowered top of the pile, then half fell and half scampered down to the rock-strewn floor until they were able to enter the rest of the cave.
As he shone his torch around the interior, Shalman’s heart leapt. On ledges carved out of the rock wall were three mummified bodies, wrapped in shrouds, as well as two caskets of white sandstone, still sealed with pitch, once jet black but now grey with age.
‘My God,’ Shalman said softly to himself.
‘Allahu Akbah,’ whispered Mustafa as he shone the torch deeper and deeper into the cave.
Mustafa walked gingerly up to one of the shrouded bodies.
‘We really shouldn’t disturb anything here, Mustafa. This is untouched,’ warned Shalman.
Mustafa nodded. ‘These shrouds; they’ve gone as thin as paper. You can see that they started off white, but now they’ve turned brown with age. But there’s something here, Shalman,’ he said, pointing to what looked like an object tucked inside a fold in the linen covering one of the skeletons. ‘Look, you can see something sticking up above the material.’
Shalman walked over and shone his torch at the skeleton. It was true. An object of some sort had been placed inside the folds of the ancient linen. Mustafa began to reach between the sheets of cloth.
‘No, Mustafa. You shouldn’t touch it. This is amazing. We need professional archaeologists.’
Mustafa paid no attention and slid his long fingers delicately between the sheets, grasping what appeared to be a stone or metal disc. He manoeuvred it out delicately, and held it in the light of his torch as Shalman drew closer, transfixed.
Mustafa turned it from front to back. It was still distinct, saved by the cloth from degradation by aeons of dust and debris. The folds of linen had insulated it.
Shalman took it carefully from him, and held it between his thumb and forefinger. He read out what was written, first on the front and then on the back of the amulet. ‘I am Ruth, wife of Abram the doctor. I walk in the footsteps of Yahweh.’
He looked at Mustafa. ‘It’s written in Hebrew on the front and Aramaic on the back. It must be from one of the early centuries around the time of Christ. This is . . . This is . . .’ But Shalman had no words for his amazement.
Mustafa gazed at the shroud, and wondered at the skeleton inside the folds.
‘What sort of a woman was this Ruth? Who was this Abram?’ The young Arab man’s face glowed in the light of the torch, though his beaming smile seemed to reflect more light than the torch globe.
‘Was this Ruth tall or short, beautiful or ugly? Did she live to an old age or die young? Where did she come from? What did she do? How did she die . . .?’
Shalman smiled and laughed. ‘Very good questions, my friend . . . and that’s why I’m going to help make you an archaeologist.’
Jerusalem
1947
Judit sat with Anastasia in a small, one-room apartment that was a designated safe house for NKVD operatives. Anastasia sipped at a small tumbler of vodka as she sat on the edge of the bed. The room had only one chair and Judit was seated on it.
She had been summoned to the meeting by the usual dead-drop note and had expected to see a gathering of the same group of operatives previously brought together. But when she arrived, Judit found only Anastasia seated on the bed.
As she sipped her own vodka, Judit could not help but take in the figure of the woman before her. The years she had known her had been short yet Anastasia had seen Judit grow from schoolgirl to woman and spy. Judit remembered the training, the instruction and the motherly hand of Anastasia always on her back pushing her forward. The memory of her own mother seemed by contrast to be as indistinct as a faded photograph.
When Vered was born, Judit had unwillingly found herself reflecting on her own childhood – a childhood she had long since pushed aside – and her own mother, whom she’d come to think of as weak and broken. But her imagination often confused the beautiful face of Anastasia with the reality of what she was, a master spy, a woman who had ordered a sniper rifle to be put into her hands, and for her to assassinate her own mother or father. Sure, it was nothing more than a test with an empty rifle, but Anastasia’s hand on her back was a touch that brought back sharp memories, not all of them good.
The test hadn’t broken her; it had made her strong. As she looked at Anastasia, Judit felt that the woman was proud of her and that somehow this mattered. Anastasia stood from the bed, and walked over to the table in the apartment to refill her vodka glass.
‘You’ve now met all of your colleagues, the men and women who will bring our plan to fruition. And I have to make a choice.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Judit, having no inkling of where Anastasia was going with this or why she had even been summoned.
‘Which of them should lead? Who should carry responsibility? Who is capable enough?’
Judit thought back to the group. According to Anastasia they’d disbanded and gone their separate ways. Some to Tel Aviv, some to Haifa or Jerusalem or Bethlehem or Nablus or Nahariah, some to Cairo and Damascus. Each had their role to play and many Judit might never encounter again.
Some of them had been given the names and biographies of politicians, governors, newspaper editors, journalists and political advisers who they’d been instructed to befriend and influence, to sleep with and seduce, so that when the crucial time came, they could be blackmailed. It was all in an effort to swing allegiances away from America and the United Kingdom in favour of the USSR. Others had been given a list of future Israeli politicians and influentials who were not well disposed to Mother Russia and would need to be exterminated.
She knew that this had been going on in Palestine from time to time already. The newspapers occasionally carried stories about prominent people being killed or dying in strange circumstances. She knew that this was communist Russians in place. But the real task in the months ahead would be handed over to Judit and the group.
But who should be the leader? Judit looked at Anastasia, who was still waiting for a considered answer. The young woman didn’t answer immediately, but quickly went through all of the men and women in her mind, discounting the majority as being good operatives, but less likely to be good leaders. Eventually she came up with two names at which Anastasia nodded and smiled.
‘Goshia is a brilliant woman. Viktor is highly resourceful and reliable. Hmmm . . .’ said Anastasia finally.
‘So who will it be?’ asked Judit.
Anastasia smiled and sat back down on the edge of the bed that was closest to the younger woman. Her knees touched Judit’s.
‘Not all situations require the same leaders. Leaders are not all the same. What we need is someone who can and will do what needs to be done. Someone who can see the past, present and then judge the right action for the future.’
Judit frowned.
‘You, my little dove. It’s you,’ Anastasia said softly.
Judit said nothing but placed the glass down on the table and looked at her handler quizzically.
‘It’s you I need. It’s you I want . . .’ And she let the last word linger in the air for a moment before she continued. ‘Goshia and Viktor are capable but they’re not leaders. It’s you who is so very special, my dear.’
‘But I’m too young,’ protested Judit.
Anastasia reached over and put her hand on Judit’s knee and smiled sweetly. ‘I recommended you to Comrade Beria himself. Long ago, after your group’s training in Moscow had finished. He agreed but ordered me to wait a year or two until you’d had field experience as an assassin. That’s why we encouraged you to join Lehi. And now you’re ready, my dove. You’re bloodied, and sharp and wonderful. You have a natural, an innate ability to command. You will be the leader, but I will be here every minu
te of the day. You will answer only to me. I will be here in Jerusalem, as an attaché to the Russian Mission.’
Too stunned to speak, Judit just nodded.
‘This is not an easy burden, I know,’ she said, and Judit was only vaguely aware of Anastasia’s hand absently stroking the top of her thigh. ‘You are married. A wonderful and loyal man. And you have a child. A beautiful child. Yet you sleep with other men . . .’
Judit twitched in reaction but Anastasia continued.
‘At least two other men in two different groups. One called David Law and the other Yossi Schwartz. This is right, my darling. We know everything.’
Trained not to show emotion in times of trauma, Judit simply said, ‘Yes,’ but she felt her pulse quickening.
‘How would Shalman feel about this?’ asked Anastasia.
Was this another test? thought Judit. What was her handler looking for? What answer did she seek?
Judit had slept with David to elevate her position in Lehi, and with Yossi in case she decided to move over to the Palmach, the elite strike force of the Haganah. Both were strategic manoeuvres. She could and did rationalise them. But the question of how such news would affect Shalman pained Judit more than she wanted. She hated cheating on him but, having done so, she had come to the notice of the most senior men in the two forces, not as a woman of easy virtue, but as a much-discussed fearless and potent fighter for the cause. Making love to them was little more for her than a calling card that empowered her to serve the objectives of her homeland, Mother Russia.
‘I did what I had to do.’
‘Of course you did, my darling.’ Anastasia’s hand stroked Judit’s thigh once more. ‘Just one of many things you will have to do. Are you prepared to do them?’
‘Yes,’ answered Judit as straight and as coldly as she could.
‘And what of the Jews? The hardships they have suffered, the faith and traditions they cling to? The things they believe . . .?’