by Ehud Diskin
“This upset you,” I stated. It was hard not to smile at Avrum’s newly discovered outrage.
“Upset me! I couldn’t stop myself! I said that my experience in the police force had taught me that if a competition was held to find the biggest thieves, the Jews wouldn’t have the upper hand over the British. The superintendent didn’t say anything, but my boss called me in the next day and said that because of ‘cutbacks,’ I was being let go!”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, and I meant it.
Avrum shook his head. “Don’t be. The only thing I’m sorry about is that I didn’t quit first and deny them the pleasure of firing me. I can hardly believe how much my opinions have changed these last few months. If someone offered me the chance to join the Irgun or Lehi, I wouldn’t hesitate! I’d be willing to give them all the weapons I have—and if I had the courage, I’d use them myself on a few of those Jew-haters in the police force!”
I was astounded to hear Avrum ranting against the British when he had always so fervently defended them.
“Keep what I’ve told you to yourself for now,” he added. “Hannah doesn’t know. I told her I’m on vacation.”
“Don’t worry, things will work out,” I said, putting my hand on his shoulder. “We’re friends, and you have my support no matter what.”
Avrum clasped my hand. “The day I first met you at the cobbler’s, I could tell you were a good man. I’m happy to have a friend like you.”
I felt relief that I had long ago ended my relationship with Hannah. I had never expected Avrum to become a good friend and a supporter of the Irgun and the Lehi underground.
On our way home, I told Shoshana what Avrum had said to me. “Would you ask Max to hire him, for the time being at least?”
“Of course,” she promised.
The next day, I went to the Cohens’ store to reintroduce my presence in the neighborhood.
“How are you, Mr. Don Juan?” Mrs. Cohen greeted me in her familiar mocking tone. “I haven’t seen you around here for a while. Have you been out hunting for new young women?”
I suppressed the urge to say something sarcastic and took a serious tone. “I’ve been looking for my aunt and uncle, who survived one of the concentration camps and apparently managed to make their way here. I tracked them to the Sdot Yam kibbutz, but I don’t know where they’ve gone since.”
“Well, I’m pleased to hear you don’t spend all your time flirting with young girls,” Mrs. Cohen said.
“Please don’t be offended by my wife,” interjected her husband, who was busy stocking the shelves with fresh loaves of bread. “That’s just what passes for her sense of humor.”
Shoshana had yet to leave for work when I got home. “There’s something I’d like you to do for me,” I told her. “On your way to work, please go to the office of the Jewish Agency on King George Street and ask to place an ad with the Bureau for Missing Relatives that reads: David Gabinsky from Minsk is looking for Izak Levkowitz, the son of Zusha from Minsk.”
After explaining that situation to her, I added, “And when you get to the restaurant, tell Max that I’m ready to meet Commander Zvi in Talpiot. If that’s possible, they should send Shimon to collect me.”
“Another dangerous mission.”
“Hopefully not,” I said, pulling her close. “I’ll just be helping a group of refugees into the country through Lebanon.”
She wrapped her arms tightly around my neck and looked up at me. “Somehow every mission you’re involved in becomes dangerous,” she said.
“Every mission has the potential to be dangerous,” I told her. “That’s what you’re signing up for if you become a fighter.” I cocked my head. “Still in?”
“Yes.” She lifted her chin. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to harass you about being careful.”
I kissed the tip of her nose. “Same here.”
When she came home that night, Shoshana told me the meeting had been arranged for the following afternoon.
THE NEXT DAY, SHIMON PICKED me up and took me to the house in Talpiot. As he escorted me inside, I was happy to see a black ribbon draped over Inspector Jeffries’s photograph where it hung on the wall. Zvi came into the room to greet me and chuckled as I gazed up at the picture.
“Generals Cassels and Barker mourn their friend—as do we,” he said with a smile and a wink. “And we should do our best to reunite them.”
“I heartily agree.”
“I promised Max and Shoshana that I wouldn’t include you in dangerous operations until the end of the year, but with your help, I hope we can drape their photographs in black ribbons in the year to come.”
I waved away his words. “I suppose you’ll be glad to know that Shoshana and I had quite a talk, and she will be joining the underground as a fighter.”
“Excellent,” he said, beaming.
“But I want to train her.”
He nodded. “Of course. You want to make sure she has the very best instruction. Well done. I think she will be a very good addition to the team. Now, about the refugees …” Zvi laid a map on the table in the room. As he spread it out, I could see the outline of southern Lebanon and the north of Israel.
“In early September,” he said, “a ship carrying a group of about ninety survivors from the displaced persons camps in Europe will set out from the port of Piraeus in Greece.” He stabbed one finger down at the map. “The ship will dock in Beirut. From there, the refugees will be transported in trucks to the Lebanese village of Al-Adisa, near the border with Israel. With the help of one of our guides, they’ll make their way on foot to the border and then to Kfar Giladi, where they’ll be driven to Rosh Pina. Arrangements have been made to scatter them among various communities.”
“But how will they get past the border guards?” I asked.
“That’s where you and Shimon come in,” Zvi said. “The crossing is manned by four Arab guards and two British policemen who oversee them. It’s your job to find a way to get them through.”
“I imagine that will take some convincing,” I replied. “Can we just pay them off?”
“That should work only with the Arab guards,” Zvi explained. “Shimon grew up in the area and has lived among Arabs since he was a child. He speaks fluent Arabic, so he’ll deal with them. As for the British policemen, you may need to neutralize them. But let me stress that when I say neutralize, I don’t mean kill them. We need to keep this route open in the future.”
I could tell Zvi noticed the confused expression on my face. “Neutralizing may be a complicated matter,” I said. “But I’ll think of something.”
Zvi continued. “You’ll have to devise your plan based on facts on the ground. That’s why we’ve come up with a way for you to scout the area without arousing suspicion. You and Shimon will pass yourselves off as ornithologists, which will allow you to conduct tours in the area without arousing suspicion.” He walked over and opened a door, leaning out for a moment. “Come in,” he said to someone outside the room.
A pompous-looking man wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a shabby suit came inside. Zvi gestured toward him. “This is Dr. Yaakov Mermelstein, a leading ornithologist. I’ve asked him to help by giving you a brief overview on the subject of ornithology.”
Without any acknowledgment of my presence, the man began to speak. “The Land of Israel,” Dr. Mermelstein began, with an overwhelming attitude of self-importance, “is a major flyway for birds migrating from Europe to Africa in the fall and then back to Europe in the spring. When you are in the north this fall, you’ll have the chance to observe flocks of birds from northern Europe and Asia as they migrate south.” He took a piece of paper out of his pocket and adjusted his glasses as he peered at it.
“I’ve made a list of the birds you can expect to encounter, along with photographs,” he went on. “To look like professional ornithologists, you should observe the birds through binoculars, photograph them enthusiastically, and talk excitedly to one another when you see th
em, especially when other people are watching you.” He raised both bushy brows. “Do you think you can handle it?”
“I don’t think it will be a problem,” I said, trying not to sound sarcastic.
“When we have precise details about the ship’s schedule,” Zvi explained, “we’ll decide when to send you north on your first scouting mission.”
After talking a few more minutes, Shimon and I thanked Zvi and Dr. Mermelstein and collected our binoculars, cameras, and field guides.
“There is one more thing,” Zvi said. He handed me a brown envelope. “Open it.”
It was a certificate—an official immigration permit issued by the Jewish Agency in the name of Shoshana Rosa Bukstein. Forgetting myself, I embraced Zvi, who seemed a bit embarrassed.
“Thank you,” I said, stepping back. “I’m very grateful to you.”
When Shimon and I got outside, I asked him if he could stop at the YMCA for a few minutes on our way back. I wanted to pay a visit to Yousef, whom I hadn’t seen in almost a month. When we pulled up outside the building, I was surprised that Shimon got out of the car and joined me.
Yousef was in the middle of a training session when we walked into the boxing gym. “I’ll be done in fifteen minutes,” he said when he saw us, and I noticed that he nodded and winked at Shimon.
“I used to be Yousef’s trainer,” Shimon told me. “He was an excellent student.” I was amazed for a moment by the strange coincidence—and the fact that Shimon could be so friendly.
“Are you still boxing?” I asked.
“I quit,” he replied. “It’s a long story, but I’ll tell you one day, if you like.”
When the session was over, Yousef embraced Shimon, then turned to me.
“Where did you disappear to?” he asked me.
I told him about my aunt and uncle, and he didn’t seem to suspect anything.
“Are you ever going to come visit my family in Ramallah?” Yousef asked Shimon. “My mother’s mosakhan chicken will change your life.”
“I’m pretty busy these days,” Shimon said, “but I promise to come as soon as I get the time.”
After Shimon dropped me off at my apartment, I took a nap until Shoshana returned from work. She told me that Avrum was taking well to his new job.
“He made more tips from his two tables than I made from eight!” she said, laughing. “Not that he could have handled any more than that. He spent so much time chatting with the customers, he might as well have sat down with them.”
“I know.” I chuckled. “He’s a friendly fellow.”
“And Alec too. You should spend some time with him. I think he’s feeling a little neglected.”
“I’ll go see him tomorrow morning,” I replied.
Shoshana took a shower, and when she was drying her hair, she noticed the envelope I had placed on her side of the bed. “What’s that?” she asked.
“Open it and have a look,” I said.
When she saw the certificate, her eyes filled with tears. “How did you get this?” she asked, clasping the paper to her heart.
“Zvi gave it to me this afternoon.”
Shoshana leaped into my arms and kissed me. “No one but you could have gotten this for me,” she said. “Have I told you lately that you are the dearest man in the world?”
“Yes,” I said with a smile, “but I’m willing to hear it again.”
19
“WELCOME BACK TO MY WINDOW, YOU LOVELY BIRD”
(FROM “TO THE BIRD,” A POEM BY HAYIM NAHMAN BIALIK, 1891)
While I waited for word from Zvi, I focused on getting back into shape, with plenty of calisthenics and walking. I held off on running for the time being, even though I felt my wounded leg regaining its strength.
Just like the previous months, September was politically stormy and tense. In Haifa, Lehi fighters killed the British CID officer who had picked out underground commander Yitzhak Shamir in a police lineup. In another operation on the same day, the Lehi blew up the headquarters of British Intelligence in Jaffa, killing several people. The Irgun played its part too, sabotaging railroad tracks, communication lines, and bridges throughout the month.
Shimon turned up at my apartment one day to inform me that Zvi wanted us to go up north to Rosh Pina. “He’s already been in touch with the people in the Kfar Giladi kibbutz,” Shimon said. “We have six days to scout the area and make our plan; then it’s time to put it into action.”
I packed my things, deciding after some thought to take along two of the Webley revolvers and ammunition. I said nothing to Zvi about it. If he knew, he might order me to leave them behind. The preparation stage of the operation wasn’t supposed to be “wet”—the term used to describe activities involving firearms—but I wanted to be prepared regardless.
Shoshana hugged me tightly before I left. “Please promise me you’ll look after yourself and not take any avoidable risks,” she said, looking me straight in the eyes.
“I promise,” I said and kissed her goodbye.
She waved from the door and said, “I wish I could go with you. I hate when you leave.”
“I’ll be back soon. I love you,” I said, and with that, I left without looking back.
Shimon and I drove off in the same car he used for my meetings with Zvi. Soon we had left Jerusalem and were heading north through the Arab cities of Nablus and Jenin. As we drove through another Jewish area, the Jezreel Valley kibbutzim, I told Shimon about the two revolvers hidden in my bag, one of which was for him.
“Why didn’t you tell Zvi?” he asked angrily. “This is not how we work. Honesty is a cornerstone of our organization.”
“I didn’t think I needed to,” I said. “They’re only a last resort.”
Clearly not appeased, Shimon sunk back into silence. He wasn’t much of a talker.
It was my first trip to the north, and I enjoyed the scenery we passed along the way. The plowed fields of the Jezreel Valley and the shimmering water of the Galilee looked so different from Jerusalem. It took about five hours to reach Rosh Pina, including a stop for fuel and food in Afula.
“We’ll be staying with my aunt and uncle,” Shimon told me as we drove into Rosh Pina. When we arrived at their home, they were very welcoming. After warmly embracing Shimon and joyfully shaking my hand, they showed us to the room they had prepared for us.
Shimon’s Aunt Bracha was a large, cheerful woman. “You’ll soon learn that she’s an accomplished cook,” Shimon promised, and he was right. She prepared a wonderful dinner for us, and we both ate twice as much as usual. As we ate, his Uncle Chaim enthusiastically told me all about the history of Rosh Pina. I was surprised to learn it had been settled in 1882 by a group of thirty Hasidic families from Romania.
When we retired to our room later, I took one of the revolvers out of my bag and handed it to Shimon, along with a handful of cartridges. “Just in case,” I said.
He gave me a dirty look but didn’t say a word as he slipped the gun into his bag.
We woke to a beautiful sunny morning. I advised Shimon to load the weapon and hide it in his camera case, under the camera. He wouldn’t be able to close the case with the camera inside, but at least the gun would be hidden. We drove north toward the checkpoint on the border with Lebanon to do some scouting. We parked the car about two hundred yards from the border and walked the rest of the way, getting off the road from time to time to peer through our binoculars and take photographs.
We were about thirty yards from the checkpoint when we heard someone shout “Halt!” in English. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”
We approached slowly to find a plump, red-faced British policeman standing with two Arab guards.
“We’re ornithologists.” I pointed out a hoopoe, which I recognized from Dr. Mermelstein’s photos, perched on a branch overlooking their small nest. “Look at its beautiful orange-and-black crown!” I said as I quickly snapped photographs. “You’re so lucky to work in an area that attracts such a broad range
of species.”
The policeman looked at me as if I had lost my mind. “You can have them. All they do is chirp. Drives me crazy.”
“I think the same thing of people!” I said. “All their yelling and clanging. It’s too bad I have to live in the city instead of a beautiful place like this.”
The policeman snorted. “This has to be the most boring place in the world. You can’t even get a beer up here. The Arabs don’t drink, and the Jews only rarely do—not that I blame them, with that sickeningly sweet kosher wine of theirs.”
“That’s not entirely true,” I said. “I love beer too. What kind do you like?”
“I haven’t had a proper stout since I left Sussex,” the man sighed, “but in this infernal heat, what I’m really craving is something cooler. I spent a few months in the Netherlands and developed a taste for their Heineken. Do you know it?”
“I don’t just know it,” I said. “It’s one of my favorites too.”
The door to their building opened, and a second British policeman stepped out. “Someone mentioned beer?” he asked. “Do you have some?”
“No, we’re just talking,” the plump one said with another sigh.
“Don’t look so sad, my friend,” I said. “In a couple of days, I think I’ll have a surprise for you.”
“God bless you,” he said, and we shook hands.
We continued to scout the area, taking photographs and—just to be on the safe side—calling out excitedly whenever we came across a new bird. Some two hours later, we left for Rosh Pina.
“Those British policemen will be our best friends if we get them a few bottles of Heineken,” I said to Shimon. “We have to get our hands on some.”
“That may be tough,” Shimon muttered. “We’ll have to check with Zvi.”
