Isaac's Beacon

by David L. Robbins

  Mr. Pinchus pulled off his leather gloves. During their walk, Rivkah had not seen his hands. They were not slender like a scholar’s, nor thick as a farmer’s, but Mr. Pinchus’s large knuckles had known some sort of struggle.

  “Gush Etzion is ten miles south of Jerusalem, in the hills of Judea. These hills are where the Maccabees fought. You came to Palestine not to be fighters but farmers. That is what you were promised. I’ve come to tell you that until there is a Jewish nation, you must be one hundred percent farmers and one hundred percent soldiers. I understand. It is not fair.”

  Pinchus lay a hand on the shoulder of a young woman.

  “I’m the lucky one, you see. I have only to be a soldier.”

  He touched the next in the row, brave Ben Joseph, who seemed to want to jump up. Pinchus laid his hand on several, even Mrs. Pappel, until he slipped on the gloves and clapped again.

  Pinchus took on a different energy, a martial bearing, marching back and forth. He became the soldier.

  “This is your land. Your promised land. Everything is yours. The British cannot wipe away your history in this place. Because your roots are deep here, the Arabs cannot pull them up. The wind, the work, the hills, all of it is yours. I came to warm your hearts. I came to recruit you. But your buildings and trees tell me you lack nothing for spirit. You need only help. So, I will tell you the one thing you must take with you tonight, and into every day and night until a Jewish flag flies over Massuot Yitzhak. You must be armed. You must be trained.”

  Pinchus pointed outside the stone walls where the wind howled. “The fight will come to you. Not tomorrow, but soon enough. I know this because I am going to force it. I am going to bring it to you. And I am sorry.”

  Mr. Pinchus seemed to have upset himself. Sweeping aside the sheet nailed over the door, he left the incomplete, cold hall.

  At dusk in their winter coats, Mr. Pinchus sat on the porch with Rivkah and Mrs. Pappel. Jerusalem’s glow on the horizon blotted out the lowest stars. The day’s light passed on calmly and the sky began to sparkle. Mr. Pinchus handed Rivkah his empty teacup and stood. He thanked her for the hospitality. Rather than take his leave, Pinchus said to Rivkah, “I am told you are trustworthy. Is this true?”

  “I try to be.”

  “Then will you walk with me one more time? A short distance.”

  Pinchus led them off the porch. He linked arms with Rivkah without asking and walked without explaining himself. The three of them took the quarry path down the long hill; passing the saplings, Pinchus said this would become a great orchard and, in time, he should like to come back to rest under the trees and eat their fruit.

  When they reached the bottom of the slope, night had fallen. Pinchus led them off the path to a depression in the rocky terrain. Here, the spring emerged in a small, chuckling pool. Pinchus removed a glove and knelt to sip from his cupped palm, then stayed on his knees to gaze into the dark valley. Not a soul was visible, just the glows of Massuot Yitzhak and the Arab villages on their own hillcrests.

  “Rivkah, I know you are from Vienna. I pray your family is alive.”

  He continued without facing her, speaking over the gurgle of the spring.

  “Palestine can give new life. It cannot restore the old. Everything here, every breath, bone and rock, is meant for tomorrow, not yesterday. I wish it were different.”

  “So do I.”

  “Please don’t make the mistake of thinking Palestine is for you. It’s not. It’s for the millions right now who have nowhere else they can live as Jews. For those millions who will come and those who will be born here. We are simply the first, you and me, the planters and politicians and soldiers. We’re building Palestine to give it, not to keep it for ourselves.”

  Pinchus rose from his crouch.

  “Do you understand me? Be honest.”

  “The young people of the kibbutz. Can you know what they’ve been through?”

  “No. And I won’t ask them.”

  “They didn’t volunteer for your war. I didn’t either. You brought it with you. I think it goes wherever you go.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “You do this without permission. You’re no different than the British.”

  Behind his glasses, Mr. Pinchus’ eyes crinkled. Perhaps he’d not thought of this. It seemed to sadden him.

  “Perhaps.” Gently, he took Rivkah by the wrist. “As you say, I won’t ask your permission.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t believe any Jew has the right to withhold it.”

  Pinchus didn’t release her; she did not tug away.

  “I want you to trust me, Rivkah. In return, I will trust you. I have for you a gift. A secret.”

  Whoever Pinchus was, he was held together by secrets. For him to pluck one out and hand it over must have been precious.

  “I know who sank the Patria.”

  “Who?”

  “We did. The Jews.”

  Rivkah stepped back, almost stumbling. She fought to keep her hands off Pinchus. Mrs. Pappel didn’t react. She already knew.

  “Why? Why on earth?”

  “It was an accident. A Haganah operation. The bomb was meant to disable the ship, to stall until a way could be found to keep everyone in Palestine.”

  “Two hundred people drowned.”

  “The Patria was an old ship. The charge was set too near a worn-out pressure plate. Our sappers miscalculated the proper amount of explosives. A hole was blown below the waterline.”

  Rivkah swiped at a tear. “You’ll say this was war.”

  “Yes.”

  “And these were casualties.”

  “Yes.”

  “And because of it, twelve hundred of us got to stay in Palestine. Were you satisfied with the trade, Mr. Pinchus?”

  “Yes.”

  Mrs. Pappel reached for her, but Rivkah pulled away.

  From his overcoat, Pinchus produced a small flashlight. Facing the open night, he blinked the torch once, twice.

  “I prefer your world, Rivkah. I want to live in it. When we are done with mine, I wish to be your neighbor there.”

  Out in the parched, cloaked valley, surprisingly close, a camel fussed.

  The beast padded across strewn rocks toward the sounds of the spring. As it came, Mr. Pinchus retreated.

  “He and I will not meet. You will not discuss or describe me to him. Understood?”

  Mrs. Pappel said her first words since the porch. “Good night. Be careful.”

  With a sweep of his coattails, Pinchus was gone up the hill.

  The camel brayed as it crossed the plain with dragging steps. The rider and his mount materialized spookily.

  The camel ambled close enough to smell. The caped Arab in the saddle was the same who’d entered Massuot Yitzhak two months ago on the camp’s first evening and fired his rifle into the night.

  Mrs. Pappel raised a hand to the stars. “As-salāmu ʿalayka.”

  The camel took one more laden stride before the Arab tapped its neck with a stick. The beast folded to lay its belly down.

  The Arab’s saddle was a confusion of blankets, ropes, woven bags, pommel horns, and a rifle holster. His ebony cape flowed down the camel’s flanks. A pistol stuck out of his cloth belt, and a curved knife and scabbard hung about his neck.

  He swung his boots to the ground, then bowed from the waist. “Wa ʿalaykuna al-salām.”

  Mrs. Pappel returned the bow, prodding Rivkah to do the same.

  The bearded Arab laughed, a deeper burble than the stream. He stood a head taller than Rivkah and Mrs. Pappel. His cape made him appear very broad. The guns and knife, the way his peevish camel obeyed his hand, spoke of how this big man moved through the world.

  “This,” he said in English. The Arab walked toward Rivkah and Mrs. Pappel, pointing to the eart
h. “This used to belong to God. For thousands of years.”

  Rivkah had to step aside to let the Arab stride past. She came no higher than his shoulder. His robe kicked up behind him. He moved with the smells of sand and salt, and like the moon if the moon had a smell, musty and ancient. The Arab gazed down on the little stream.

  “I am told it belongs to you these days.”

  His fists came off his hips; the robes deflated a little to make him more man-sized.

  Mrs. Pappel said, “Your English is excellent.”

  He dipped his brow. “One picks things up.”

  “I’m…”

  “I know who you are. You are the teacher. I asked for you. I am glad you have been delivered.”

  Mrs. Pappel tapped fingertips over her chest, trying not to be ruffled. “Before we determine what has or has not been delivered, this is my friend Rivkah.”

  The Arab pushed his right palm to his forehead, then to his heart. Again, he bowed slightly. “Marhaba, Rivkah.”

  Mrs. Pappel asked, “And you are?”

  The Arab spread his hands. “I am Malik Mahmoud Akbar al Saneá. Of the Tarabin.”

  “What shall we call you?”

  “Malik. But you must not call me late for a meal.”

  The Arab laughed, hands clapped over his belly as if part of him might spill. He chortled alone and was slow to give it up.

  “Ah. I have known others who thought this funny.”

  “Likely they were British.”

  “Yes. They are a funnier people than you.”

  “What? Wait.” Mrs. Pappel whirled on Rivkah for support, who wagged her head to leave the Arab’s odd remark alone. Mrs. Pappel spun on him.

  “Why would you try to tell a joke at a moment like this? We’ve barely met you.”

  “To put you at ease.”

  “I don’t need you to put me at ease, thank you. The thought of it.”

  Rivkah inserted herself with a hand dividing them. “Keep your voices down.”

  With Rivkah between them, Mrs. Pappel drew a deep breath and the big Arab shrugged, causing his cape to shiver down his length.

  Malik flattened a palm at his throat above his curved knife. “If I have given offense, I apologize.”

  Mrs. Pappel mirrored the gesture. “As do I.”

  Undisguised, Malik gave Mrs. Pappel a look of appraisal, as if she were a boulder, one of the things in the world which would not move out of his way.

  Mrs. Pappel asked, “You’ve been hired to bring us guns, yes?”

  “Yes. I will bring them one or two at a time.”

  “Where will you get them?”

  “The last two wars have come through Palestine. Germans, Turks, they left behind many weapons. Also, the British have a hundred thousand troops here. Mostly young men, and young men can be careless. Sometimes their weapons fall into the hands of traders.”

  “You steal guns?”

  “Of course. There is no better way to make a profit.”

  Rivkah asked, “You rode into our camp and shot into the air. Why?”

  “If not me, someone else. Someone who might not have fired straight up.”

  “How do we know you can be trusted?”

  “It matters not. I am being paid regardless.”

  Mrs. Pappel stepped forward to take control of the exchange. “Why are you doing this? Bringing guns to Jews is dangerous for an Arab.”

  Malik hoisted an arm to the south, making a black curtain of his cape. He pointed to the sallow glow on the horizon, Hebron ten miles away, the same distance as Jerusalem to the north, half as bright.

  “In the time of your book, Abraham settled in Hebron. Your David was made a king out of Hebron. For thousands of years, Arabs and Jews have lived together. In my lifetime, as a child, I recall the Jews in Palestine. My mother got good cloth and my father healthy goats. I gave the Jews coins in the market for halvah. You were good merchants.”

  Malik turned his attention to the little stream.

  “Then you began to grow in number. You bought some lands, took others that appeared empty to your eyes. You built a village here, a settlement there, planted a tree and a field of grass. Now you claim a spring that Abraham drank from.”

  Malik shook a finger at Mrs. Pappel.

  “Surely something can be worked out. Masha’Allah, there is enough for us all.”

  “If you accuse us of taking your lands, why do you give us guns?”

  “I am not one who believes there must be war. Perhaps if you have enough of your own rifles, you will not have to use them. Then our peoples may talk.”

  Malik aimed his bearded chin at the top of the hill, at dim little Massuot Yitzhak.

  “Listen to me. If the Jew stays up there.” He flung his old face at the dark valley. “If the Arab stays there. We will know nothing of each other. I believe it is our destiny to live together, even if that seems the most unreasonable thing. We are all sons of Abraham.”

  Malik pressed both hands to his waist beneath his curved knife and made another shallow bow. “I know I am an unlikely bridge. But where there is nothing, any crossing may suffice.”

  The big Arab regarded Mrs. Pappel as a curiosity, then extended a ring-bedecked hand.

  “We have a saying. My brother and I against my cousin. My cousin and I against my friend. My friend and I against the stranger.”

  Mrs. Pappel took the Arab’s hand. “Then we must not be strangers.”

  “That is my hope.”

  “Why did you request me?”

  “You are the teacher for this settlement.”

  “I am.”

  “I require a reason to come here. I cannot, as you say, merely explain that I am bringing you guns. I am a poet. I cannot write. You will put my poems on paper for me. In English.”

  “What do you want me to do with them?”

  “I will claim to sell them in the bazaar. Privately, I wish you to give them to your Jews. It may help them believe the Arab is not a barbarian.”

  Malik presented himself as he had when he stepped off his camel, arms spread, holding his cape out from his sides. He made himself vast, performing some grand version of himself.

  “I am known in the Tarabin for my poems. I will not be questioned if this is why I come here.” He said to Rivkah, “You. Go to my camel. Bring my rifle.”

  Before Rivkah could tell him no, Mrs. Pappel gestured for her to comply.

  Malik’s camel followed her approach with a scornful cool. Rivkah slid the long rifle from the holster. Returning, she held it out to the Arab. He took it, then presented it back to Rivkah.

  “You may not trust me, but you may trust this. I have many times, and here I am to tell of it.”

  Rivkah accepted the rifle as a weapon for the kibbutz. She strapped it across her back. Malik liked this.

  “I will return in four days. I will not have guns, only poems.” Malik covered his heart. “Maʿal-salāmah. With peace. Good night.”

  His raven robe swished around him. With an adept flourish, Malik swept across the saddle and the camel rose with a herky-jerky grace. Mrs. Pappel and Rivkah stayed in place by the whispering stream, until the camel’s slapping soles faded into the night.

  Chapter 22

  Hugo

  November 25

  Zarnuqa

  Hugo raised a hand for order, but the Arab lads kept shouting and jostling. “Ya, kharda,” they pleaded as if it were his name. “Kharda!”

  He chose a stocky lad. The others kicked the dirt before turning away.

  Hugo paid the husky boy an advance of a hundred Palestinian mil, with the second hundred to come at the end of the job. The lad stepped between the traces of Hugo’s cart, lifted, and followed Hugo into the village.

  “Kharda,” Hugo called the Arabic word for scrap metal
into the crisp morning, to the tight-packed houses. “Kharda!”

  The two thousand Arabs of Zarnuqa were beginning their day. Workers strode off to the citrus groves, women in hijab veils balanced clay pots on their heads and averted their eyes. Hard, dark men dug troughs in the bleached ground for foundations, and lean boys ferried water from the well in buckets hung on shouldered yokes. Hugo, the boy, and the cart shared the lane with school children in bandanas and riders on donkeys.

  Women swept straw brooms over the approaches to their small homes, an endless task on a dirt road. At Hugo’s shout of “kharda,” a woman beckoned him. She disappeared inside, then bustled out holding a dented brass teapot. Hugo gave her two ten-mil coins, then another five mil when she looked at him imploringly. She thanked him and called him “Kharda.” His assistant tossed the kettle into the cart and tugged on.

  Within two hours, Hugo and the boy had collected fifteen kilograms of scrap: an old bicycle frame, household items, broken knives, dulled drill bits, empty food tins, an antique pistol. The boy slogged and sweated behind Hugo, complaining in Arabic. For the morning’s lot, Hugo doled out three Palestinian pounds to the villagers. He’d collected enough scrap to make two guns.

  Rehovot

  Hugo slid the soldering iron into the forge and churned the hand crank to fan the embers to a lava-like glow. Once the tip of the rod turned crimson, he laid down a bead of molten tin and lead in the seam between the tubular steel stock and the breech block. Hugo flipped the rifle over to finish the joint.

  He worked quickly before the iron cooled, to solder in place the trigger guard, the final touch.

  Hugo slid open a window; the shed heated by the afternoon and the furnace. Julius strode from his house, down the garden path through spindly red anemones and yellow marigolds, purple clover and dense blue lupine. Big Julius fabricated wind vanes and chimes for the gift shops in Rehovot and the Arabs in nearby Ramla and Zarnuqa. Twice this year, the police had raided the metalworking shed behind his house; each time they found nothing but a forge, anvil, tongs and hammer, sheet metal, and cartons of handmade knick-knacks for sale.