Isaac's Beacon

by David L. Robbins

  Julius entered the shed. “I looked in the cart. Good haul.”

  Hugo lifted the freshly completed gun, all silver steel. “Finished.”

  The weapon was a copy of the British Sten submachine gun, made of unburnished metal, so illegal that the possession of it by a Jew meant a life sentence in a Mandate prison. Julius admired Hugo’s finishing touches, perfect seams of solder. He gave the Sten a shake, snapped it into firing position, then dropped it on the work bench. Nothing broke off.

  Julius hefted a few wooden boxes filled with wind vanes and his poor attempts at metal sculpture. The last crate had a false bottom; from it, he grabbed a 9mm magazine. He jammed it into the side slot of the submachinegun, a snug and proper fit.

  He swung the weapon left and right. The Sten could fire five hundred rounds a minute, with a killing distance of one hundred meters. At close range the gun was lethal, but too inaccurate and weak for longer-range combat. The Palmach guerillas found it ideal for their hit-and-run missions.

  The guns Julius fabricated usually went into a sack, then under a trap door in the flower-covered garden. This one he left on the table. Julius took a chair and leaned back on the hind legs. “You’re a quick study.”

  “I was an excellent plumber.”

  “If this tests, I’ll take it with me tomorrow night.”

  Julius possessed the hard façade of the sabra, like all things left in the sun. Beneath his toughness ran a streak of kindness and artistry. He desired most to create a Jewish nation, free of the British, at peace with the Arabs. He had the casual manner of someone living a double life, careful not to overperform his role as a trinket maker. Because Palestine was a land without mountains and forests, Palmach commandos like Julius had to hide in plain sight.

  Hugo took the Sten off the table and held it as if he meant to fire it. “I want to go.”

  “You waited one whole day before asking me that.”

  “I’m asking.”

  “It’s a bad idea.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re not a fighter. I plucked you out of the water two nights ago. You’ve got no training.”

  “You made me a promise.”

  “Not for that, I didn’t.”

  “On the beach. I told you I wanted to do what you do. You agreed.”

  “I had to get you off the beach, Hugo.”

  “Did you lie?”

  “You’re doing what I do. I’m teaching you to make guns.”

  “I didn’t come to Palestine to buy scrap from Arabs.” Hugo shook the cooled soldering iron at Julius. “Or to fix your mistakes.”

  “Hugo, listen. Before you got here, I could make two guns a week. With you, we can make four. Do you have any idea how important that is?”

  “I don’t want to weld, and I don’t want to collect trash.”

  “I’ll say it again. You’re not a fighter.”

  “Don’t tell me what I’m capable of. You have no fucking idea.”

  “The mission’s already planned.”

  “Do you have a driver?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he Palmach?”

  “He is.”

  “Then I’ll drive. That’ll free up one more fighter. Julius.”

  “What?”

  “I won’t say you owe me because you don’t. You saved me. But I want to do this.”

  Big Julius considered for long moments. Hugo prodded him. “Please ask.”

  “You can ask them yourself.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But if you go, you stay in the truck.” Julius grabbed the Sten. “And no gun.”

  Chapter 23

  Hugo

  Kibbutz Shefayim

  Eight Palmachniks sat around the lunch table with tea, pita, and hummus. Five were dark sabras like Julius; the other three had emigrated from Europe, lighter-skinned men, former Polish partisans.

  They complained that Hugo knew their faces now; all had been anonymous. Hugo had seen the anonymous before in piles. He told them not to be so proud, it wasn’t an accomplishment.

  Hugo stayed on his feet while they lobbed questions. What fighting experience did he have? What if he was in danger, could he kill? Could he follow orders?

  He told no lies and embellished nothing. Ten years older than Julius, he was the most senior at the table. He had no military training; he was just going to drive them to and from the target. No one survived the camps without taking orders. Yes, he could kill, and he left it at that.

  Julius said nothing on Hugo’s behalf, left him to testify for himself. Hugo reminded the Palmachniks of the penalties he had already faced from the police. He reminded them, too, that their mission was a reprisal raid against the Royal Navy for the interception of the Aliyah Bet ship Berl Katznelson just days ago. He’d been onboard that boat. He could be trusted, he knew how to drive, he had courage, and they should allow him to come on the raid.

  Hugo pulled out the last chair at the table and asked one of the commandos to pass the bread. He got the pita from one, the hummus from another. Alone, he broke the bread and dipped, then ate. Something ceremonial and unspoken turned his way. Hugo stayed at the table.

  Into the meal, the talk among the Palmachniks ran to previous operations. They bragged like immortals and let Hugo be their audience. These young men were living secret lives of danger and they alone knew each other’s exploits. Julius had not told Hugo of his missions. Hugo knew better than to ask.

  In October four of them were in on an assault at the Atlit internment camp. Two hundred refugees from Europe were liberated before the British could deport them. They told of cutting the wires, entering the camp in platoon strength while the guards slept. One policeman saw them, identified himself as a Jew, and walked on. In silence, the Palmachniks gathered the immigrants for their escape. One carried a refugee boy on his shoulders, a boy so frightened he pissed down the Palmachnik’s back.

  Three weeks ago, all were part of an assault across Palestine; in a single night, the Palmach sank three British patrol boats and bombed one hundred and fifty-three railroad bridges.

  Last week, Julius and seventy others derailed the Haifa-Jerusalem passenger train. They robbed it of £35,000 in railroad staff salaries, then spread buckets of pepper behind them to hide their scent from English bloodhounds.

  These operations seemed the work of an army. “How many of you are there?”

  Yakob, a sinewy redhead, said, “Two thousand. A hundred kibbutzim host twenty Palmach in each. They give us salaries and a place to live, we give them a security force.” Red Yakob motioned to himself and four others around the table. “We live here in Shefayim.”

  Hugo went outside the safe house with the Palmachniks to kick around a football. Hugo had spent years without play. He hadn’t noticed the lack of it until these young men cheered his few good kicks. Hugo began to laugh too hard at his nervous joy of the game; he felt manic and deficient and had to reel himself in. When he became overfull, Hugo raised his hands and walked away.

  He sat on the small lawn, admiring how these boys had elected to lay down their lives for each other. For five years, Hugo had known every day amongst whom and where he would die, and for what single reason. The idea that he might choose for himself how and why to expend his own life made him stand. The fighters noticed and stopped, as if Hugo meant to say something to them. He sat again quickly and let them play on.

  Chapter 24

  Hugo

  Sidna Ali

  Without headlamps, Hugo sped down the coast road. He’d driven the narrow road twice that afternoon, noting every bend. Just two days ago, Hugo had sprinted down this same pavement away from the captured Katznelson.

  In the last shreds of grey light he pulled the truck off the shoulder, into the brush and sand. Nine Palmachniks jumped out, each loaded with weapons, wire cutters, g
elignite sticks, detonators, and cord. One commando handed Hugo a Luger pistol, despite Julius’ order. Hugo left this on the seat of the cab while he leaned against the truck’s grill. He listened into the deepening darkness, beyond the No Trespassing sign on the fence where the Palmachniks had cut a hole.

  Hugo had overstated his bravery when he’d talked his way into the mission. Minutes after the Palmachniks filtered into the night, his teeth chattered. He walked circles around the truck.

  Hugo imagined them cutting more fences on their way into the coast guard station, creeping behind cover. Then he ran out of imagery, for he knew nothing about setting explosives.

  A bright orange flash and a deep crump through the trees startled him; the time for imagination was done, the raid was underway. Hugo climbed inside the truck and cranked the engine.

  He idled, lights off. Three more explosions clapped in succession. With each, Hugo tightened his grip on the wheel. Submachine gun fire crackled; the Palmachniks were battling their way back to him. Hugo revved the truck’s engine to let them know he was here and ready.

  Stens spurted on the other side of the fence; the Palmachniks were in a running battle. Hugo crouched in fear of stray bullets.

  The combat worsened, peaked, then became potshots. Hushed voices neared the hole in the fence. The first of the Palmachniks ducked through the cut links.

  Julius swung his silver Sten over his back to free his hands and help the next fighter through. Yakob had trouble making it out; he dragged his bloodied leg toward the truck. Hugo jumped down; together, he and Julius lifted Yakob over the gate onto the truck bed. The others flowed through the fence, panting and wordless, stinking of cordite. Julius said, “Drive.”

  Hugo leaped back into the cab; Julius took the passenger side. Hugo bolted away from the fence. With headlamps still off, he knocked over several saplings, bashed through the bushes, and careened onto the pavement. He trusted his memory of the road and gunned the engine. Julius found the Luger on the seat between them and stuffed it in his own belt.

  A quarter mile from the fence, Hugo pulled off to the shoulder. Three fighters leaped out to lay mines in the road. They climbed back in, pounded on the fender, and Hugo shot away. He left the headlights off for longer and drove so fast that Julius clung to the dashboard.

  Hugo barreled past fields of reeds and sawgrass, isolated houses, and trees nipped short by the seacoast winds. He flew past the kibbutz of Rishpon, then slowed and cut on the headlights. Shefayim came next, three miles from Sidna Ali. The drive took five minutes. Julius told him, “Good work.”

  Hugo found the safe house, a wood structure behind a storehouse for farm chemicals. He jumped out before Julius; Yakob was handed down to him. A tourniquet wrapped Yakob’s thigh.

  Everyone hurried inside. Hugo drove to another block, abandoned the truck and jogged to the safe house. The commandos were stripping out of their black clothing, stacking weapons, shedding their remaining ammunition. Red Yakob lay on the table sucking his teeth, a bullet hole above his right knee.

  Julius and Hugo grabbed up the weapons, nine Stens and several handguns, and carried them into the yard, to a trap door beneath a barrel; they stowed the guns in a shallow pit. Hugo returned to the house to gather up the clothes then tossed them into the hole. The Palmachniks changed into white shirts and khaki slacks. In the kitchen, Julius packed Yakob’s wound.

  The fighters sat around Yakob, who smoked, propped on an elbow. The assault had ended ten minutes ago; they’d all had a chance to calm down. Hugo was the only one breathing hard. He pulled up a chair.

  Julius finished wrapping Yakob’s leg. He left to bring back one of Shefayim’s doctors.

  The men said nothing about the mission, only encouragement to Yakob. They spoke in Hebrew, not German, Polish, or English that Hugo could follow. The Palmachniks put hands on each other briefly; their circle included Hugo.

  November 26

  Lying on the front seat of the truck, Hugo awoke to a cloudless dawn and a bullhorn.

  A passionless voice commanded the people of Shefayim to remain inside their homes. The police were going to conduct a search.

  Hugo leaped out, intensely awake. He slammed the truck door and walked away. Halfway to the safe house, he stopped; that was the last place he should go, nothing to do there but get caught. A growing crowd had begun to fill Shefayim’s lanes. Hugo joined the flow, headed for the schoolyard at the center.

  The people of the kibbutz didn’t consider obeying the voice. Four hundred young men and women, almost as strapping as the Palmachniks, streamed from their houses. Three hundred British police and soldiers awaited them. Tracking dogs strained at their leashes.

  A woman conferred in the open with representatives of the police. They explained their positions to each other; some decision was taken quickly. The woman turned away from the parlay to join the crowd in the schoolyard, all of them shouting for the British to go away. The policeman with the megaphone announced that they were going to search every building and screen every male resident. The nearby coast guard station had been bombed last night and the kibbutz of Shefayim was suspected of harboring the criminals. The people bellowed back, but the megaphone could not be drowned out.

  The kibbutz was a small place. The settlers here hadn’t spread out but packed themselves tightly together to leave all the land they could for crops and fruit trees. Shefayim was not difficult for the British to surround.

  On the outskirts, a thousand soldiers had taken up positions. They’d set up roadblocks and patrolled the citrus groves and lanes between the winter wheat fields. Armored trucks were stationed where Shefayim could see them.

  The first hour of the morning passed in a noisy stalemate. Word of the police action spread to neighboring settlements; hundreds of kibbutzniks in overalls, wool skirts, white shirts and ties, straw hats and yarmulkes hurried into Shefayim, trebling the number of Jews inside the kibbutz and swelling the tension. Fifty bearded orthodox in tallits and fedoras ran across a field out of nearby Beit Yehoshua. Two hundred Poles from Beit Yitzhak left their cars on the road to rush straight into a blockade; they swamped the soldiers there and broke through, then galloped into Shefayim shouting the name of their own kibbutz. Others sprinted through the orchards, ducking the guards.

  Once the sun climbed well clear of the rooftops and orchards, the cops formed a skirmish line of three hundred. Every hand held a truncheon. The Jews scrambled to face them; they seemed to materialize out of nowhere, from between the houses, out of the bushes; Jews seemed to drop from the trees. They carried axe handles, cricket bats, and other clubs. They formed a human barricade, barring the police from searching the homes of Shefayim.

  Outside the kibbutz, another thousand supporters tried to swarm the British perimeter but were held back by fixed bayonets and shots fired into the air.

  The police formed a fighting wedge, fifty men wide, six deep. The policeman with the loudspeaker issued one more demand for the settlers to disperse and go back to their homes, to respect the rule of law. The Jews shrieked their answers, shook fists, and rattled bats.

  The first rocks were thrown. The man with the loudspeaker said, “Right, then.”

  In unison, the first wave of police surged forward with trained brutality, scattering the first rank of a hundred kibbutzniks. The cops swung batons at heads and legs, battering the settlers aside or to the ground. They kept their formation, protecting each other’s flanks, disciplined and dealing force like professionals. These police were young men and mature toughs, some whippet thin, others beefy. A few were fresh-faced, perhaps taking part in their first violence. The old hands among them called encouragement.

  The second file of police entered the fray. They advanced abreast, calling again for the thousand settlers to go back to their homes or suffer the consequences.

  “Jews, get back,” they cried, tramping forward.

  Hugo
had room to escape. He could bolt for the orchards and hide or hole up in one of the storehouses or find some home to hunker in and tell lies when the family returned and the police came.

  The Britons thrashed anyone they could reach. They chopped through the crowd, especially focusing on those who challenged them with clubs or heaved bricks and rocks. On every side of Hugo, people fled. Many reeled past with bloodied ears or cradled arms. In the schoolyard, Hugo held his ground as forty police stomped directly at him. A pair of young farmers who’d been beside him bolted. Hugo stepped back, ready to run away, and the police closed in.

  That moment, Julius and his Palmachniks barreled into the British cops from behind. They tackled eight, grabbed their batons, gave them a good kick, then ran on for more, calling for the settlers to hold their ground. The Jews retreating around Hugo stopped to reconsider. Someone sent up a yell.

  After the havoc caused by Julius and his boys, the forty cops in the schoolyard lost their formation; some had lost their clubs. Clashes became one-on-one, Briton against Jew. Some settlers were carted or dragged off, bloodied and arrested. A short, robust cop focused on Hugo and advanced. He stopped five meters away and patted his truncheon into his palm. He wore a billed hat, knee socks, and a tan uniform, cheeks ruddy, looking for all the world like a bully on the playground.

  “Make your choice, boyo.”

  Hugo lowered his shoulder and charged. He rammed the policeman in the midriff and took a clout on the back for it. He slammed the cop backward to the ground, knocking off the man’s cap. Hugo jumped to his feet away from the kicking, cursing policeman and snatched the cap. Screwing it on his head, he ran to find Julius.

  The haverim firmed up and would not be moved. Hugo trotted alongside Julius and the Palmachniks. Each carried a baton; Hugo held one too but hadn’t swung it. He’d done his one courageous act and spent the rest of the melee taunting and avoiding getting smacked. Once the British withdrew to the outskirts of Shefayim, Hugo gave his baton to someone else. He set the hat on Julius’s head.