Out of the north, a British armored car slipped past the remains of the blockbuster. The vehicle picked through the convoy’s tangle and burnt hulks. Behind it came a column of trucks and half-tracks.
A Palmachnik on the roof stood up; no one had done that in thirty hours. Hugo and the other young fighters joined him to peer down on the gathering Arab host. They arrayed themselves side-by-side to let the Arabs see them up there, the small band of defenders. The boys lapped arms on each other’s shoulders, Hugo’s too. Below, in the ditch, the ones Hugo had fought alongside last night did the same, to have the Arabs approach them as if to a wall.
On the roof, the boys who’d manned the Spandau walked to their weapon and set to dismantling it. The rest beat their weapons with rocks, threw pieces down the chimney and off the roof. They mangled their guns joylessly. Hugo left them to it and went down to Vince.
On the first floor, a Haganah man smashed the radio against a wall. An officer strode out to meet the arriving British. Two nurses lifted the dead off stretchers and replaced them with wounded who could not walk. The rest of the injured, sixty in bloodied clothes, were helped to their feet.
Vince was ghastly pale, and his shoulder was a mess. Hugo put him on his feet. Vince buckled once but gathered his legs under him.
With Vince’s arm yoked across his shoulders, Hugo walked into the late day. Some color returned to Vince’s cheeks now that he was upright and moving. He staggered again when he saw the sea of Arabs surrounding the stone building.
Down the length of the abandoned convoy, Arabs scavenged the forty trucks. They pried at metal cladding, rolled away tires and wheels, yanked at motors for parts, and carried off windshields and seats. Two doctors, an Arab and a Briton, refused to let any of the attackers inside Nebi Daniel until all the wounded and dead were evacuated. Haganah fighters handed over those weapons they’d lacked the time to ruin.
British soldiers searched the defenders before putting them onto the waiting trucks. The wounded were helped on first. Vince moved with Hugo out of step; he seemed like he might crumple at every stride.
Arabs stepped between the line of wounded and the British trucks. They began their own search, patting the clothes of the departing Jews, men and women alike. They pulled back blankets on the stretchers. The Haganah protested to the British who did nothing.
One Arab stepped in front of Hugo and Vince. The man stood tall in a drab brown waistcoat. He held up an arm to stop Hugo and Vince. In English, he said, “We will search you.”
Hugo said, “He’s hurt.”
“That will not change. But you, my friend, are not.”
The Arab reached for Hugo. With his good hand, Vince slapped the Arab’s arm away.
Others closed in; a spark had been lit. Vince and Hugo were cut off from the wounded in line and the British soldiers. The Arab wrapped a fist around Hugo’s collar as if to pull him away. Vince would not let go of him.
The Arab doctor elbowed through the crowd, howling in Arabic at every villager in his way. The British doctor stayed on his coattails, straining his own voice. The mob let them through, but before they could reach Hugo and Vince, the tall Arab fighter whispered to Hugo.
“Where is your mother, Jew?”
The doctors tried to peel the Arab’s hand away. Hugo didn’t want to be let go, not yet.
He said, “She’s dead.” Hugo gripped the Arab’s lapel in return and tugged him so close he spoke up into the Arab’s beard. “But I, my friend, am not.”
Hugo let the Arab loose him with a small shove, then helped Vince into the truck.
The defenders of Nebi Daniel rode away. The British convoy rolled through Bethlehem, then sped for Jerusalem. Hugo held Vince’s good hand until the column stopped at a hospital, and Vince was taken away by medics.
Chapter 100
Rivkah
April 4
Massuot Yitzhak
At sunup, a sharav wind blew out of the east, carrying heat and sand from the Sahara.
The wind whipped across Gush Etzion. The temperature soared; inside her house Rivkah perspired while hot sand rattled the windows. The air turned yellow and the sun, robbed of its gold, became white, a daytime moon.
The sandstorm raged until noon. When it passed, a layer of grit covered everything. Settlers took brooms to the street and walkways. Guards who never left their posts stood still for a good sweeping. The flowers of Massuot Yitzhak, the first of spring, shrank from the dust and the spiking heat. In the orchards, the fruit blossoms were not so brittle and drank up the warmth. Orchard workers had predicted a bumper crop that would ease the supply problems of the bloc. Rivkah went with them to brush the leaves clean.
The men working alongside her asked Rivkah to go easy, find some shade; they pointed at her belly, all knew she was pregnant. She answered that if one of them was pregnant, he would be in the shade.
That evening, Rivkah couldn’t sleep. She’d had Vince in her bed long enough to conjure him at night: his feet hung off the end of the mattress, and when on his side he tucked a hand under his cheek. For a skinny man he cast off a lot of warmth. Rivkah awoke confused and reached an arm to the sheet next to her. She found him gone, only the heat there.
Rivkah lay a long time wondering if she were awake with him in Jerusalem. Was he there in pain, or spreading his fingers on the empty side of his own bed? She felt selfish to have Vince keep her company. Let him sleep and heal. She sat up to break the link. Rivkah lit a candle on her bedside table to read again the radioed message from Hugo that Yakob had brought that afternoon: Vince wounded, will live. Emile dead. She took the candle with her out to the porch.
Night in Massuot Yitzhak had no peace left. Lights glimmered on perimeter fences, the generators ran, and the mine makers toiled in the barn. Haganah and settlers walked patrol or manned guns behind sandbags. The stars did little to hide or soothe any of this.
Mrs. Pappel shuffled out to keep her company. “It’s too hot for tea.”
“I’ve never heard you say that.”
“I suppose I’m not in the mood.”
“Why can’t you sleep?”
“The same as you.”
Mrs. Pappel took stock of the early morning. Settlers and soldiers guarded every corner, lights shimmered in the valley and on each slope. All of Massuot Yitzhak slumbered with one eye open and a weapon at hand. Even Jerusalem’s glow to the north was turned down like a lantern.
Mrs. Pappel said, “My father’s brother was a rabbi. He came every Sunday for dinner. Before the meal, my mother would ask him for a prayer. Every Sunday, he recited Psalm 144.”
She recited from memory, “‘Blessed be the Lord my strength, which teaches my hands to war and my fingers to fight and subdues peoples under me. Part your heavens, Lord, and come down. Touch the mountains so that they smoke.’ After dinner, my mother would ask him if maybe he could recite something more pleasant next time. But this was the one my uncle chose, every Sunday. He made sure my brothers and I heard. In Vienna, fifty years ago. This war was being fought at our dinner table.”
Mrs. Pappel sighed and fell into reverie. Rivkah asked her nothing more; memory was a luxury and each of them could decide for themselves how much of it to share.
The swelter did not break. The bombmakers welded in their shop, and the lights glowed on the perimeter.
Chapter 101
Hugo
April 7
YMCA hotel
Jerusalem
Hugo skipped down the stairwell from his sixth-floor room. His thighs did not hurt. He had little hunger first thing in the morning, a rare gift from the camps, a facileness with starving.
He nodded to the desk clerk and a maid; neither looked comfortable with his genial mood. Their own hunger must have soured them, or perhaps they were aware that Hugo never paid for his lodgings or his meals. Pay with what? They knew who he had been: I
rgun.
Hugo stepped out into the sunshine, then under the umbrellas of the patio. Because of the Arab blockade, the waiters had few patrons and only eggs and flatbread to serve. They smiled back at Hugo, less annoyed than the other staff because the waiters snuck bites and stole coffee.
Across Julian’s Way, the King David Hotel stood sun-drenched and stolid. The building was renewed but empty. The British had gone and no tourists came to Palestine. The hotel would be grand again, but not today.
Pinchus waited at Hugo’s table. Crossing the patio, overly pleased, Hugo waved. Pinchus did not.
Hugo sat across from him. “Thank you for coming.”
“Hello, Kharda.”
“I’d prefer it if we could leave Kharda behind.”
“If you wish. Hugo.”
Hugo motioned at the tabletop without even a glass of water on it. “Did you just get here?”
“I waited a bit.”
“I’ve waited my share for you.”
Pinchus broke a small grin. “That’s fair.”
“Did you send my message to Massuot Yitzhak?”
“I did. I was concerned to see Vince Haas has been hurt. Badly?”
“A bullet in the shoulder. He’ll be in hospital a while. Then a sling.”
“And this Emile?”
“A fighter. A good one.”
“Was Nebi Daniel awful?”
“Not the worst.”
Pinchus pushed up his thick glasses. Had he asked what the worst was, Hugo would have said death row, waiting for you.
Pinchus steepled his fingers. “What have you been up to?”
“I’ve been here a week. Mornings I sit on the patio, signaling for you. I nibble at what the staff can spare, stare at the King David, and am reminded that I am a pauper. I take my afternoons with Vince at the hospital. How have you been?”
“I’m sorry to no longer call you Kharda. It suits you better.”
The waiter arrived with unasked-for coffee. He would return with eggs and pita, the only meal he could bring.
Hugo said to Pinchus, “Please pay my bill here.”
“Of course. What else do you want from me?”
“I want to come back to the Irgun.”
The little church made by Pinchus’s fingers opened and closed.
“Why would you want that?”
Before Hugo could respond, Pinchus pointed across the street to the King David.
“We knocked that building down. Plumbers were needed to replace it. Do you know how much money they made? You knocked down Goldschmidt House. The Arabs blew up Ben Yehuda Street. There’s a war coming, Hugo. A thousand buildings are going to be wrecked all over Palestine. Why would you want to be one of the destroyers if you could be one of the builders?”
“This is one of your trick questions.”
“It’s not.” Pinchus admired the King David. “Do you think I don’t wish sometimes for a different trade? Can you believe I often envy you? Your choices? Walk away, Hugo.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I thought for a moment that I was finished. But the Arabs haven’t stopped trying to kill me or my friends.”
“I understand you better and better, Hugo.”
A waiter approached with two plates. Pinchus raised a palm to back him away.
He said to Hugo, “Personally, I should like a path other than violence.”
Hugo waved the waiter onward, contradicting Pinchus. “And I should like a breakfast other than eggs and bread.” The waiter set down the plates, then withdrew. Hugo took up a knife and fork. “Until then, I’ll eat what’s in front of me.”
Hugo dug in before Pinchus touched his cutlery. The first taste of bread sopped in yolk reminded him that he’d been in a good mood. With the tip of his knife, he indicated the meal in front of Pinchus and said, as if he were the host, “Go ahead.”
Pinchus’s better humor returned, too. He picked up the utensils. “I suppose you do not wish to be a driver.”
“I do not.”
“One of our fighters, then.”
Hugo spread his hands to present himself for the job, at last.
A mile to the east, on the Mount of Olives, an Arab artillery piece boomed. The shell landed somewhere in the Jewish Quarter. The explosion echoed off the King David.
Pinchus cut into his eggs. “As it turns out, your timing is excellent. We are at war now.”
“No one’s calling it that.”
“Ah, but it is. It’s the war for the road to Jerusalem. The blockade has brought the city almost to collapse. Empty shelves in grocery stores, hoarding and black marketeers. Food riots. The Arabs cut the water pipeline. Jerusalem is very hungry. I’m enjoying these eggs.”
“How about the convoys? Why can’t the Haganah keep the city supplied?”
Pinchus shook his fork at Hugo, as if Hugo were responsible.
“That debacle at Nebi Daniel. The Haganah lost fifty trucks. That’s more than half of what they had. The Arabs hold all the high ground along the road to Tel Aviv. We’ve lost a hundred fighters defending those convoys. The Arabs have desecrated many of the bodies.” Pinchus set down his knife and fork. “This is a terrible thing.”
He left a few mouthfuls on the plate as though he felt it unfair that he should be full in Jerusalem. Pinchus paused to consider the remaining egg and bread, then finished. Had he not, Hugo would have reached for them.
Pinchus sat back, hands laced. The man could not look satisfied.
“The columns into Jerusalem can no longer be protected. The loss of life and materiel is unsustainable.”
Pinchus peered over the edge of his coffee cup, into the dregs. He drank the last, then set down the cup with a ring of the saucer. A bird sang in a springtime tree, and for a moment, with the King David shining across the street, Hugo could imagine, if he could not recall, peace.
Pinchus continued, “The Haganah is going to secure a corridor from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem.”
“That’s forty miles. Ten thousand Arabs.”
“Twenty thousand.”
“Impossible.”
“Yes.”
“Can they do it?”
“The Haganah is committing fifteen hundred fighters, three times bigger than any force they’ve ever assembled. All other operations have been cancelled to free up the weapons and soldiers. They’re calling it Operation Nachshon.”
“How’s the Haganah going to open up the road?”
“By pacifying every village that operates against the convoys.”
“You mean eliminate.”
“In some cases. Those villages which agree not to attack our convoys will be spared.”
“If they keep their word.”
“Of course.”
“If they don’t?”
“The Haganah will not distinguish between individuals and locations. If one bullet comes from an Arab village, they will not go looking for the shooter. The entire village will be held responsible.”
“That sounds harsh.”
“It is calculated to be so. There is an added advantage to Nachshon.”
“Most of the area along the road has been set aside by the UN for an Arab state.”
“Very good, Hugo.”
“This is conquest.”
Pinchus spread his hands, the way Malik might have done to reveal the knives in his sleeves.
“That has always been the intention. Nachshon is simply part of a wider campaign, to expel as many Arabs as possible from what will become the new Jewish state.”
Pinchus showed his teeth, the gap in the middle, one of the many places something was missing in the man.
Hugo asked, “Won’t the British stop it?”
“Two-thirds of their army has already left. More sail to Engla
nd every day. They won’t interfere.”
“When does the operation start?”
“Yesterday.”
Twenty feet away, the waiter held his ground with the bill in hand. Hugo beckoned the man to come. The waiter laid the bill on the table. Pinchus asked, “Is there more coffee?”
“I’m afraid not, sir.”
The waiter’s deference indicated he knew who he was speaking to. He almost bowed as he retreated. Still, there was no more coffee. Hugo slid the check to Pinchus.
“Where does the Irgun fit into this?”
“We don’t, really. So, we are seeing that we do.” Pinchus extended a hand, as though giving Hugo something.
“Tell me.”
“We are going to win this war. Once it’s done, it cannot be allowed that the Jewish Agency and their Haganah are viewed as the lone saviors of Jewish Palestine. Not after what the Irgun has done. Not after what we have suffered.”
“What did you do?”
“We have demanded a piece of Nachshon.”
“Where?”
“The opening of the operation has gone very well. Just outside Jerusalem, the village of al-Qastal fell quietly on the first night of Nachshon, with no Haganah casualties. The next day, the Haganah silenced two more villages, Khulda and Deir Muheizin. But the Arabs are attempting to re-take al-Qastal. The Haganah has asked us to reinforce their unit there. We have, of course, refused. Al-Qastal is their victory, not ours. Let them hold it. The Haganah has offered us other targets, villages off from the highway, less pivotal. These, too, were turned down. We have our eye on a village of our own.”
“Which one?”
“The last hilltop before Jerusalem. Seven hundred Arabs live there, mostly stone cutters. The mukhtars have signed a pact to stay neutral. But in the last few days, Iraqi irregulars have moved in. They’ve fired at traffic and taken part in the fighting for al-Qastal. We have informed the Haganah this is our target. They have agreed. We’ll join forces with the Lehi for the assault.”
Isaac's Beacon Page 36
