Stateless

by Alan Gold

  Judit left the question hanging and scanned the room for signs of her father.

  Why had she returned? Was it to show her vicious, violent papa that, despite the fear she had lived through, she had grown powerful and strong? Was it to show her mother there was a better way than weakness and appeasement? Was she here to prove something?

  Ekaterina reached into the cradle to lift out the softly stirring Vered and her tears ran anew.

  ‘Her name is Vered,’ said Judit. ‘In Hebrew, it means “rose”. When she was born, the roses were in bloom, and the air smelt like perfume.’

  ‘And her father?’ asked Ekaterina in an apprehensive voice.

  ‘Shalman,’ she answered and then added, ‘He’s a good man,’ as if to allay her mother’s unspoken fears. ‘Training to be an academic. A good Jew.’

  Ekaterina held the child close and sobbed. Judit found she had nothing to say. What did she hope to have accomplished by coming here? Judit’s mind was flung back to the day in the park when Anastasia had handed her a rifle and given her an order. The choice had been hers and she had made it.

  Without thought or intention, Judit found herself asking another question. ‘Where’s Father?’

  Ekaterina lifted her head from baby Vered’s and stared with a great weight of sadness at her daughter. When she spoke it was in broken sentences. ‘He is sick. These past years. Since you were taken away. Can no longer walk. He dribbles and can barely speak. In the hospital. The drink and the stroke . . .’ She paused and swallowed. ‘He will die soon . . .’

  And the anger towards her father, her desire to confront him for the beast he’d been when she was a child, the very essence that had filled her mind and body in her adult life, and which had grown and grown and become the epicentre of Judit’s persona, suddenly drained away.

  Castle of Henri Guillaume

  Duke of Champagne, Meaux and Blois

  November 1095

  ‘Deus Vult? This was the Pope’s decree! A Crusade and Deus Vult? God wills it! And this milk-livered pribbling hedge-pig of a priest wants us to believe that he knows the mind of God!’

  Henri Guillaume, Duke of Champagne and Count Palatin of Meaux and Blois, bellowed as his servant dressed him in clothes for hunting. The duke wasn’t angry but he was aroused and his barrel chest was more than capable of filling a cathedral with sound.

  Nimrod took bombast in his stride. The Jew was dressed in a fine doublet of blue and scarlet cloth embroidered with red and yellow stones to emulate precious jewels. On his head was his scholar’s cap of wisdom, which failed to hide his plume of white hair, and he stood in the middle of the baronial hall holding the proclamation from the Pope, his eyes scanning the text as he half quoted, half paraphrased the text.

  ‘His Holiness says that God spoke to him and told him to raise a pilgrimage, which he is calling a Holy Crusade. And that all men of Christian lands should gather and ride across the land east through Germany, and then southwards to the Middle Sea, and then on to the Eastern Empire. There they will free Constantinople from the Seljuk, and continue on to Jerusalem, where they will rid the holy city of the Muslim. He calls on all men to join him in this Crusade.’

  Nimrod looked up from the parchment and added from his memory of that day in the field: ‘A commandment from God demanding the cleansing of His house in Jerusalem. This is the Pope’s edict, my lord.’

  ‘And what do you make of this? What would a Hebrew make of such proclamations?’

  ‘We’re a naturally sceptical people. We’ve had many prophets but we tended to ignore them . . . Or stone them . . . Or banish them to the desert . . .’ said Nimrod drily.

  The duke was not a man of intellect but he was no fool either and smart enough to have kept the services of Nimrod and Jacob in his employ for many years, one as doctor, philosopher, and adviser, the other as treasurer, tax collector and receiver of estate revenues.

  Nimrod advised the duke on many matters but had learned to be succinct and direct with his words. This edict from the Pope, however, troubled him and he found himself in the rare position of being unsure how to advise his master without lengthy debate.

  Henri Guillaume, Duke of Champagne, who hated priests more than he hated the King’s tax collectors, shuffled on his stool beside the roaring fire, and looked up in bemusement at his adviser as his servants struggled to put on the nobleman’s left boot. Seeing the man in difficulty, the duke’s liegeman pushed him roughly aside, picked up the boot, and slid it on to his leg. The duke nodded his appreciation of his liegeman’s skill as a dresser.

  He turned to his Jewish philosopher. ‘I cannot refuse the order of the Pope, or the King will have my bollocks for his dinner. But as a Jew outside the grace of our Lord, how would you counsel me, Nimrod? Should I gather my soldiers, draw my peasants from the field, and march on Jerusalem?’

  Nimrod considered his words. Deep down he wanted to yell that the Crusade was folly, an absurd distraction that would reap destruction on so many. But this would never do and he needed a more delicate response that, none the less, might steer the duke away from war.

  ‘It will be expensive.’ Nimrod hoped this simple answer would speak to the material rather than the spiritual in his master.

  ‘That cannot be a consideration when I’m commanded by the Pope.’

  In truth, Nimrod was terrible with money. He was a seeker after wisdom, not a treasurer. He kept the duke’s political alliances intact and treated him with mercury for venereal diseases acquired from the countless whores who shared the duke’s bed. It was Jacob who handled the duke’s finances and who had, through his consummate skill, made Henri Guillaume very rich indeed. Jacob, however, was old and at times Nimrod wondered what might happen when the old man passed away.

  ‘Jacob will give you a full account, but it is fair to say that this Crusade will be exceedingly costly. You’ll have to equip your army, pay their wages and feed them while they’re away, and that could be for several years. And of course you’ll have to employ itinerants to work the land while they’re in the Holy Land. You must weigh the benefits against that cost.’

  ‘And there will be the benefit of plunder, but spiritual benefit is what is promised by the Pope, is it not?’ asked the duke as he pulled on his gloves.

  ‘It is, my lord. The absolution of all sin for those who take up the Crusade. For what that’s worth.’

  ‘It is worth a great deal!’ bellowed the duke. ‘With all the whoring and sinning I’ve done, it’s worth an eternity of sunshine!’

  Feeling the comfort of the ancient seal, an heirloom passed down in his family from generation to generation, Nimrod gained sufficient strength to continue making his concerns apparent. He hoped that the duke was well humoured before his Christmas hunt, so much so that the philosopher risked a comment on the papacy. It was one thing for the duke to excoriate the Pope, but quite another for a Jew. ‘My lord, any Christian who obeys the dictate of a pope may find himself following the Holy Father through the gates of hell. Do you have to be reminded of the evil of previous popes to know that those whose arses warm the seat of St Peter are members of a reprobate and execrable concatenation who follow in a line of mendacious, perfidious and deceitful thieves and murderers, simonists and miscreants. I need only mention the names of previous popes who have shat on the throne of Peter for you to understand how evil the papacy has become.’

  Without a pause, Nimrod continued, ‘John XII, who turned the Lateran Palace into a brothel and raped women pilgrims in St Peters; or what about Pope Sergius III, who murdered Pope Leo V and the anti-Pope Christopher and fathered a future pope? And let us never forget Pope Benedict IX, who actually sold the papacy itself. So if you’re a true Christian, you would immediately refuse to obey the dictates of this or any pope.’

  ‘Of course I’m a true Christian. And while there have been many Satanic arses and warty pricks who’ve followed the blessed St Peter, this pope seems to be a good man, and he’s probably quite correct. I’ll certain
ly roast in the eternal fires of hell for the life I’ve led because of my whoring and hunting. Apart from those sins, I’ve lived a good life. I invite Bishop Fulk here every Easter and Christmas to enjoy my table. And I’ve even extended my beneficence to you, a Jew.’

  ‘True,’ said Nimrod, ‘but look at the benefits that my presence has brought you. Scholars from across France and Italy and Germany come here to debate and discuss matters of the greatest import. Would they have come to the castle of Duke Henri Guillaume, even if he has the best wine in the world, without me being here? Think what my presence has brought to you, my lord. Gloria in Excelcis.’

  Duke Henri laughed. ‘You know, there are times, Jew, when I truly believe that you should be burned at the stake. Yes, I think I’ll have you roasted tomorrow, along with the pig I slaughter.’ And the duke laughed again.

  It wasn’t the first time Henri Guillaume had made such statements and Nimrod felt the licence to counter. ‘Roast me if that is your wish, but not with a pig, I beg you. Think of the tenets of my faith!’

  ‘But if I burn you, you’ll be a light unto other nations,’ the duke laughed. He enjoyed making biblical jokes.

  ‘And when I’m fully burned, my lord, my flame will wither and you’ll be cast into the same darkness which surrounded you before I arrived.’

  Henri laughed. ‘Enough of this banter, Nimrod. I’m off to the hunt. Walk with me to the bailey and help me mount my horse. And while we’re walking, you can explain some things to me. Your people come from Jerusalem; tell me about them. If I am to take the city from Muslims and Jews then I should know something of them, should I not?’

  ‘Indeed,’ answered Nimrod.

  ‘And perhaps you can explain why you Jews don’t hunt or ride horses or take part in tournaments. Why do you just study scrolls and manuscripts and books all day long? Why don’t you ever seem to enjoy yourselves? You’re a miserable lot. You know that?’

  It was in these such moments that the duke revealed traces of an intellectual curiosity that defied his gruff demeanour. As they walked out of the baronial dining hall towards the castle courtyard, Nimrod took some relief that the decision to go on the Crusade would see him and Jacob left behind to manage the estates. It would be a sign of trust and Nimrod found himself silently pleased at the prospect of that opportunity.

  Nimrod spoke, even as he quickened his pace to keep up with the long strides of the duke. ‘My family is reputed to have come from Jerusalem, in the ancient times of King David. It is said that my ancestry can be traced back to the time of King Solomon the Wise. My name in Hebrew is Nimrod, son of Isaac the Cohen. The significance of the term “Cohen” means that the ancestors of my family were originally derived from the family of Zadok the Priest, who himself was descended from Eleazar, the son of Aaron, the brother of Moses. If this is true, and I have no reason to doubt my ancestry, then my forebears would have been priests in the holy temple built in Jerusalem by King Solomon of blessed memory. And that would have been two thousand years ago.’

  Nimrod absently touched the medallion under his shirt again. It was an ancient piece of metal that had come down to him from his father, and his father’s father before him. It was said to have been cast by the stonemason of King Solomon. But how much of that was myth and how much truth it was impossible to say. Yet the words on the seal around Nimrod’s neck spoke volumes. An ancient Israelite named Matanyahu had cast a seal, which had later been copied. God only knew where Matanyahu’s original seal was today.

  Duke Henri looked at the Jew with scepticism. ‘Two thousand years? You can trace your lineage back two thousand years? God’s blood, I can’t even trace my family back beyond my great-grandfather; wine-makers who planted vines! But as far as I know, they could have been peasants in the fields. Certainly, the bishop thinks that I’m a peasant, the way he treats me.’

  ‘I’ve studied your family line, and I can assure you that what you think of your forebears is not so, my lord. When Hugh Capet was crowned as the King of France a century ago in the cathedral at Reims, your ancestors were already famous as vignerons and wealthy property owners. Soon after the Capet monarch visited, your family was ennobled. In this blessed region they had been known for centuries by their trade as Champenois. And though the line is indistinct, I have traced some of your family back to the time of the Romans, for it was they who planted these vineyards. So you have a long and proud ancestry.’

  And turning his head away from his employer, Nimrod whispered to himself, ‘Nearly half as old as mine.’

  ‘I heard that!’ bellowed Duke Henri. Nimrod smiled to himself but his mirth was quickly snatched away as the thin and wiry shadow of Chevalier Michel Roux fell between him and the duke.

  Roux’s hair was copper-red framing a ruddy complexion, pock-marked and deeply etched in lines. He was a bitter man and his diminutive stature did nothing to dilute the cold menace in his eyes. Michel Roux was Chevalier Commander of the Field to the duke and, in the coming Crusade, would no doubt lead Henri Guillaume’s troops.

  Roux looked Nimrod the Jew up and down as if appraising cattle for slaughter. Nimrod quickly looked down at his feet.

  ‘Be away, Jew; the duke’s hunt is to begin and only men are required,’ sneered Roux.

  Hearing the joke, the duke let out a small laugh. ‘Back to your books, Nimrod,’ he said. ‘And consult with Jacob. I shall need his full account of my assets before we set off on this Crusade.’

  Jerusalem

  1947

  Shalman was alone.

  Judit was away with his child, travelling to Russia to visit family, and Shalman had accepted the lie, with resignation. Alone, he wondered what other lies she’d told him; or what truth had ever passed between them. Suddenly, she had the money to travel by aeroplane back to Moscow! Did she seriously expect him to believe that? Why hadn’t she just told him the truth? He’d accept anything, provided it was the truth.

  He had a loaf of bread tucked under his arm as he walked towards his home. Where once he would have had his eyes perpetually raised to the golden dome of Islam, the crosses of the Holy Sepulchre and the Magen Davids of the synagogues that watched over the city and the souls of its inhabitants, now his gaze was downcast. Shalman stared at his feet and heard little of the buzz of the city around him. He’d willingly agreed to her going to Moscow because he hoped it would save their marriage; but after she had left, her lies grew and grew in his mind.

  He had not been back to the dig site, had not seen Mustafa, since the disastrous village meeting. Without Judit, without Vered, he was adrift, and so Shalman walked the streets of Jerusalem feeling utterly alone.

  His life had shaped his senses. Growing up under the dominating, suspicious and armed glare of the British, he was ever alert to being watched. Years more of training under the tutelage of Dov and his indoctrination into Lehi had sharpened his awareness of people and events around him. And yet today Shalman walked with none of that muscular memory, the alertness of the freedom fighter. He was alone and his senses were all trained inwards. He did not see the man who was following him.

  A thick-set man in dirty overalls paced some five metres behind Shalman and maintained that distance precisely. His eyes occasionally shifted from side to side but his focus never strayed from the target in front of him.

  At a further distance away a dark car, a British Austin 14, so dirty its black paint looked grey, trundled along the rough and pothole riddled street. In the front seat sat the Irgun commander Immanuel Berin and beside him Ashira.

  ‘That’s him,’ said Ashira in a nervous voice. Berin didn’t reply but brought the car to a slow stop. Berin didn’t normally come into contact with lower-level operatives, but in this case, because it could involve Judit, one of the stars of Lehi, he’d decided to handle it himself.

  ‘We’ll take it from here, Ashira. You be on your way home.’

  ‘You’re not going to hurt him, are you?’ Her voice was hard.

  ‘No. Of course not. We need to a
sk him some questions. We need the truth. And you have done well, my dear. You have done the right thing.’

  Ashira quickly stepped out of the car. Berin slid the car away from the kerb again and quickly caught sight of his operative up ahead, still a precise five metres behind the unsuspecting Shalman. Berin waited for the cue.

  The man in the overalls, who went by the name of Raffe, quickened his pace and slowly drew his left hand from his deep pockets. He held no weapon but he would need his hands free. The gap closed to three metres and Raffe turned his head to the right to catch the dusty Austin 14 in his peripheral vision. He then drew his right hand out of his pocket and with it a small red kerchief, which he then stuffed, half protruding, into his back pocket.

  Berin saw the movement and knew the signal. The car had been little more than idly rolling but now he picked up the pace. Berin knew that Shalman was no ordinary citizen; he had been trained well and raised to fight, so he was not to be underestimated.

  In ordinary circumstances Berin would simply have summoned Shalman – sent a message to meet and fully expect that he would come. But with what Ashira had told him about Shalman’s wife and from what he had learned himself of Shalman’s strange dealings with the Arabs, Berin did not believe his actions would be as easily predictable.

  Whose side was this man on? Where did his loyalties lie? There were too many variables, too many unknowns, not least of all the motives of his wife and the apparent murder of a Jewish professor. For all Berin knew at that point, Shalman was just as likely to disappear as cooperate, and he was taking no chances.

  Raffe looked over his shoulder once more and then with a small movement of his hand flicked the kerchief from his pocket and transferred it to his trousers. This was the signal. Raffe took two quickened paces to pull up behind and to the left side of Shalman. Berin accelerated past, then reached over and flung open the door to the car while Raffe seized Shalman’s arm in his tight grip and, with his shoulder, pushed Shalman bodily into the car through the open door and into the front seat.