by Ehud Diskin
When we got back to Rosh Pina, we went to the community’s secretariat and asked to place a call to Jerusalem. Shimon got hold of Zvi and explained our request.
“Zvi thinks you’re right,” Shimon said after hanging up the phone. “He suggests we go to Haifa tomorrow. There’s a liquor store there, and the owner is sympathetic to us. He’ll speak to him tomorrow morning. He also gave me an update—the border crossing by the refugees will occur in three days at eight in the evening.”
WE LEFT FOR HAIFA EARLY the next morning, and when we arrived at the liquor store, we found that Zvi had already called the owner and asked him to give us a good price on three cases of Heineken beer. That seemed like a lot, but Zvi must have assumed we’d be better off having too many bottles rather than too few.
After loading the cases into the car, I suggested we get some laxatives and sleeping pills to mix into the beer, should the need arise. We went to the drug store, but the pharmacist said he couldn’t sell the sleeping pills we wanted without a doctor’s prescription.
“Sir,” I began, “I’m suffering from chronic constipation, and my wife has insomnia—”
“Then go see a doctor,” the pharmacist snapped.
“Sir,” I said, looking around and lowering my voice. “My wife and I don’t have papers. If we went to a doctor, he could report us to the authorities.”
The pharmacist nodded, then started rummaging through his drug cabinet for the pills we needed. He instructed me on how to take the medicines and warned me not to exceed the recommended dosages.
From Haifa, we drove to Kfar Giladi, arriving late in the afternoon. Shimon sought out Sonia, our contact there, and she told us that she planned to hide the ninety immigrants in the kibbutz’s cowshed and chicken coop for a night. The next day, four trucks would arrive to start shuttling the people to Rosh Pina, where cars would drive them to their final destinations. I was disappointed that after all these people had been through, they would have to spend their first night in Israel with cows and chickens, but I realized it was the only option.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, SHIMON AND I packed our ornithological equipment into the car, along with an icebox and ten bottles of Heineken. As we drove to the border, we agreed that I would invite the British policeman to join us for a beer. Shimon would decline, staying behind to chat with the Arab guards.
We parked the car near the crossing and made our way on foot toward the guard station. The British policemen waved to us, and we struck up a conversation.
“It’s so boring here,” the plump one complained. “Aziz and Faisal should be able to handle the work themselves, but they have no sense of duty. If we weren’t here, the hashish smugglers would simply bribe them and go about their business.”
“That must be frustrating,” I said. “How about a cold Heineken to get your mind off your troubles?”
He looked at me incredulously. “Are you serious?”
“Yes,” I said. “Come with us to the car. It’s easier than carrying the icebox all the way here.”
“Of course,” the policeman responded happily.
Shimon, as planned, demurred, saying that he had found a great spot near the crossing where he could observe and photograph a particular bird that he was excited about. The policeman and I walked to the car. “George,” he introduced himself on the way, and we shook hands.
“David,” I replied.
“You seem like a good chap, David. Maybe a bit dotty for birds but not obsessed with them like your friend.”
I smiled but didn’t respond. When we got to the car, I retrieved two bottles of Heineken from the icebox, opened them, and handed one to George. His eyes lit up.
“God bless you, David. Cheerio!” He took a big swig of the beer, licked his lips, and then raised the bottle to his mouth again. He polished off the first and then a second bottle in no time. I retrieved four more bottles from the icebox. “Two for you and two for your friend,” I said. He thanked me profusely and asked, a bit hopefully, if I would be returning to go birding on the next day.
“I believe so,” I replied. “This is migration season, and the birds here are wonderful.”
We returned to the border checkpoint, where Shimon was waiting for me. I said farewell to George, and we walked back to our car.
“How did it go?” I asked.
“The guards can definitely be paid off,” Shimon said. “But the local guards at the border like to haggle, so I had to take that into consideration. We finally agreed that each of them will get six pounds—that’s got to be at least twice what they make a month.”
We left the border and drove a few miles before stopping and hiking to a hilltop that Shimon said offered a clear view of the route the refugees would be following. We figured we’d have to find a spot about one hundred yards inside Lebanese territory where we could signal the guide and direct the group to the border crossing.
As we were walking down the hill to our car, two Arabs rounded a bend in the valley and galloped toward us on horseback, rifles in their hands. They signaled us to stop, and one of them shouted at us in Arabic.
“They’re robbing us,” Shimon muttered. “He says they’ll let us go if we give them our money and equipment.”
“On my signal, I’ll take the one on the right, you take the left,” I said.
Our private conversation seemed to enrage our would-be robber, whose yelling grew louder. I reached into my pocket for my wallet and placed it on the ground in front of me. Then I removed the binoculars from around my neck and placed them on the ground too. The robber gestured toward the camera bag, playing right into my hands. I pulled the camera out and tossed it toward him, and his gaze followed after it.
“Now!” I shouted. I jerked the revolver from the camera case and fired at the rider on the right. He toppled from his horse as Shimon took out the man on the left. They both dropped to the ground. We ran over and checked to make sure they were dead.
“Good job,” I said. “You know they would’ve killed us either way.”
Shimon nodded. “If you understood Arabic, you would have known that right after they stopped us, one said to the other, ‘As soon as these Jews give us their stuff, we’ll kill them.’ I apologize for getting angry with you about the guns. You saved our lives.”
We dragged the bodies to a suitable spot off the beaten path and covered them with stones. We released their horses and placed their rifles and ammunition in the trunk of our car before starting our drive back to Rosh Pina.
As Shimon drove, we planned the last details of our operation. The refugees would be arriving in two nights. We’d go to the border crossing in the evening and generously share our beers with the British policemen, doctoring one man’s drinks with sleeping pills and the other’s with laxatives. Both would soon be out of commission, with no suspicion thrown our way, since each man would have different symptoms. The Arab guards would then be free to help us bring the refugees across the border. We decided to go back to the crossing the next day with more beer to nourish our blossoming friendship with the Brits.
At dinner that night, Shimon’s uncle recounted how the famous Jewish hero Joseph Trumpeldor had visited Rosh Pina when he’d first arrived in Israel in 1911 and how he had been killed in the nearby Tel Hai community in 1920. Several hundred armed Arabs had swarmed into the village and searched for French soldiers, who had occupied the area during World War I. Trumpeldor had been mortally wounded in the ensuing battle and died several hours later.
“In the final moments of his life,” Chaim continued with great pathos in his voice, “Trumpeldor said, ‘It’s good to die for our country’—words that will be forever etched into the history of the Jewish nation. Joseph Trumpeldor and many others sacrificed their lives without hesitation for our homeland, and I thank God there are some who are willing to do so today as well.”
I lifted my glass in a silent toast.
IN THE MORNING, WE FILLED our icebox with bottles of beer, placed it in the trunk of the car,
and drove back to the border. The two British policemen greeted us with cries of joy as we approached the checkpoint. I invited them to join me at the car, while Shimon stayed behind with the Arab guards to make the final arrangements for the refugees’ crossing.
Standing behind our car and leaning into the trunk, I opened the beers while they were still in the icebox. I wanted to establish this as a habit so that doing the same thing the next time would not arouse suspicion, and I’d have those private few moments to slip the powder from the laxatives and sleeping pills into two of the bottles.
After we’d each finished off a bottle, I handed each of them a second one. “We’re leaving the day after tomorrow,” I said, “but we’ll come by tomorrow evening to say goodbye—and bring some more beer, of course.”
“Thank you,” George said.
“I have a small request,” I added. “It’s silly, but could you let me walk a few dozen yards beyond the border crossing so I can tell my wife that I was in Lebanon?”
“No problem,” George said, and his friend nodded in agreement. I walked through the crossing and entered Lebanese territory with a single purpose—to find a vantage point where I could signal the refugees’ guide. After I’d found a good spot alongside a large rock that would be easily visible at night, I returned to the crossing, and we said farewell to the British policemen.
When we got back to Rosh Pina, I asked Shimon to go to the secretariat and call Zvi to make sure the refugees would arrive at the crossing by eight o’clock the next evening and also to let the guide know he should be on the lookout for our signal.
The next morning, I crushed the pills I’d bought into powder and pushed the two small heaps into separate paper bags, marking the laxative with a pen. We bid farewell to Shimon’s aunt and uncle, and Shimon made another call to Zvi to confirm that nothing had changed before we left.
When we arrived at the crossing, George was pleased to see us. “Our sergeant paid us a surprise visit yesterday, and he found the beers you gave us. He insisted on joining us for a drink today.”
“No problem, George,” I said. “We have enough beer for your sergeant too.”
The three Brits, excited at the thought of the cold beers waiting for them, walked with me to our car. I opened the bottles as I had done the day before and, blocking what I was doing, tapped the powders from the bags resting in the icebox into the drinks. George, the friendliest of the three, got the bottle with the sleeping pills, while his friend and the sergeant got the laxative. When they’d finished their beers, I gathered up the empty bottles and gave them each an untainted bottle, and we parted on friendly terms.
Meanwhile, Shimon spoke with the Arab guards and informed them that we’d be back in an hour and a half to get the people coming across the border.
When we returned to the crossing, we saw only the Arab guards. They told Shimon that shortly after we left, George started yawning and then fell asleep, while the sergeant and the other policeman were struck with severe diarrhea. They had called a nearby base, about six miles from the crossing, and a car had been sent to take them to a clinic.
At a quarter to eight, I crossed the border and found my spot at the large rock. At 7:55, I started signaling with my flashlight. About seven minutes later, I spotted a return signal deep inside Lebanese territory. I continued signaling for another forty minutes until I saw the line of people headed toward me, with a guide leading the way. I thanked the guide in English, and he turned to make his way back to Beirut.
Shimon stayed back to pay the Arab guards and then joined the group of immigrants to lead them on foot toward Kfar Giladi. My leg ached, so I got in the car and drove to the kibbutz, wondering what George would think when he finally woke up. When I arrived in Kfar Giladi, I went straight to Sonia’s house to tell her the operation had succeeded. She rewarded me with a good supper while I waited for the rest. Shimon showed up with the group about an hour and a half later.
They looked on the verge of collapse as we led them into the kibbutz dining room. I thought about the atrocities these men and women had endured in Europe and how they had been forced to suffer more hardship to reach their homeland. Once again, I felt anger and resentment toward the British.
I was making my way around the dining room, pushing a cart laden with pots of tea and coffee and plates of bread, butter, and olives, when I stopped dead in my tracks. Was I hallucinating? There in front of me were the big blue eyes of my beloved Leah. I blinked and looked again. The eyes were just like hers, but the face was her brother’s.
“Misha,” I said softly.
He blinked, and then his blue eyes registered who I was and widened in disbelief. “David?”
“Yes!” I hadn’t seen my old friend since our partisan group had disbanded. His shoulders were still impressively broad, but he was very thin. I hugged him warmly and introduced him to Shimon.
“This is Misha, a very brave warrior who fought alongside me as a partisan. Leah, his sister …” I swallowed hard. “… She was a big love of mine. Misha, if you like, I would be honored if you joined us on our drive back to Jerusalem.”
“That—that would be wonderful,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion.
I clasped my arm around his shoulder, even though the joy I felt was bittersweet. Misha was here, and that was good. But Leah was gone. Still, I was so grateful to have found him.
“Welcome home, old friend,” I said. “Welcome home.
20
“IN TOWNS AND VILLAGES SHALL WE RAISE OUR BANNER”
(FROM “UNKNOWN SOLDIERS,” A POEM BY AVRAHAM STERN, 1932)
Four empty trucks arrived at Kfar Giladi early the next morning to transfer the exhausted refugees to Rosh Pina. As someone who had escaped that accursed abattoir of Europe not too long ago, I hoped with all my heart that their Jewish brethren, born and raised in Israel, would have sympathy for the suffering they had endured. Much to my dismay, I had often encountered indifference to that suffering. Many of the native Jews weren’t particularly accepting of us newcomers, who often looked different and barely spoke Hebrew.
After all the new arrivals had been sent on their way, Shimon and I returned to his aunt and uncle’s house with Misha. Shimon now felt free to tell Bracha and Chaim what we’d been doing over the past few days.
“I wasn’t fooled for a minute by your bird-watching nonsense,” Chaim said after his nephew had explained. “I suspected it was a cover story for something, and I said so to Bracha. My suspicions were confirmed on your second day here when I spotted two beautiful western yellow wagtails flitting about in our garden, and the two of you didn’t even notice. But why didn’t you tell us? Don’t you trust us?”
The man looked stricken, and Misha and I exchanged glances as Shimon looked uncomfortable.
“Of course, Uncle,” he began, “but you see, that is, you have to understand—”
“We couldn’t place the two of you in that kind of danger,” I interrupted. “The whole thing could have blown up in our faces, and we wanted you to be able to honestly deny knowing anything, if the situation arose.”
“Humph,” Aunt Bracha puffed. “Well, I suppose we will forgive you this time,” she said sternly and then laughed. “Since you helped save over ninety of our people!” She hugged Shimon tightly, patting him on the back, while Chaim shook his head and smiled.
We left for Jerusalem the next morning, and Misha and I caught up on the way. “Do you still have any of the spoils from our operation against that bastard Nikolai?” I asked.
“Hardly anything, unfortunately,” Misha said. “The group of refugees I joined was robbed in the Taurus Mountains on our way to Lebanon.”
“Don’t worry,” I told him. “I’ll help you find a room in Jerusalem, and I’ll try to find you a job too.”
We spoke in Belarusian, of course, and I kept our conversation short so as not to offend Shimon, who didn’t understand a word. “Shimon,” I said in Hebrew, trying to include him in the conversation, “perhaps now y
ou’d be willing to tell me why you quit boxing?”
He kept driving for a few minutes, as if he hadn’t heard me, but then broke his silence. “All right, I’ll tell you. I used to be one of the best boxers in the north. No one could beat me—except for Yiftah Zaid, who never lost a fight. I was offered a job as a boxing coach at the YMCA, so I took it and moved to Jerusalem. That’s how I met Yousef. Shortly thereafter, I met Zvi.” He paused, as if gathering his thoughts, then went on.
“I was competing in the ring, and at one tournament, I went up against a well-known British boxer visiting from England. The fight between us was fierce, and we were both taking a beating. Throughout the fight, he was cursing me and making crude remarks about my mother and my sister. I ignored him, but at the start of the ninth round, he called me a filthy Jew. ‘Too bad the Nazis didn’t exterminate you along with the rest of your bloody race, but I’ll take care of you now,’ he said.” Shimon fell silent. Misha and I waited several minutes for him to continue. He didn’t.
“So—what happened?” I finally asked.
When he spoke again, his voice was flat. “I beat him so badly that he died before they could get him to the hospital. The British referee accused me of killing him intentionally, said I kept punching him after he had stopped the fight. The police promised to make my life a living hell unless I quit boxing. I told Zvi about it, and he said I should quit and devote my abilities to fighting with the Wolves.”
After Shimon’s speech, we all fell silent for a time, and then Misha and I began to talk about our days as partisans. Shimon seemed drained and didn’t say another word for the rest of the drive. We reached Jerusalem in the afternoon, and Shimon dropped me and Misha off outside my apartment. Before we left, I leaned in the car window.
“We all have our memories, my friend,” I said to Shimon. “Some are more easily lived with than others.”
He gave me what might have been a slight nod before driving away.
