“You have to show a little trust,” said Nathan. “My commanders know what they are doing, and the idea is to get them and everyone else out of here without any casualties. You yourself know this is not going to be easy. These people are not all strong or fit. Also we have the little matter of disarming the guards.”
“That’s no problem,” said Shayndel.
Nathan laughed. “Do you plan to take them on yourself?”
“I know those guns,” she said. “They’re Italian. The firing pins are so badly made you can practically snap them off with your bare hands.”
“Are you sure?” he said.
“She wouldn’t say it if she wasn’t sure,” said Tirzah. “You can get Applebaum and Goldberg to fix them tonight.”
Nathan put his hands around Shayndel’s face. “When this is all over and done with, I am going to take you out to dinner in a wonderful little restaurant by the sea in Tel Aviv.”
“What would your wife say about that?” Tirzah said.
Shayndel laughed.
The dining hall was louder than usual as the men teased each other and boasted about their performance in the morning exercise classes, but there was an undercurrent of anxiety beneath the bravado. Rumors were flying about spies in camp, and about the possibility that the Iraqis would be released before anyone else.
The Poles sitting at the table behind Zorah were complaining bitterly about that theory. “We’ve been here for weeks and they just arrived. It is intolerable. Where are our advocates? Where are all those heroic Jews who are supposed to rescue the remnants?”
“How can you tell that these guys are Jews at all?” someone asked with a smirk. “Did you see how dark they were? They look more like Hassan and Abdul than Moshe and Shmuel.”
“Listen to that asshole. You want to check their foreskins? What about you? I heard those new calisthenics teachers are here looking for spies. Maybe you’re a spy.”
“Who the hell would I be spying for, idiot? You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“How naive can you be? If these people knew what they were doing, we wouldn’t be stuck in this place. There wouldn’t be a prison for Jews in Eretz Yisrael.”
“No prisons? You don’t think there are Jewish thieves?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“The Yishuv knows what it is doing.”
Zorah composed brilliant responses to their nonsense, even as she silently mocked the way they all talked past one another. My people, she thought, rude and arrogant as fishmongers. Or Talmud scholars.
It struck her that while the men were talking nonstop, the women sat in little groups or paired beside boyfriends, quietly sipping and chewing like domesticated animals. Even a heroine like Shayndel rarely spoke up in mixed company, she thought. And I am no better.
The debate around her stopped abruptly as the doors opened and four prisoners from the locked barrack walked in, accompanied by four armed guards.
The men seemed curious and eager as they searched the faces in the room, but the soldiers were nervous. “Hurry up,” muttered one of the British soldiers, pointing at the platters that had been set aside for them. Tirzah appeared with a plate covered by a napkin, which the soldier ripped off.
“Biscuits,” she said haughtily in English, then switching to Hebrew muttered, “Horse’s ass.” The room exploded into laughter and echoes of “horse’s ass.” The Poles behind Zorah stood up and started practicing their Hebrew obscenities.
After they were gone, everyone sat down and the room grew as quiet as an audience waiting for the curtain to rise on the second act. After a few minutes, people returned to eating and talking, and then drifted outside.
Zorah wanted to talk to Shayndel, but she had not sat down at all during lunch, so Zorah slipped into the kitchen and found her staring out the back door.
“You have to tell me what is going on,” Zorah said. “I feel like a big storm is about to break over my head.”
“Don’t let your imagination get ahead of you,” Shayndel said. “I think everyone is nervous because there are so many guards and guns in the compound.”
“You are the worst liar I’ve ever seen,” said Zorah.
“I have nothing to tell you.”
“You can’t even look me in the eye.”
“Not now,” Shayndel said, as the two of them went outside, drawn by the sound of a loud, angry argument rising from a tight circle of about twenty men. They had gathered around Uri, Bob, and Francek, who was poking Uri in the middle of his chest, one jab for every word. “We demand that you get us out of here before those other men.”
“Look here, brothers,” said Uri, who tried to take a step away from Francek’s finger but was pressed forward by the crowd. “You have to be patient just a little bit longer, and then, I promise, you will all be free men in Eretz Yisrael.”
“We are not children,” Francek said, “and we do not acknowledge your authority, you asshole.”
Uri’s smile vanished and in a single deft move, he grabbed Francek’s hand, twisted his arm behind his back, and dropped him to the ground with his boot at his throat. After one breathless, shocked moment, the other prisoners closed in. Bob tried to run for help but he was tackled from behind and fell to the ground face-first.
All of this took place so quickly and quietly, Zorah felt as though she were watching a silent movie.
Shayndel pushed her way into the middle of the lopsided tussle, as ten men struggled to keep the two Palmachniks from getting away. “What do you think you are doing?”
“We have to take matters into our own hands,” Francek said, dabbing at his bloody nose. “Get them inside.”
It was no simple matter moving the two flailing men without alerting the guards. On the way to the barrack, Uri and Bob landed several hard kicks to their kidnappers’ shins and shoulders.
And then it was as if nothing had happened. A few men stood at the door, sharing a cigarette and calling out to some of the girls, who were strolling arm in arm.
Nathan and Tirzah came running toward Shayndel and Zorah. “What happened? Where is Uri?” Nathan asked. “And Bob? Where are they?”
Shayndel picked up one of Bob’s shoes and pointed.
Nathan sprinted to the barrack door and started knocking. “Let me in there,” he called. “This has to stop.”
The noise started to attract attention. Esther and Jacob joined Zorah, who explained what was happening. A few minutes later, the sallow British sergeant known as Wilson-the-antiSemite arrived. “What’s going on here?” he barked. “What’s going on?”
Wilson shoved Nathan aside and tried the latch. “Open up,” he shouted. All of the windows were shut tight as well. “Open the door,” he yelled and pounded on it with the butt of his gun. “That is an order.”
“You have a little dick,” came the reply in Hebrew, setting off a roar of laughter.
“What did he say?” Jacob asked.
“Shhhh,” said Zorah.
Goldberg ran to the door and shouted to the men inside, in Yiddish, “What’s going on?”
“Is that you, Goldberg?”
“Yes, it’s me.”
“We demand justice,” Francek announced. “We demand our freedom. We will not release these two Yishuv stooges until every last man is out of Atlit. Go tell those fucking British assholes that, would you?”
Zorah watched Goldberg’s craggy face register amusement, worry, and annoyance. He returned ten minutes later with Colonel Bryce, his aide, and four soldiers carrying bayonets through a crowd that included nearly every inmate in the camp.
Sergeant Gordon knocked at the door and announced, “Colonel Bryce will address you now.”
“Gentlemen,” said Bryce. “I have just spoken to a senior member of the Jewish Agency in Tel Aviv. A delegation is on its way to talk to you directly. The matter will be settled when they arrive.”
He gave orders for two of the armed men to stay, and left, taking the hated Wilson with him
.
The crowd kept a nervous watch. The mood was tense but not grim. A break in the routine boredom of a day in Atlit was always welcome, and as the hours passed, some of the children started kicking around a battered soccer ball. Esther tried to push Jacob to join the other boys, but he refused to budge. Zorah said, “Let him be.”
“He needs to build up his strength,” said Esther. “He must learn to join in with the others.”
“I’m not sure that’s in his nature,” Zorah said.
“I know. All these other boys are so robust and it seems all they talk about is fighting and farming. I’m afraid Jacob is not built for that.”
“There will be a place for him. Among Jews, there is always a place for the thoughtful ones.” But Zorah frowned as soon as the words left her lips; she didn’t know if that would hold true in Palestine. What if all of the pioneer propaganda turned out to be prophetic and Eretz Yisrael became a nation filled with new kinds of Jews: soldiers, farmers, and athletes living on communes, cheerfully following the rules, arguing about nothing but military tactics and crops and soccer?
What would happen to a dreamy child in such a world? What would happen to the solitary ones, with inward-facing souls? Where would Jacob fit in? Where would she go?
“Are you unwell?” Esther asked. “Perhaps you should sit down.”
“I’m fine,” Zorah said. “It’s not too hot today.”
“It is beautiful,” said Esther in halting Hebrew. She raised her hand to shield her eyes and looked up at the sky. “This may be the most beautiful day I’ve seen since we got here.”
Zorah followed her gaze up to the cloudless sky.
“It would be nice to walk by the sea today,” Esther said wistfully.
“Or in the hills,” said Zorah.
“Let us go into the open,” said Esther, “among the henna shrubs… . And then, what is it? To the vineyards?”
“Where did you learn that?”
“Jacob has been taking lessons from that fellow from Grodno, the one who has so many books.”
“Don’t tell me you’re letting him study with that fanatic?” Zorah said.
“He must become learned in the ways of the Torah,” said Esther.
Zorah smiled. “You are already a better Jew than I am.”
“Why don’t you teach Jacob?” Esther said. “You are learned,” she insisted, cutting off Zorah’s objection. “Don’t deny it. And you are not a fanatic. Most important, you care about him and he cares for you.”
Zorah opened her mouth, but Esther stopped her again. “It doesn’t matter what book you use.”
The ball bounded out of play and landed at Jacob’s feet. He smiled at his mother and booted it directly between two bricks that had been set up as a makeshift goal.
“Who did that?” cried the other boys. “It was Jacob? It was him? Hey, the baby can kick!”
Esther gave him a gentle push forward and he joined the game, which went on until the afternoon sun started to cool and an ancient Mercedes, coated with dust, roared up the road.
Two short, stocky men jumped out. They wore white shirts and jackets but no ties, and their hats were pulled down over their foreheads as they headed for the front gate. Goldberg met them and escorted them to the barrack where Bob and Uri were being held.
“Comrades,” Goldberg called, “I have some gentlemen from the Yishuv to speak to you.”
The door opened and all three of them disappeared inside. A few boys near the windows tried to hear what was going on, but everyone else settled in, anticipating a long wait.
Barely ten minutes later, the Yishuv men reappeared. Uri and Bob glared at the startled crowd as they marched behind their rescuers, arms stiff at their sides, fists clenched all the way to the car, which coughed and shuddered to life and raced out of sight.
By then, Francek and his friends had emerged from the barrack, packs of American cigarettes bulging in their shirt pockets.
“Look how our heroes were bought off for a carton of smokes,” said Zorah, who pushed her way forward and put out her hand. “Not at all,” Francek protested as he handed them out.
The mutineers would only smirk when asked about what they had gotten in return for the hostages. But Francek couldn’t help boasting. “Those two guys you saw, they’re big shots in the Jewish Agency. They were very sympathetic to our demands, and I could see, honestly, that I made quite an impression on them. When I get out of here, I am pretty sure there will be a commission in the army for me. Commensurate with my abilities—that’s how they put it.”
Zorah managed to keep from laughing at the double-edged message. “Good for you, Frankie,” she said as she slipped an extra cigarette out of his packet. “Let’s just hope your little stunt won’t make problems for the rest of us.”
With the breakout postponed for twenty-four hours, Tirzah had to inform Bryce about the change. Her head ached at the prospect of seeing him in his office, where everything they shared seemed distorted and dirty.
She walked through the gate, across the road, past Wilson-the-anti-Semite, and into the office, wishing she had thought to take an aspirin.
Private Gordon got to his feet. “Colonel Bryce is on a call at the moment,” he said, “let me get you some water,” pouring it before she could say no.
“Thank you,” she said. She sat down, emptied the glass, looked up at the clock. “Where are you from?” she asked.
“I am from Scotland.”
“Scotland is north of England, yes?”
“The British think of the Scots as peasants with odd accents.”
“Your Hebrew gets better every day,” Tirzah said.
“You are good to say so. And your son, is he healthy?” Gordon asked.
“Yes, thank you.”
“The colonel speaks highly of him. He is, I think, most fond of your boy.”
“He has been very kind to Danny.”
“I have a brother also named Daniel,” said Gordon as the phone rang.
“You may go in now,” he said, hanging up. “And thank you, Mrs. Friedman, for letting me talk from you today.”
“It was my pleasure,” she said, adding, “but it is talk with you, not from you.”
“I have trouble with that one. Many thanks.”
Bryce did not meet Tirzah at the door, as he usually did. She found him sitting with his elbows on the desk, his hands pressed against his eyes.
“What happened?” she whispered. “What’s wrong?”
He took a deep breath and pushed himself back against the chair, staring at her as though she were standing far away.
“I just had some news from home,” he said, dropping his eyes to the top of the desk.
“Colonel Bryce?” she asked.
He sat up straight, as if called to attention, and asked, “Is Danny all right?”
“Yes,” she said. “Although the reason I came to see you is because I must make a telephone call. The appointment must be changed. He cannot be seen until tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” Bryce repeated slowly. “I see.”
“Tomorrow at exactly the same hour and in the same place,” she said. “I hope that will not be a problem.”
“I can’t imagine why,” he said, avoiding her eyes. “I’m sure that his visit will go as planned.”
Tirzah lowered her voice. “Please tell me, what’s wrong?”
A truck passed and the room filled with the engine’s roar. Bryce closed his eyes. “My son is dead. My second boy, the younger one.”
“Oh, no.”
“Influenza. Three years in the RAF and not a scratch on him.”
Tirzah’s eyes filled with tears.
“I leave on Friday.”
“I am so sorry,” she whispered, wishing that she knew for which of the young men in the picture he was grieving. Though, of course, he was grieving for them both now.
“I will take care of Danny’s appointment. Don’t worry about that,” he said as he reached for the phone again. Sh
e knew he could not look at her without breaking down.
“Shalom,” she said.
He did not stand up. “Thank you, Mrs. Friedman. And to you.”
She closed the door behind her softly.
In the outer office, Private Gordon rose to his feet.
“Your commander has had bad news from home,” she said, walking over to face him. “You must do … you will take care of him, I know.” She reached over to shake his hand. “Thank you.”
Shayndel was flying around the kitchen—stirring, setting out platters, and swearing at Tirzah, who had not shown up to prepare dinner. She had waited as long as she dared before starting on her own, but once she settled down to work, she began to enjoy herself. She used to hate kitchen work as a girl at home; the endless cycle of cooking and cleaning always made her want to scream with boredom. But taking charge of feeding more than two hundred comrades made her feel like she had planned and directed a battle. Best of all, it kept her occupied.
When Nathan wandered in a few minutes before the meal, Shayndel nodded at him but didn’t bother to ask if he knew where Tirzah was.
He watched her work for a few moments and said, “Apple-baum and Goldberg will be taking care of those firing pins tonight. So all in all, it was a good thing we had the extra day.”
“I am not so sure Uri and Bob would agree with that.”
“Those two behaved like amateurs, letting themselves get ambushed like that.”
“Aren’t we in trouble without them?” Shayndel asked.
“Don’t be so sure we will be without them. It will take everyone to pull this off. That includes you and your comrades, as well.”
“As long as you don’t involve Francek.”
Nathan shrugged.
“Oh no. He’s such a hothead,” Shayndel said.
“Maybe, but he can get people to follow him—as we’ve seen.”
“He could have screwed things up for everyone with that show he put on today.”
“But he did not,” said Nathan. “And of course you will be a great help, starting tomorrow night after dinner.”
Shayndel put down the spoon and turned toward him. “Yes?”
Day After Night Page 17