by Alan Gold
Judit was acutely aware of the word ‘they’.
‘What are these things to you?’ asked Anastasia.
‘I am Jewish,’ said Judit, though even as the words slipped from her lips she knew that it was the wrong thing to say. She expected Anastasia to pull away, get to her feet. She expected a change of gear in the test. Perhaps anger. But there wasn’t. Instead, the beautiful, elegant woman, who had so much shaped Judit’s life, leant in closer still.
‘No, my child. Jewish is how the world sees you. But it cannot be who you are.’
Anastasia left one hand on Judit’s thigh and raised the other to her chest, placing an open palm at the base of her throat, her long fingers spread to touch against the tops of her breasts beneath the thin cotton of her blouse.
‘In here, leave the Jewish girl behind. Be what you must be: a daughter of Russia . . .’
Outskirts of Jerusalem
1947
Dov splashed vodka into his glass unceremoniously. It was thrown back and then quickly refilled before Shalman had even raised his own to his lips.
The two men stood in the dark on the outskirts of Jerusalem. There were no street lights and no houses nearby, only the lights of the ancient city in the distance and the sounds of crickets in the night air. They were alone.
Shalman had received word that Lehi command wanted to meet with him. He had now been back several weeks after the trip into the gorge with Mustafa where they’d made their extraordinary discovery. His every waking thought was to return and he had promised Mustafa that he would. A strange and unlikely bond had formed between the two young men, and yet when he had said goodbye, promising to return soon, Shalman could not help but feel that Mustafa did not wholly believe or trust that he would.
The note summoning Shalman to the meeting concerned him. He hadn’t been in touch with Lehi, nor they with him, for some months, and as he wondered whether the organistion would have orders for him – a target, a mission, an objective in the fight for an independent Israel – the cave and its ancient treasures seemed a world away.
A truck had picked Shalman up at a designated time and place and driven him here. And it was over that same truck’s wheel-arch that he and Dov were now drinking vodka.
‘To victory!’ said Dov and knocked back yet another shot.
Shalman waved his hand to prevent Dov pouring another for him.
‘What? You’re getting soft,’ said Dov.
‘It’s late. It’s the middle of the night. And we’re in the middle of nowhere.’
‘You are getting soft,’ repeated Dov and this time it seemed more an observation than a jibe. ‘There are orders for you . . .’ he continued, closing the bottle and plonking it down on the hood.
‘For me?’ asked Shalman.
‘Yes. Just for you.’
‘Dov, I d-d-don’t think . . .’ stammered Shalman, his chest clenching at the thought of another order, another mission, another killing.
‘You know people are talking. We’re both from the kibbutz so you know how people talk – ’ Dov cut himself off and put a fatherly hand on Shalman’s shoulder.
It was a familiar hand, one that reminded Shalman of being a boy and especially of the day Dov had handed him the pistol, leading to his father being taken away from him forever.
‘I know you have doubts. We all have doubts. When will it end, you’re thinking. It ends when it’s over,’ said Dov with a strange melancholy in his voice that Shalman had never heard before.
‘Is it getting better?’ asked Shalman. ‘We’ve done so much, but is it getting any better?’
‘Soon . . .’ Dov drew out a roll of paper from his coat and spread it on the truck panel. ‘The target is an airfield,’ he said, stabbing a finger into the map. ‘It’s crucial to the British for their planes that spot refugee ships bringing our people here from Cyprus . . .’
But Shalman wasn’t listening and he turned away from Dov and the truck.
‘I don’t want to kill anymore, Dov. It’s not in me . . .’
‘It’s just an airfield. No civilians. Just hardware,’ replied Dov.
Shalman turned back to face the man who had been his guardian at his father’s request.
‘Why me? I’m not a good shot, I’m not good with bombs. Why me?’
‘Because we’re spread thin and there are other targets that night. Your attack will be the diversion that keeps others safe,’ Dov said sofly.
Shalman turned away again with a sigh.
‘And because I need to know you are committed . . .’ he continued.
Though Shalman’s back was to him, Dov’s words stung. He turned around again. ‘Committed? I’ve done everything I was asked to do!’
‘And yet we don’t see you anymore. I hear you’re in the hills digging up ruins with an Arab!’
Shalman had made no secret of where he went and what he intended to do, but had made no mention to anyone of Mustafa and his rescue. So to hear these words from Dov made him aware that he was being watched by his comrades. There was nothing he could say, nothing that would change the order or the expectation that he would carry out the mission.
‘Your daughter is beautiful, Shalman. Little Vered . . .’ His voice dropped in pitch and turned cold before he went on to say, ‘One day your daughter may watch you taken away by the British who took your father, or shot by an Arab, one just like your friend with whom you’re digging . . . is this the legacy you want to leave your child?’
‘They took my father because of you!’ The accusation had been a long time coming. But Dov seemed to be expecting it and didn’t flinch.
‘Yes. They took him because of me. He sacrificed his life because I have six children, all of whom are fighting the British and the Arabs. Is this how you want your father to look down on you from heaven? I live with your father’s sacrifice every day. And you know what it does, Shalman? It makes me want to fight. It reminds me that we need to fight. Without the fight we can never protect ourselves or the ones we love. Your Abba’s death has to have meaning. We have to make it meaningful. There will be time enough for peace, time to dig up the past, when the fighting is over, when Israel is ours.’
Shalman had no answer. He’d been a Lehi fighter for so long that he was finding it difficult to fight against the other part of him that was growing day by day. And yet, right now, with the dirt from the ancient burial site still on his clothes and under his fingernails, it felt like the skin of a different man.
Finally Shalman lifted his head to Dov. ‘So, it’s just an airfield . . .?’
The House of Wisdom, Baghdad
820 CE
Zakki ben Jacob wore his history and his fate on his troubled brow. Today, the Jewish doctor needed to gain access to the palace of the Caliph Ja’far al-Ma’mun so that he could reveal the trickery being perpetrated by his Vizier. For aside from gaining the ear and confidence of the Caliph, Zakki could see no other way of freeing himself from the threats that Hadir was making against him and his family.
And the threats were real. He was suddenly entangled in a spider’s web of deceit and contrivance which could easily lead to the murder of his wife and children, and of himself. He had to extricate himself, but he knew that even if he were to escape in the black of night with his family and steal away over the desert, he’d be chased by the vizier’s men and slaughtered. And Baghdad was full of the stories of murders, of men found in their beds with their throats cut, of sudden and inexplicable disappearances.
Without any intent on his part, Zakki had suddenly found himself entangled in a miasma of intrigue, and could see only one way out. And if not that, then to do as the Vizier asked, and hope that his efforts would satisfy him.
Zakki knew what might be at stake if the Vizier’s plans came to fruition; murder that might lead this caliphate into civil war. But it was the preservation of himself and his beloved family that motivated Zakki to overcome his natural caution and approach the Caliph.
While the Sunni leader of
the empire and the spiritual leader of the Shi’ites seemed to be living beside each other in harmony – one concerned with administration, law and trade, and the other the spiritual wellbeing of the people – Zakki believed that neither had any conception of the nest of snakes that inhabited the lower levels of officialdom.
He had discussed his situation with the man who had become a close friend during the many days and many nights he spent studying and translating in the House of Wisdom. Hussain of Damascus, one of the most perceptive scholars of the Koran, listened carefully to what Zakki had to say about his dilemma, about the pressure he was under from the Vizier, and continued to caution him. But, as was the way of the House of Wisdom, personal advice became scholarly debate and the men had spoken at length about the origins of their peoples and their shared God: Yahweh and Allah.
Hussain, apparently transported to another time and place, looked at Zakki. ‘Times have changed since the death of our Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him. And so, my friend, while you as a Jew are welcome here as a scholar, I don’t know whether or not our Caliph will listen to your words. Vizier Hadir bought favour with business acumen. But for you, the Caliph would need some token of your worth and trust.’
What Zakki needed was a way in. And the answer came from what he knew best: the diseases of the body and maintenance of health.
Through his network of scholars at the House of Wisdom, Zakki spread the information that he had discovered a cure for effluvium of the bowels: a disease that caused epidemics that struck down huge numbers of people and made them incapable of work for days as their bodies purged the contents of their bowels as liquid. In some cases, especially those of the young and elderly, it caused death.
This illness was well known to Zakki and it was so commonplace that members of the royal family had been struck down by the disease in the past. Knowing how scholars loved to talk, Zakki was certain that the news of his discovery would soon come to the notice of the palace and he prayed for the summons that would surely come for him.
In the end it was one of the Caliph’s wives who sent for the Jewish doctor; her son had nearly died from the disease and the doctors of Baghdad had been unable to do anything for the boy. The child had recovered and was now healthy, but it had been a battle to save him from death and they had been advised to burn a cat’s entrails in wood from the olive tree and bury an idol to the god Marduk in the sands of the desert. The family feared the illness’s return.
Zakki set out to the palace in response to the summons and was admitted into the first vestibule. He looked around and was amazed by the lightness of the building. His own home in Jerusalem was a typical dark structure of walls and rooms and a roof, where he and his family ate and slept during the hot summer nights. But this palace seemed to have a permanent cool breeze blowing through the corridors and chambers, rustling the delicate fabric of the shimmering white curtains and even sifting through the intricately carved marble and latticework of the upper chambers of the house. It was a miracle of grace, lightness and colour.
The floor was of polished marble, and some of the walls were painted in delicate pastel shades. On other walls were exquisite paintings of birds and animals, languishing beside streams with bushes in full bud, fruit and berry trees overhanging the water. Zakki had never seen such delicacy, such splendour. It made the Roman mosaics in Jerusalem seem like the crude scrawls of a child.
His thoughts were interrupted by a palace guard, a retinue for the Caliph’s first wife entering the room. In the middle of the guard formation, as though protected on all sides, was the woman who’d commanded his attendance.
She smiled at him . . . at least, he thought she smiled; she was wearing a yashmak and he couldn’t see her face. She beckoned him to sit down on one of the many divans in the room.
‘They tell me that you’re a Jew, a doctor from Jerusalem.’
He nodded, his mind working through the next steps of what he must do.
‘I am told that you can cure that which nearly killed my son. Is this correct?’
‘Only in part. Once the disease has its hold on a person’s body, there is little that a physician can do other than give the patient clean water and to offer prayers.’
As he often did when he was explaining complex ideas, Zakki used his hands as much as his words.
‘It was said in past times that the body’s health is governed by four humours; fluids of the body. These humours, revealed by the great Hippocrates, are associated with body colours, seasons of the year, and the temperature of the air.’
Unable to see the woman’s face, Zakki had no way of reading her response or judging if the woman understood what he was saying. ‘Shall I continue?’ he asked.
The woman nodded keenly and he imagined he spied a keen intelligence in her eyes, hungry for understanding. Zakki explained the four body humours, their colours, origins and effects on the body.
‘It has been thought that when these humours are out of alignment, that the body falls ill. When they are in balance, we are well. For example, too much blood makes the body overheated and we suffer fever. To cure this the ancient Greeks cut the skin and let the blood of the patient fall into a bowl. But we Jews don’t believe this to be a cure. We think it weakens the body.’
‘Then what is to be done to restore the balance of the body?’ the woman asked.
‘This is the question. It is my view, based on the experience of my people and the learning I have uncovered in my experiments and from my travels to other cities, that when water is boiled its complexion changes. Water that comes from a well or a jug might look safe, but could be unsafe to drink. Yet when that same water is boiled and cooled, provided it is covered with a cloth, then it becomes safe to drink. Also, we add lemon juice to water and sometimes other sour substances, but not enough to materially alter the taste, nor to make it poison.’
‘Boiled water can save my family?’
‘By boiling the water, you may no longer suffer the effluvium of the bowels. It is important that the water from your river, the Tigris, isn’t drunk without first being boiled. Especially in the months of the summer, and most especially when it is given to young girls and boys or old men and women.’
She looked at him in surprise. ‘But in the summer, when the water we drink is warm, it is then that the effluvium becomes rampant and people fall down in the streets from illness. The exudations from the body cause the air in the city to stink. But I don’t understand how boiling water can make it different. It’s the same water, isn’t it?’
He nodded and appreciated her logic. She had a mind for scientific enquiry.
‘Warm and boiling are not the same. We don’t know for certain, but there is a theory, first considered by the ancient Greeks, that there might be tiny and invisible animalcules in the water, smaller than the eye can see, which can live in warm water yet cannot survive in boiling water. Even the curved glass that you Arabs have created and that causes objects to appear larger than they are seems to be of little use when looking at water because the animalcules are too small to be seen.’
She looked at him in wonder. ‘And that is all that is needed to stop this wasting disease? Just boiling water?’
Zakki nodded.
A servant, covered from her head to her toes in shimmering gossamer veils, brought in sweetmeats and sugary cakes. Zakki and the Caliph’s wife ate morsels, and each drank a glass of juice. But instead of retiring, the girl stood close to the divan on which the Caliph’s wife sat, her head bowed in reverence.
‘And what payment do you require for your advice and services, Doctor? Would you like money, or perhaps you’d prefer to spend a night with Raniah?’ She turned and nodded to the girl, who bowed slightly in Zakki’s direction. ‘She is a slave purchased just last year from Persia. She’s just thirteen years of age, and has only known one man in her life, my husband, and from what he’s told me, I am able to assure you that taking Raniah into your bed is worth ten thousand times more than any money
you will ask for.’
Zakki smiled. ‘I don’t want money for the advice I’ve given you, Great Lady. And as to Raniah, I’m afraid that my wife would be very angry if she knew that I’d spent even a brief moment thinking about her, let alone lying with her.’
The Caliph’s wife nodded and then, with a flick of her fingers, dismissed the girl, who scurried away.
‘Is this the way with you Jews? You have one wife and none other?’
‘That is our way, Lady,’ he said. ‘I want no reward save one request . . .’
Through the gap in the veil, Zakki could see an eyebrow rise.
‘I beg your indulgence so that I am allowed to speak with the Caliph. That is all the recompense I require. A word with the Caliph.’
The raised eyebrow turned into a frown. ‘You wish to speak . . . to the Caliph? Why?’
Zakki knew this question would come.
‘There is a danger to him. People within his household who wish for the peace that the mighty Caliph has brought to Baghdad to be ended and replaced by war.’
Zakki wondered what she was thinking. He’d taken a great risk, one that might see him and his family die at the hand of Hadir, or else here by the hand of the Caliph. Yet his family was his greatest concern and there was no turning back.
The woman remained staring at him for a long moment, until she finally stood. ‘Remain here,’ she said in a commanding voice.
She left the chamber and Zakki sat for what seemed an age. He looked at the corpus of guardsmen. All twenty soldiers were dressed in impressive turbans with light body armour. Their waists were weighed down with swords and deadly daggers in scabbards positioned at strategic points on their arms, legs and chests. They were the fiercest looking men he’d ever seen. And each, as a badge of honour, looked identical, having grown a bushy black moustache as though it was another deterrent in their aggressive armoury. None looked at him, but he knew that were he to move even a muscle without permission or try to escape, he wouldn’t even reach the door.