Lone Wolf in Jerusalem

by Ehud Diskin

  The Irgun, an offshoot of the Haganah, was established in 1931 by Jews unhappy with the Haganah’s policy of restraint. Their organization was formed following the Hebron massacres by the Arabs in 1929, which left sixty-seven Jews dead. They demanded a more aggressive response to Arab terror.

  Opposing the ban imposed by the British, the Irgun managed to bring about thirty refugee boats carrying close to twenty thousand Jews to Israel. With the outbreak of World War II, the Irgun decided to suspend its struggle against the British, viewing the war against Germany as the Jewish people’s—including the community in Israel’s—primary concern.

  In 1943, Menachem Begin arrived in Israel and took charge of the Irgun. In 1944, with the war coming to an end, Begin officially declared an end to cooperation with the British, stating that they had betrayed the Jewish people. From that point on, Irgun activists launched a series of attacks against the Mandate authorities. These actions were condemned by the Jewish Agency and the Haganah, but the Irgun nevertheless won the support of a relatively large number of Jews who had grown increasingly critical of their leadership’s moderate positions.

  A third and smaller underground organization, the Lehi, arose in 1940, established by a group of Irgun breakaways under the leadership of Avraham Stern. Unlike the Irgun, the Lehi wanted to continue the struggle against the British, despite the war against the Germans. In February 1942, the British authorities discovered Stern’s hideout, and he was shot and killed after he surrendered. He was replaced by a trio of activists: Natan Yellin-Mor, Israel Eldad, and Yitzhak Shamir.

  The Lehi viewed the Mandate itself as an illegal occupation, and some of the group’s attacks were against British civilian targets. Militant Lehi members attacked British soldiers in the streets, planted explosives under British vehicles, and carried out an assassination attempt against the British high commissioner of Palestine, Sir Harold MacMichael. Sir Harold and his wife survived, but the Lehi managed to kill Thomas James Wilkin, a high-ranking British police detective who was among those responsible for Stern’s murder.

  The ties between the various underground organizations started to improve near the end of World War II, when it became apparent that the British had no intention of abolishing the White Paper, nor did they plan to lift the immigration restrictions and allow the hundreds of thousands of Holocaust survivors, crammed into displacement camps throughout Europe, to make their way to Israel. More and more members of the Haganah and the Jewish institutions in the country began calling for an all-out struggle against the British.

  The British, of course, did not sit idly by. In my research, I learned that they deployed networks of spies and informants within the Jewish community. The information they collected helped them thwart underground operations and arrest many Irgun and Lehi members.

  The knowledge I accumulated through my studies only strengthened my resolve not to join any particular organization and, instead, to act alone. I recalled the line from the Amidah prayer, which every Jew—even nonobservant ones—should know by heart, according to my rabbi: “For the apostates let there be no hope.”

  As partisans, we hadn’t been able to fight the Nazi occupiers with large military forces, heavy weapons, and airplanes, but we had managed to undermine their morale and fighting spirit through relatively simple measures. I wondered how we could do the same in Israel. The British prime minister and foreign secretary intended to hold firm, but if they witnessed future attacks upon their brothers-in-arms, surely rank-and-file British soldiers and the families of the victims would question their country’s presence in this foreign land.

  As a partisan, I had viewed every German soldier as my enemy, but I did not feel that way about the British in Israel. Not every Englishman was necessarily my enemy. The British officers, soldiers, and policemen acting to prevent the establishment of a Jewish state by physically attacking the underground organizations and the immigrants—those men I deemed my enemies.

  I soon learned who the most valuable targets were—the British soldiers with the red berets. They were in charge of internal security, and they fought violently against the Jewish underground, enforcing curfews and arresting civilians.

  But I still had to find a place to start.

  “All beginnings are tough,” as the saying goes, and at that early stage in the game, I wasn’t sure how to begin.

  4

  “THEREFORE NEVER SAY THE ROAD NOW ENDS FOR YOU”

  (FROM “SONG OF THE PARTISANS” BY HIRSH GLICK, 1943)

  Almost every night, I’d walk Shoshana home after our shifts at Café Pinsk. Much to my disappointment, our relationship did not move beyond a reluctant goodnight kiss. I once tried to turn the kiss into something more intimate, but Shoshana took a step back, smiled nervously, and went inside. Twice I invited her back to my apartment, but she turned me down both times. I was deeply attracted to this beautiful woman, and her reluctance to take our relationship to a physical level left me confused and downhearted.

  Two months passed. After many restless nights alone in my bed, it occurred to me that feeling sorry for myself was useless. I felt a magnetic connection with Shoshana, and I had realized that I had serious feelings for her. I wanted her to be with me always. Apparently, she was not ready, or she didn’t feel the same way that I did. A thought suddenly dawned on me. Perhaps Shoshana didn’t know how much I cared for her. After all, I had never confessed my feelings for her. Maybe it was time to take the next step.

  On a breezy Friday morning, I set out on a brisk walk toward Tel Arza, an untouched meadow northwest of my neighborhood. I hoped I might find a bunch of wildflowers and thought about how happy it always made my mother when my father brought her a bouquet of flowers.

  I felt a surge of longing to bring flowers to Shoshana. Unfortunately, when I reached the meadow, there were none—it was the wrong season. As I was walking home through the narrow streets of Kerem Avraham, feeling dejected, I noticed a woman sweeping the walkway to her house. The walkway lay between two rows of beautiful rose bushes in a meticulously tended garden.

  “Good morning to you,” I said. “And what beautiful flowers you have!”

  “Yes,” said the woman. “They’re about the only flowers blooming now.”

  “It’s funny you should say that. I went looking for wildflowers this morning and couldn’t find any. Would you be willing to sell me some of yours?”

  The woman leaned against her broom and looked at me with growing interest. “And why would a young man like you be so eager to find flowers today?”

  Her smile made me a little shy, but I figured the truth could only help. “I am in love with a beautiful young woman named Shoshana, and I want to do something nice for her.”

  The woman nodded, her eyes growing misty as she gazed into the distance. “I haven’t heard a sweeter thing in a long time,” she said, glancing back at me. “You are a nice young man.” And with that, she pulled a pair of clippers from the pocket of her apron and started cutting some long-stemmed roses from the bushes.

  When she was done, she went inside her apartment and came back out with the roses arranged in a bouquet and wrapped in newspapers. I tried to pay her, but she refused. I couldn’t thank her enough.

  I rushed to Shoshana’s apartment, even though it was several hours before we were due at work. She seemed surprised to see me standing on her doorstep that early. When I handed her the bouquet, she appeared baffled, but after a moment, she smiled.

  “They’re so beautiful, David. Thank you.” She leaned her face into the flowers and took a deep breath. “Ah. Let me put them in a vase.” She stepped back into her apartment, barely opening the door.

  When she came back out, she kissed me on the cheek and said she never got any flowers.

  “Shoshana—” I began.

  “I haven’t had any breakfast,” she interrupted. “Would you like to go to Café Europa?

  “That sounds good,” I said, and she squeezed my hand.

  Shoshana’s friend E
va welcomed us warmly when we walked into the café. She sat us at a sunny table by the window, and after she left with our order, I took Shoshana’s hand.

  “I’m very attracted to you, Shoshana,” I said, unable to look her in the eye. “And even more than that, I admire and respect you. These last two months have been wonderful, and I think that I am falling in love with you. Sometimes I think maybe you feel something too, but I’m not sure.”

  She didn’t say anything. But I was now committed to this little speech and soldiered on. “I confess, I’m puzzled. Every night when I walk you home, you don’t allow me to get closer to you than a friendly goodnight kiss.” I forced myself to meet her gaze. Her eyes looked troubled, and I spoke quickly. “I’d love to know how you feel about us. About me.” I whispered the last two words.

  A look of pain darted across Shoshana’s beautiful face, surprising me. “David,” she said, pulling her hand away from mine, “it’s not you—on the contrary, I think I’m falling in love with you too—but …” She dropped her gaze to the table.

  “But what?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “I just can’t bring myself to get physically close to a man.” Her eyes met mine again, and this time they were filled with anguish—the kind I had seen many times after the Nazis took over. “Terrible things happened to me during the war,” she whispered, “things I can’t and don’t want to talk about. There were many times I thought I should have just killed myself.” She looked away from me. Her words shocked me, especially the last ones, and I reached for her hand. She shrank away from my touch.

  “Shoshana …” I began and then fell silent. I had no idea what to say. After a moment, she filled in the awkward silence.

  “You’re a good man, David,” she said, “and I wish I could act like any other young woman would with a man she loves.” Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

  She closed her eyes and shook her head, then covered her face with both hands. I felt paralyzed, wanting to help her, having no idea what to do. I wanted to hold her, to take away her pain, but her reaction to my simply taking her hand made me hesitate. Finally, she took a deep breath and wiped away her tears. Her hand trembled as she picked up her cup of coffee. The dark liquid sloshed over the sides, and she set it back down.

  We sat like that for quite some time, neither of us speaking.

  After a time, I glanced up from my coffee to find Shoshana staring at me. Her green eyes were no longer sparkling, or even tearful, but dull, as if every ounce of life had been drained from her soul.

  “It’s time to go to work,” she said, rising from the table. I paid the bill, and we walked together to Café Pinsk without exchanging another word.

  We each stumbled through our shift. I wanted to talk to her but still had no idea what to say. So I avoided her, even as I longed to help her.

  “Is something wrong?” Max asked Shoshana. She shook her head and kept working.

  For my part, I mixed up two separate orders and got chewed out. When the night was finally over, she told me it wasn’t necessary that I walk her home, but I insisted. Halfway there, Shoshana suddenly stopped and turned to me, her eyes finally meeting mine.

  “David,” she said, “I’d like to come over to your place tonight.”

  I was taken by surprise and, for a second, felt hopeful, but then my joy faded. She had just told me, only hours before, what the war had done to her, how she couldn’t be physical with a man. We both knew what it meant for a woman to come to a man’s apartment. And we both knew that she wasn’t ready for such a huge step.

  I knew she wanted only to satisfy me and perhaps was afraid she would lose me if she didn’t. I shook my head. “It’s late. Come over another time.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I know what I am doing.”

  When we got to my apartment, Shoshana undressed without saying a word and slipped under the covers of my bed. I removed my clothes and joined her, holding her close and caressing her softly. She didn’t resist but didn’t respond in kind either. She just lay there silently, her eyes shut.

  “Shoshana …” I said, confused, uncertain.

  “Make love to me, David,” she whispered.

  And so I did. But when I touched her, she barely moved and didn’t make a sound. Afterward, I brushed the hair from her face and could feel that her cheeks were wet with tears.

  “Time will heal everything,” I whispered, failing to convince even myself. She rose from the bed to dress. I got up too.

  “Why are you getting up?” she asked.

  “To walk you home,” I said.

  “I’d rather go alone. I’ll see you tomorrow.” When she closed the door behind her, I wondered if I had just made the biggest mistake of my life.

  SHOSHANA AND I CONTINUED OUR regular walks together to and from Café Pinsk, but I didn’t invite her to my apartment again. A week later, she suggested that we meet at Café Europa on our day off. After we sat down and ordered coffee, she said what I had been dreading to hear.

  She kept her gaze on the table top as she spoke. “David … that night I spent at your apartment was very difficult for me. I had thought maybe it wouldn’t be because, well, because I love you.” She fell silent and I waited. After a moment, she sighed and looked up at me.

  “I love you too, and if I did anything wrong—”

  “I’m so sorry,” she interrupted. “I do love you, David, but I can’t make love to you again. The things that happened to me during the war—” She broke off for a moment and then began again, speaking quickly. “I’m just not capable of having a physical relationship. I know you have desires and needs, but I can’t satisfy them, and so I’d like us to be good friends only and nothing more.” She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “You should find a normal relationship with another woman.”

  “Things change,” I said. “Give it time.”

  “I know you mean well,” she whispered. “And I know you would try, but eventually …” She shook her head. “You deserve more. I won’t do this to you or to myself.”

  I stared at the houses behind her for a long moment, watching the lights from their windows glowing. My first thought was to protest, to convince her that she was wrong, that we could work through this. But what would it be like to be with Shoshana but unable to touch her? It would be torturous. And she would sense how I felt—I knew she would—and she would offer herself to me again. And I would accept. And then regret.

  No. She was right. We couldn’t do this.

  I nodded. “All right, if that’s what you want, then that’s what we’ll do.”

  We didn’t have work that night. Shoshana insisted on walking home alone. Feeling at loose ends, I decided to go see my friend Nelka, who had arrived in the Land of Israel on the same boat with me. She was in her forties and kind. I had met her in Krakow during the chaotic aftermath of the war.

  We had developed a true friendship since arriving in Jerusalem, and I occasionally visited her home on Geula Street. Like most people in the city, neither of us had telephones, so I had to walk to her apartment in hopes of finding her at home. I was lost in thought when I arrived on Geula Street. There I noticed several British soldiers with red berets walking to and from the Schneller Barracks, the headquarters for the British forces in Jerusalem.

  Still unhappy over my situation with Shoshana, I turned my thoughts to my plan of helping the Jewish people reclaim the Land of Israel. As I watched and listened to the soldiers, with their loud laughter and their haughty attitudes, all at once I realized how I could kick off my personal vendetta against the British authorities and, at the same time, obtain a gun for future operations.

  All I needed to do was find a secluded place for an ambush, hide there at a time when only a few people were on the street, and attack a lone soldier as he walked past. My goal would be to take his gun in order to continue to build my own small arsenal for the future. I frowned.

  I knew that I was head
ing into murky waters. Though they were persecuting us now, the British had fought the Nazis and helped to liberate the Jews of Europe. In an attempt to assuage a sudden surge of guilt, I promised myself that I would only attack soldiers with red berets, knowing that they were on the front lines in the fight against the Jewish underground.

  Satisfied with my plan, I reached Nelka’s apartment and knocked on the door. Several loud raps failed to elicit a response, so I reached into my pocket for the small pen and notebook I often carried and left her a note: I came to see you. I’ve started working as a waiter at Café Pinsk, so if you’re in the area, come say hello. I’d love to see you.

  On the way back to my apartment, I took a quick look at the courtyards and entranceways along Geula Street, looking for the best location to put my plan into action. I found a courtyard that seemed suitable and decided that midnight or even later would be the right time frame to act.

  The following night, I moved swiftly and silently to my chosen courtyard, carrying a length of rope in my pocket. Unfortunately, most of the red beret soldiers I saw were in groups, and the few who were alone weren’t armed. I had no luck on the second night either. But on the third, as I waited, I suddenly knew I was onto something.

  A solitary British soldier, his red beret cocked to the side and a revolver holstered against his hip, stumbled toward me, presumably on his way back to base after a few drinks. As he passed the courtyard where I was hiding, I leaped out from my hiding place and jumped him, slamming the side of my right hand against his neck below his ear.

  When we were partisans, Zusha had taught me that by striking the side of the neck at a certain point, you could immediately disable your opponent. Zusha was right. I dragged the unconscious Brit into the courtyard and dropped his heavy body to the dirt. After seizing his revolver and cartridges, I removed the money from his wallet to make the attack look like a robbery.

  I returned home at a leisurely pace so as not to arouse suspicion. When I got to my apartment, I examined the revolver. It was an Enfield No. 2—a British-made .38 caliber. I had used a German-made Walther P38 during most of my time as a partisan. I preferred the P38, but if necessary, a British bullet fired into the head of a British soldier would do the job just as well.