Freedom (Jerusalem)

by Colin Falconer

  Whoever it was, they must have come through the garden, from the path through the wood.

  He opened the door, shielding the candle from the draught. There was a tiny figure on the doorstep, coat and woolen hat dusted with snow, a thick scarf obscuring the face. He held the candle higher. Those eyes! He would have recognized them anywhere.

  “Marie,” he said.

  He pulled her inside and shut the door. “It’s so dark out there,” she whispered. “I almost fell down the basement steps.” She pulled the scarf away from her face and grinned at him. “You thought I’d forgotten about you, didn’t you?”

  “Did anyone see you?”

  “I could hardly see myself on a night like this.” She reached into her pocket and brought out a little package, wrapped in stained white paper. “The butcher does home deliveries now. It’s an extra service for his good customers.”

  “You should not have done this! Sometimes the Nazis watch the house. It is a terrible risk.”

  “No one saw me.” She shivered. “It’s freezing in here. Is the whole house like this?”

  “We’re trying to save our fuel. We’re living in two rooms upstairs.”

  “Do you have a fire? I need to get warm.”

  He hesitated. This is dangerous for her, he thought. I should send her away. “This way,” he said.

  They cooked the steaks on the kitchen range. The smell of the frying veal pinched the glands in his tongue, and made his belly growl. The candle flickered as another gust of wind whistled through the boarded windowpane. “I should send you away. If you’re seen here, you’ll be arrested.”

  “I can’t stand by and watch you starve. I know the danger.”

  He put an arm around her, breathed in the warm smell of her hair. He felt a surge of joy, the first time he had felt anything but dread and despair in long months. For just this moment he would forget the nightmare world outside. Right here, right now, he had a miracle and he would not think about anything else.

  “How did you get this food? Won’t your father find out?”

  “He never checks on me. Why should he? Besides, some of the customers I don’t like, the ones I know are National Socialists, I charge them a little more each time, enough to pay for what I brought to you tonight. So it’s not really stealing and I make the Nazis contribute to a good cause - even if they don’t know it.” She looked up at him, and suddenly the smile was gone. “I can’t believe what they did. Not just to you, to all the Jewish people in the town. They are not human.”

  “But they are human, Marie. It’s what humans have been doing to each other forever. It just takes someone like Hitler to let people be what they really are.”

  “Not all people.”

  “No,” he said, “not all people.” He looked into her face. What could he do? For her own sake she should have stayed in Berlin. For himself he thanked God for bringing her back to him.

  He kissed her gently on the lips.

  “The steaks are nearly ready,” she said. “Let’s surprise your mother.”

  “Thank you for coming tonight,” he said. “But I can’t let you put yourself in this danger anymore. You mustn’t come again.”

  “All right,” she said. “If that is what you think.”

  But they both knew she didn’t mean it. They both knew that it was a lie.

  PART TWO

  PALESTINE, 1939

  Chapter 5

  Bab el-Wad, Jerusalem-Latrun Fort

  The scrub danced in the heat. A truck rumbled up the gully, engine roaring in protest, the crunch of the gears echoing around the narrow walls. Once it had disappeared out of sight, the wadi was silent again.

  The Holy Stragglers of Judea squatted under a stand of pines. Black eyes stared watchful from the folds of their keffiyehs. They cradled their rifles against their shoulders and waited.

  “He’s not coming,” one of them said.

  “He said he would be on the road an hour after dawn. It is almost midday.”

  “We will wait,” Izzat said. What else was there to do? He could not return to Rab’allah, even though he was hungry and thirsty. If they went back without firing their rifles, he would be the butt of all their stupid jokes in the coffee house again. Damn Majid! May a thousand bees swarm on his testicles!

  Near Lydda

  Lydda appeared below them on the plains, dismal in the yellow light of late afternoon. The trip had taken eleven hours; if they had come through the Bab el-Wad they would have got here in half that time. I wonder if the detour was really necessary? Talbot thought. “You think we are safe from bandits now?” he said.

  Majid laughed, as if Talbot had made a joke that he did not quite understand. “Quite safe now, Talbot effendi. Perhaps we should come back this way also. Just to be on the side of the safe.”

  “Whatever you think is best,” Talbot said, and he laid an encouraging hand on his shoulder. A good chap. He did everything that was expected of him without complaint. And he seemed to be truly concerned about his welfare. In many ways he felt more comfortable with him than with Elizabeth. “Whatever you think is best,’ he repeated.

  Bab el-Wad, Jerusalem-Latrun Fort

  The twilight accentuated the contrasts between shadow and light, between every rock, every bush, every gully. The horizon faded to violet as the sun dipped below the Judean hills. The temperature fell with it.

  The day was over, wasted.

  Izzat kicked at a stone, watched it pick up speed and roll down the slope to the edge of the road. “Majid has told the Britishers about our plan. He is a coward and a traitor!”

  Just then he heard the sound of a motor engine around the bend in the road. They all craned their heads. But it was another truck, a British supply vehicle, its headlights already blazing. It rumbled on down the road towards Latrun.

  Izzat turned around and found himself staring down a rifle barrel. He uttered a sob of terror and staggered backwards.

  “I’m going to blow a hole in your head,” Rishou said.

  “No,” Izzat whimpered. He looked for his loyal band of Holy Stragglers. No help there. “No, please!”

  “You wish to insult one of my family, you son of a whore?”

  “As Allah is my judge, I did not mean it!”

  “There could be a thousand reasons why the Britisher did not come this way today.”

  Izzat could think of only one, but expressing it was why he now had Rishou’s rifle in his face. “Your brother’s courage and honor is famous in all Palestine!”

  Rishou considered.

  “Let Allah burn me on the Day of Fire!” Izzat shouted desperately. “I meant no harm!”

  “You called him a traitor and a coward!”

  “A figure of speech, Rishou. I abase myself before your brother’s legend!”

  Rishou lowered his rifle, honor satisfied. He stalked away.

  For a moment Izzat considered shooting him in the back, but rejected the thought almost as soon as it occurred to him. It would destroy his image with the Holy Stragglers and, if he did, Zayyad would kill him. There would be another day to settle with the Hass’ans.

  The Place Where The Fool Shot His Uncle

  There were two riders, both wearing the blue denims of kibbutzniks. They were leading a line of four ponies; they must have been buying stock from the traders in Jerusalem, Izzat decided. They appeared to be unarmed: easy targets, recompense for a wasted day.

  The unbranded horses would be a satisfactory bonus.

  Izzat signaled his intentions to the rest of his band and they squatted down to wait below the crest of the ridge. It was the same spot he had chosen five years ago to ambush Khadija’s wedding party.

  He had chosen this spot deliberately. He knew what the people of Rab’allah called this place now. Well, a couple of dead Jews would stop them laughing. Tomorrow, the exploits of the Holy Stragglers of Judea would be sung throughout the hills.

  A full moon rose over the gully. Where was Rishou? Izzat wondered. Perhaps ba
ck in Rab’allah by now. He hoped so. He did not want to share the glory.

  Izzat peered over the lip of the ridge. They were close, no more than fifty paces away. There was the sound of liquid trickling down the slope; Tareq had lost control of his water.

  “Kill them!” Izzat screamed and he aimed his Mauser and fired.

  “Allah y Akbar!' roared from half a dozen throats. There were orange flashes all along the ridge as the Stragglers fired into the gully. A horse bellowed in protest, then, in the silence following the first volley, Izzat heard a high-pitched shriek, like a woman screaming. The line of ponies galloped away down the trail towards the kibbutz. One of the riders escaped with them.

  “Follow me!” Izzat shouted and scrambled down the gully. They had done it! Allah, the Merciful, the Compassionate, please let there be at least one dead Jew down here. Even better let him still be living so we can make him eat his own testicles!

  A horse whimpered in pain somewhere in the darkness. Then they all heard it; another cry, unmistakably human. “The other one is still alive!” someone said.

  “We’ll have some fun,” Izzat said. He saw the silhouette ten paces away. The wounded rider was trying to crawl away. He ran over. The horse had fallen on its side and the Jew’s leg was trapped underneath it,

  “Please,” the Jew sobbed, “please ...”

  “A woman!” Izzat shouted in triumph.

  “Allah is indeed great!” someone else said.

  They stood in respectful silence, awed by the extent of Allah’s bounty. None of them had ever raped a Jewish woman before and they all waited for Izzat to tell them what to do.

  “Please ...” the woman said.

  “Get her out from under the horse,” Izzat said.

  Two of them grabbed her arms and pulled. She shrieked in agony as the task was accomplished, then she passed out.

  “Sons of whores!” Izzat said. “Now look what you have done. She is no good to us like that. Wake her up!”

  “How?”

  Izzat went to the dying horse and found a water bottle on the saddle. He bent over the wounded woman and tipped the contents on her face. She moaned.

  “Hold her down,” Izzat said.

  “Please . . .” she said. The horse snorted and kicked. “My horse . . . help my horse . . .” She raised her head and tried to sit up. Two Strugglers grabbed her and pushed her back on to the ground.

  Izzat stood over her and lifted his robe. “Look at this, Jew. See! Our weapons are better than yours!”

  “Please ...”

  “Our barrels are longer!” The Holy Strugglers cheered. “And we shoot for twenty miles!”

  “. . . please . . .”

  The horse grunted and died.

  “Now I shall show you how good my aim is!” Izzat knelt between Sarah’s legs.

  Another gunshot. A bullet slammed into the hillside just feet away. Izzat yelled and jumped to his feet, scrambling for his rifle. More shots. The Strugglers started running back up the ridge.

  “Jews!” Izzat recognized Rishou’s voice in the darkness. “The Jews are coming! Let’s get out of here!”

  Three more shots.

  Just when he needed to see what was happening, the moon disappeared behind a dark bank of cloud. Another volley of rifle fire whined through the air above his head. They had no chance against the kibbutzniks. They were better trained for night fighting and they had better rifles. But how had they got back up here so fast?

  He would think about that in the morning.

  He ran.

  “Izzat!” someone screamed.

  It was Rishou again. “Where are they?” he shouted back.

  Just then something hit him in the buttock and he turned round to see who it was. But his leg was numb and would not take his weight. He fell.

  He was hit! By the Prophet’s beard, he was shot!

  “Help me!” he screamed.

  He had to get away. Allah, help me in my sorrow! He tried to stand up but his leg collapsed underneath him. The Jews were coining! The Jews were butchers and animals! He had heard stories of what they did to their prisoners. “I am wounded! Help me! Rishou!”

  Someone grabbed his arm and began to haul him up the ridge. He scrambled for purchase with his good leg. Another shot zinged into the rocks a few yards away and a splinter of stone hit him in the face. “Hurry!”

  They reached the crest of the ridge and the other man fell on his belly, panting with the effort. It was Tareq, Izzat realized. Of course; only an idiot would stay behind to help the wounded. Izzat tried to crawl the rest of the way, dragging his wounded leg behind him. It was no good.

  “Carry me,” he hissed at Tareq. “Without me, you have no leader!” He wondered what had happened to Rishou.

  He hoped the Jews had got him.

  She lay on her back, unable to move, conserving her strength to ride the waves of nauseating pain. She braced her shoulders against the ground, and her fingers clawed at the dirt as she tried to fight it. The pain was savage, undreamt of. Let me die, let me die!

  “Sarah?” A man’s voice came to her from a bittersweet past. My mind playing tricks, she thought. I must be dying.

  “It’s all right. They are gone,” the voice said. “Is the pain very bad?”

  Couldn’t be real, couldn’t be him.

  “Sarah, talk to me! Open your eyes!”

  She felt strong hands lift her head. “Rishou?”

  “Sarah, where are you hurt!”

  “You ... mustn’t stay here ... my people are . . . coming.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “They will . . . shoot you.”

  “There are no kibbutznik. Only me.”

  She didn’t understand. She had heard the gunshots, and the Arabs shouting at them. Nothing made sense. Why was he here? The pain made it impossible to think properly. Her mouth was dry, she couldn’t swallow. She clutched his hands in hers. “It hurts so much!”

  “Shhh. You’ll be all right.”

  “You . . . have to splint . . .”

  “I don’t know how to mend legs, Sarah.”

  Another jolt of pain and she squirmed against him. Rishou, Rishou. It had been so long. Yet having him with her now, when she was hurt, seemed the most natural thing in the world. He had guided her through the limits of pleasure, he would get her through this unimaginable pain.

  “Meshaq ... my horse . . . Rishou . . . where is Meshaq?”

  “The horse is dead, Sarah.”

  She groaned as another spasm of pain hit her. “Oh, Rishou, help me ... it hurts ...”

  “I can carry you to the kibbutz.”

  “Splint . . . you must . . . splint first.”

  He felt for the injury. She was wearing shorts; he ran his fingertips along her bare right leg. He had reached a point midway along her shin when she shrieked again. Bone shards had pierced the skin, and the leg was damp with blood.

  “Splint to . . . the other leg.”

  ‘I can’t!”

  ‘Must … you … must.”

  Rishou took out his knife and slashed three strips of cloth from the hem of his abbayah. Then, as an afterthought, he cut another. She would need something to bite down on. The pain would be worse than any torture.

  He squatted beside her. “Sarah?”

  “Hold me.”

  He stroked her hair and gave her a little water from the goatskin bottle at his belt. Five years since I have seen her, he thought. Five years! Those nights in the apple orchard could have been yesterday. He picked up her hand, felt the metal band on her finger. So! She was married now.

  What is wrong with me? I have betrayed my own people for her tonight, helped a Jew against a brother Arab! I don’t care. She might have a Jew husband now, but in her soul she is mine. All I know is that I have never loved anyone or anything as I love this woman.

  “I am going to set the leg,” he said.

  “You’re a dream, aren’t you? … the pain is making me . . . imagine you. Rishou, I
have dreamed you ... so many times.”

  And I have dreamed you, he thought. How many times have I been with Khadija and brought myself to the sublime moment only by thinking of you?

  He took a strip of cloth and pushed it into her mouth. He braced her knee with his left hand and gripped her ankle. He had seen Zayyad do this once, a long time ago, when one of his brothers had fallen from a horse. You had to pull slightly as you moved the limb or the bones would grind together like a gourd and pestle.

  Sarah took the cloth from her mouth. “I think about you all - ”

  Rishou straightened the leg.

  Sarah’s body jerked and her scream echoed through the dark hills as if it would never end.

  Yaakov heard it, from just a hundred yards away; he almost retched with despair, Sarah! Sarah!

  “Down there!” one of the men shouted.

  Yaakov spurred his horse down the steep gully. The Arab’s robe was the only white in that damned valley. A dark and lifeless shape lay at his feet. No! The bastard has been using his knife on my daughter.

  He reined in his horse, raised the rifle to his shoulder and fired. The white abbayah was an excellent target. The Arab fell.

  Yaakov spurred his horse on, and jumped from the saddle, scrambling across the rocks to his daughter’s motionless body.

  “Sarah. . .’’His hands searched her body, and he almost wept with relief when he found her clothes untouched. No blood!

  “Sarah!” he shouted. Her face perhaps? What had the bastard done to her face? No, no, she was all right. He shook her by the shoulders. “Sarah, talk to me!”

  Horses’ hooves drummed the ground as Asher and the others arrived. “Is she all right?” Asher said. “What have they done to her?”

  Yaakov found a pulse. She was alive!

  “What shall we do with this one?” one of the others said.