“What luck!” she said.
“Indeed.”
The news itself was intoxicating. She stretched her arms and yawned; then she tried out her newly formed legs once more.
“You see?” she said, “I can walk okay.”
“But now you are going to sleep. No noise please. I’ll wake you when the time comes. By the way, the man who calls himself Melchior. Is he a relation or a friend?”
“Never saw him before. I don’t know who he is. I hardly know... who I am any more. We were taken from the cellar of a house by a man. It is all very confusing. How they got me out of Germany I don’t know.”
Isaac nodded sympathetically, for the story was a familiar one. The girl sat down, reflectively, and considered the matter with her head on one side. “If you asked me, I couldn’t tell you. I’ve seen nothing but the inside of cattle-trucks, cellars and lorries for weeks.” Her lip trembled, but she recovered herself and smiled at him wanly.
“Good girl. Now drink this and sleep,” said Isaac in a voice of command. “Everything will be all right.”
She closed her eyes again, smiling. The phrase was both reassuring and richly ironic. Isaac padded back on deck with the empty cup and plate. “She’s all right,” he told Nadeb with satisfaction. “But the other chap... The prophet posed a problem, for he was still feverish and noisy despite the morphia. They decided that he would have to be strapped to a stretcher to be taken ashore.
Meanwhile “Zion”, at a reduced speed, was scouting the confines of the dark coast. Here and there shone small starlets of light from the distant villages. But the sea was deserted and calm. Once more Isaac had managed to sidle between the waiting ships and strike land; but he was now in an even more dangerous area, with the risk of mines and patrol-boats to think about. Yet something told him that the journey would be successful. If only the rendezvous worked out... He consulted the phosphorescent hands of his watch and turned the “Zion” a few points east, until they were running parallel to the long beaches, and close enough to hear the waves breaking on them. At four they discerned the faint etching of a fortress and a deserted sea-mole. Skirting it, the “Zion” switched off and lay wallowing in the shadow of the tall ruined structure, waiting for contact. In the silence they could hear the faint exclamations of the prophet below decks and the sound of their own anxious breathing. All was still.
Then a light blinked and the “Zion” answered with a pocket torch. A long silence and then came the sound of cars, and a boat pulled in alongside with a dark figure in it. Isaac whispered something and chuckled. “You are on time, at least,” said a gruff voice approvingly. Reassured, the crew began to talk in normal tones again.
“First a stretcher-case,” said Isaac, and the boatman grunted. “Less bloody noise!” he said angrily, and their voices dropped once more. “The ‘Roach’ has been patrolling all evening; and she may be back soon. So cut out the talk and act.”
While two of the crew fetched up the feverish prophet and lowered him into the boat, others threw open the hatches and began lowering their freight overboard into the dark water. The “agricultural machinery” in its glistening slip cases of water-proof plastic slid easily and elegantly into two fathoms of water. Floats were set to mark the spot.
The boatman had vanished into the darkness with his stretcher load, promising to come back for the girl. All was purposeful disorder and confusion as the holds were emptied of their contents. In fact, things were going so well that Isaac allowed himself to chuckle and rub his hands; he went below to find the girl already awake and sitting on her bunk with her haversack slung.
“Everything is going like clockwork,” he said, and even as he uttered the ill-omened words he heard a warning whistle from the shore and the scudding of feet about the decks. He climbed back on deck, motioning her to follow. Nadeb had already cried “Look!” and was pointing eastward to the two long pencils of searchlight which moved towards them on the dark coast, gracefully swinging this way and that like the antennae of an insect as they explored the coves and reaches of the indented land. Isaac permitted himself a couple of dreadful swear-words. “It’s the ‘Roach’, ” he said, almost biting through his pipe-stem with vexation.
“The stuff’s all overboard, Skipper,” said Nadeb, jumping about like a cat on hot bricks. “We can’t be caught here now!” Isaac knew this only too well. He roared “Engine-room!” and, turning to the girl, said: “I’m sorry — you’ll have to go overboard. There’s no time to lose. Nadeb will take you.”
“Zion” began to throb and stagger. It all happened so fast that there was no time to exchange a word or a thought. As the two pencils of searchlight strayed slowly, purposefully, towards them, she felt herself lifted and lowered over the side by Isaac’s strong arms. Nadeb climbed down beside her. The sea came up in a smooth cold sheath under her armpits, making her shudder. “It’s only fifty yards,” said Nadeb in a whisper. “Put a hand on my shoulder. Mind — not a ripple, not a splash!” She did as she was told and, as the “Zion” drew away, the boom of her screw threw up foam onto her face, blinding her. With eyes shut she lay and felt the strong shoulders of Nadeb beginning to work, dragging her. “Zion” had been swallowed in the darkness. After what seemed an eternity, she felt sand under her feet and then pebbles. They lay in the shallows for a while, getting their breath; then Nadeb stood up and dragged her unceremoniously to her feet. They reached the shadow of a lemon grove before the searchlights arrived to light up the deserted fort.
The girl shook herself like a wet dog. They stood thus in the shadows of the trees and watched the chalky light of the patrol-boat’s searchlights throw everything into relief — the medieval fort, the mole and the wooded shores of the cove. Every leaf on the trees stood out with sudden incandescence as the beam swept over them and away again. The engines of the boat made hardly any noise as they carried her towards them. She felt the light on her and was tempted to turn back into the thickets around, but Nadeb said: “Stand quite still.” They stood thus intently; she could hear the water dripping from her. After a slow and methodical exploration of the beach, and of the three or four deserted fishing-boats anchored in the cove, the “Roach” turned north again and increased speed. Nadeb grunted with pleasure. “They’ve missed the float,” he said. Adding with a chuckle, “They will catch ‘Zion’ up in half an hour and search her. Good!” In his mind’s eye he could doubtless see Isaac’s expression of innocent outrage as the boarding-party tackled him.
A figure had detached itself from the shadows and approached while they stood watching: the girl jumped as she felt a hand on her arm. The voice of a woman, low and composed, said, “Are you Judith Roth? I think you must be?”
“Yes.”
“Take my hand. It is not far.” The girl felt a warm strong hand in hers, and allowed herself to be led away into the dense shadow of the grove among the trees. She was tempted at first to feel alarmed, but finally resignation overcame her: for so long now she had been handed like this from person to anonymous person, like a parcel. But at least for the first time she appeared to be expected. They knew her name, she told herself, smiling. It was like being recognized by long-lost friends. They waited in a ditch while a long convoy of lorries rushed past, their headlights lighting up the tall trees beside the road and throwing up a plume of acrid dust. And here Nadeb took his departure. “Goodbye,” he said, shaking her hand, and added as a surprising afterthought: “Welcome to Palestine!” Before she could thank him he had dematerialized and been swallowed up by the darkness.
The woman still held her hand with cool composure. In the half-light the girl looked at her with curiosity: she was of slender build and appeared to be dressed in some sort of apron. She was watching the diminishing light of the convoy on the long straight road. “Now let’s cross,” she said, and still held onto the wet hand of her charge. They crossed a number of fields in darkness. At last they turned into another lemon grove and paused before the door of what looked like a large deserted ba
rn. The woman pushed open a door and gently led her into what must once have been a granary. Yet a big fire blazed in the hearth and clouds of steam rose from cauldrons of hot water. Two old women, clad like Bessarabian gypsies, were busy with sponges upon the body of what seemed to be a dead man. Judith Roth looked around her with surprise. The dark-haired woman pressed her hand and smiled at her, as if anxious that she should not be alarmed by the unfamiliarity of their surroundings. “This is a temporary transit hut,” she said, “for our refugees. Some of them are in bad shape, you know.”
The corpse on the long trestle-table opened its mouth and crooned gently. Though apparently still asleep, he had begun a long rambling recitative in which the name of the Jordan river kept creeping in as a leitmotif. The Jordan would wash his sins away if only he could reach it — such was the burden of the song. Judith’s companion chuckled briefly. “The old boy’s going to be in luck when he realizes we’ve got the Jordan outside the front door.” The two women hummed under their breath as they filled the sponges and crushed the warm water over his emaciated body. They were humming some strange old melody, full of quarter-tones and odd syncopations of rhythms — it was uncanny — as if they were washing a corpse before laying it out. The woman followed the direction of the girl’s gaze and said: “He will feel much better for a wash and a change of clothing. Afterwards, I’ll sedate him for the night. I’m a doctor, by the way. Naomi Hourzan. Come by the fire now and strip.”
Still dazed by the rapid succession of events, Judith Roth complied like some dumb animal. Her fingers wrestled numbly with her tattered clothing. The doctor helped her deftly and tactfully, talking quietly to her. The old women crooned softly as they dried the body of the recumbent prophet, combing his beard and hair, and dusting his body with talc. Naomi Hourzan dragged a long low table across to the firelight and motioned her charge to lie down while she busied herself with a small suitcase from which she extracted a stethoscope. “You’ve been expected for some time,” she said. “Now lie still, I want to look you over.”
“Expected?” said Judith Roth numbly. It all seemed part of the weary phantasmagoria of the whole journey with its mad air of desperate improvisation, its changes of scene. The firelight made her feel drowsy. She felt the cold node of the stethoscope on her back. Once or twice she winced as the cool deft hands touched her, and the doctor returned to the tender spot to reassure herself that nothing more serious than a bruise was the cause of the pain. “Well,” she said at last, “so far, so good.”
Judith Roth lifted her head and said slowly: “There’s nothing broken, Doctor. But I haven’t had my period for months now, and I have got some skin infection — probably syphilis, or something as disagreeable.”
She turned on her back and pointed at her throat.
The doctor lowered her dark head for a moment to examine the red rash at close quarters. She smiled. “Nothing of the kind. You simply have the traditional scabies of the camps. It will wash away in a fortnight. I have something for that, you’ll see.”
She was called away by the two old witch-like women, for the prophet had now been washed and dressed anew in a baggy suit of clothes. He had begun to snore. Deftly, the doctor gave him an injection. Smoothly, they decanted him onto the stretcher and bore it away through the door. Judith sat watching them with a dull and uncomprehending eye.
The door opened again and the doctor returned with the two old women. “Now for your bath,” she said. “Lie back and enjoy it.” Obediently, Judith Roth lay back and closed her eyes. It was a luxury to feel the warm steam rise around her. The loaded sponges crushed the warmth into her body, the water drained onto the earth floor of the barn. The women took up their slow meditative crooning again. How rich and sweet was the smell of the warm soap-lather! She felt their hands sliding over her, sliding over her breasts and flanks. While they worked, the doctor sat down and took up pen and paper. “Well, I shall be able to report your safe arrival at any rate,” she said, “but I must fill in the data for them. It’s a bore, I know. Age?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“Last address?” At this Judith gave a harsh laugh. It would have sounded vainglorious to have given the name of the camp where she had spent the last months. Her laughter ended with a sob.
“I mean home address,” said the doctor quietly; “you never know when it will be of use, for example, if you have other family.”
“I haven’t,” said Judith. “Our house is now a Headquarters for the Hitler Youth. My whole family is dead. Luckily my father died before all this... started. He used to say he was proud to be a German. He could still afford to be in those days.”
“Gently,” said the doctor. “I did not want to upset you.”
“Then why don’t you leave me alone? Have I come all this way to fill in forms?” Her eyes glared from the mask of soap. The old women made soothing noises.
The doctor took a turn up and down the room with her hands behind her back. She drew a breath and said mildly: “You see, I know nothing about you except your name. I was asked to report on what physical shape you were in. This I propose to do. But as for the rest of the questions, we can leave them — though I can see their point in asking them. Occupation, for example. I see they have put you down for Ras Shamir in the north. I happen to be the doctor of Ras Shamir myself, so we shall meet again. But it would be a help to know if you had any special skills which might be of use to the kibbutz. It’s a farming community, living a hard life.”
“As far as occupation is concerned,” said Judith Roth incoherently, “I have spent six months digging up corpses with a spade and breaking them up into smaller and more convenient pieces. Frozen corpses.” But then she suddenly groaned and turned her head from side to side. “I am so sorry, doctor,” she said. “It was stupid of me. Please forgive me!” and she extended a soapy hand to touch the doctor’s.
“There’s nothing to be sorry about.”
“But there is. I am being unpardonable. Forgive me.”
The two old women had turned her now onto her front and she was able to raise her head and smile at the doctor, her eyes full of tears. “I used to be a mathematician before the university sacked me. You see, doctor, I was sent to a camp first of all by mistake, I think. Then I was released because they hoped I would lead them to some information they wanted. Some papers of my father’s. Well... the Agency kidnapped me. Otherwise I imagine I should be back by now in... I won’t mention the name, and now I’m here in a strange place where I don’t know a soul. It’s confusing. Doesn’t make sense.”
“Well, Rebecca Peterson appears to know you, or something about you.”
“I have never heard the name before.”
“She’s our camp secretary. It was she who asked for you at Ras Shamir. I saw her signature.”
“She asked for me?”
“By name.”
“Rebecca Peterson,” said Judith Roth, and, after deeply considering, shook her head with certainty. “It means nothing to me.”
“Well, as I said, I saw her signature.”
But she was dry now and able to consult the fragment of mirror tacked to the wall of the barn with a grimace of disgust. She dismissed the name from her consciousness — sent it to join the hundred other mysteries of this long journey into the unknown. All she knew now was that she was hideously ugly with her hair cropped in this fashion; she borrowed a comb from the doctor and swept it back furiously. “Can you lend me a scarf?” was all she said, and the doctor smilingly handed her one, reflecting that when a woman can still think about her looks she is definitely off the danger list.
“You are going to hate the clothes I brought,” said the doctor, “but they were all I could find. Mostly they all wear blue shorts and white tops, the land-workers. But it is at least a dress.”
“What is more important,” said Judith Roth soberly, “is that it is clean.”
The women had been clearing up the trestles and stacking them. The doctor took Judith to a small whitewashed
cubicle with a truckle-bed in it. “Now, my dear,” she said, “you are going to sleep. I can’t do anything about you until tomorrow evening when I am driving back to Ras Shamir. We need some papers prepared for you. Manya has orders to feed you, but you must lie low. This place is near the road, and if the British suspected we were using it they would certainly make a police raid. If that should happen while I’m away, hide in the orange grove until they leave. As for the old man, he’s going to another place and arrangements have been made to fetch him, so don’t bother your head about him, understand?”
“I understand.”
The doctor yawned suddenly, exposing small white teeth. “I am going to sleep for a couple of hours before I leave. I shall come for you at five tomorrow... no this evening. Good-night, Judith.”
“Good-night.”
She lay for a long time with open eyes, watching the white light of dawn increase in strength as it shone through the skylight. Then she dozed, and the whole kaleidoscope of her memory began to throw up its bewildering and fragmented patterns. The children were dancing about, pelting her with snowballs, crying “Jew, Jew, Judith, Jew... Somewhere very far away, and belonging to a world so distant that it seemed to glow with the memory of a paradise now lost, she heard her father’s voice talking to her, rapidly and confidently, about the glories of being German.
Her sleep was a shallow and troubled one, hampered, curiously enough, by her new sense of cleanliness. The hot water had alleviated her fatigue quite sensibly. She muttered her way in and out of remembered laboratories and classrooms, in and out of the calculus and the bewildering tangle of magnetic fields where once she had been quite at home.
At midday she woke, sighing, and heard voices. Rising, she peeped through the door and saw that the door of the little room opposite was open. Three Orthodox Jews, in their long black coats and spade-shaped hats, were talking to the prophet earnestly and with elation. Their voices rose and fell. Moreover, the prophet himself, Melchior, was already up and dressed in new clothes of a rabbinical cut. He appeared to have regained his sanity at a single bound. His eyes shone, he embraced his visitors, answering them fluently in Hebrew, and making eloquent gestures with his hands. They had tears in their eyes and were obviously under the stress of emotions based in reverence and relief. He must, she thought, be some great Talmudic scholar or rabbi. Presently the little party made ready to leave; Melchior’s smashed suitcase was picked up reverently by one of them as they crossed the main room to the outer door. Once outside, they latched it carefully behind them and their voices faded softly, exultantly, into silence. She was alone now, and she examined her quarters with a desultory curiosity, walking about the gaunt room to look out of the barred windows which gave onto the dense shade of a lemon grove. Some fat crows lobbed about in the rank grass.
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