Isaac's Beacon

by David L. Robbins

  The morning shined under a Mediterranean sky. Hugo honked at a bicyclist for no reason other than to scare him, then waved jovially. The trip to the Jewish Agency took under a minute. A sabra woman with black ringlets of hair, Sten at her waist, waved them into the convoy.

  The sidewalks teemed with dignitaries loading into armored vehicles and heavy sedans. Wizened men and women who’d brought Jewish Palestine to this day paused to kiss each other’s grey cheeks to say well done, we have made a new world, or goodbye, should the convoy be attacked. Their entourages herded them to the vehicles.

  The beat-up Škoda seemed an interloper in the convoy. Hugo hung an arm out the window to pat the side of his little car, to say it belonged.

  Vince said, “I spoke with Rivkah.”

  Hugo raised a finger between them. “Before you say anything more, let me speak. I’m going to stay in Tel Aviv after we get there. I’m going to go talk to an old Czech who will give me a flat in exchange for work. I’ll do his plumbing, and when I’m done, I’ll sit on my veranda and listen for the sea. And I’m going to keep Pinchus’s car.”

  Hugo faced Vince fully. Like the old Jews on the sidewalk kissing each other, his manner was farewell.

  “Before you tell me how heartbroken you are that Rivkah is staying in Massuot Yitzhak, listen to me. Gush Etzion has saved Jerusalem. They’ve blocked the Hebron Road, and that bought the Haganah enough time to take the rest of the city. If not for them, Jerusalem would not be Jewish anymore. The farmers and soldiers, you and me, Rivkah, Missus Pappel, Yakob, every one of us bought that time. One day, I will say to your child that he was a Jewish hero before he was born.”

  “Rivkah says it’s a girl.”

  “So much the better.” Hugo pressed his palms together. “I have one more thing, my friend.”

  “Sure.”

  “Don’t tell me who’s hurt. Who’s dead. I ask God to let me be a plumber. That’s all.”

  Vince patted Hugo’s narrow shoulder. Laying a hand on him brought back memories. Vince opened the passenger door and stepped into the street. He circled the Škoda’s grill to the driver’s side.

  “Get out. Let me drive you.”

  Chapter 114

  Rivkah

  Massuot Yitzhak

  Mrs. Pappel hopped to each bedside to kiss the five fighters. They called for her to get moving. On Gabbi’s arm, Mrs. Pappel left the room. Passing through the door, Rivkah thanked the boys for letting her be the one to fly out of Gush Etzion.

  The stonemason’s cart waited. Zipp was the last animal left in Massuot Yitzhak, a warrior herself. She’d helped build the strongpoints, collected the wounded and dead, and carried bodies to Abu Rish at a stately pace. Rivkah took the old mule by the reins to head down to the airstrip.

  Gabbi rode in the cart with Mrs. Pappel. In the valley, the pilot let his engine idle while the supplies were unloaded, to be sure his Auster could take off quickly.

  The morning sky seemed as deep blue as a vein; Rivkah was glad to send Mrs. Pappel off into it. Rivkah tucked her into the passenger seat of the rattling plane and leaned in to hug her goodbye. Mrs. Pappel slid off Malik’s silver ring and put it on Rivkah’s index finger. She clutched Rivkah’s hands as if to blend them into her own. The pilot waited no more and leaned across to close the door.

  Chapter 115

  Hugo

  Tel Aviv Road

  The long convoy rushed out of Jerusalem, down through the gorge between looming limestone cliffs. The long column passed beneath the ruins of Deir Yassin without slowing and, like that, with speed, Deir Yassin was behind Hugo.

  The wind rushed in through the Škoda’s open windows. The convoy approached Latrun where the gorge ended, opening up the first view of the sea twenty miles west.

  Hugo said, “Thank you for driving.”

  “The least I could do.”

  “We’ve reached that point, you and me. There’s not much more we can do for each other.”

  “Maybe so.” Vince pointed far ahead, to the water. “You’re lucky.”

  “Am I? What do I have?”

  “Whatever you want. And this great car. Think Pinchus will ever come for it?”

  “I hope so. I’d like to see him again.”

  Soon, the column slowed on the outskirts of Tel Aviv. The salt breeze smelled stronger here. People on the sidewalks clapped for the soldiers and important people of the convoy. Traffic pulled over to let them go past to the northern edge of the city.

  One by one, the armored trucks and sedans stopped before the Jewish National Fund building, an impressive structure set off by palm trees and manicured grounds.

  In his turn, Vince pulled the Škoda to the curb. He got out to retrieve his duffel from the back. Hugo slid behind the wheel. Vince laid an elbow in the windowsill.

  “I can get you a press pass. Stay a few days. Watch your nation be born.”

  Hugo gestured at the sunny building and notables filing inside.

  “I’ve seen this nation born. This is just the birth certificate.”

  Vince set down his bag to shake Hugo’s hand. Hugo had no luggage.

  “You were right, Hugo. About everything.”

  “Write it, Vince. I’ll read it. Call me if your pipes back up.”

  Hugo drove off, to find work and an apartment high enough that when the wind was wild, he might hear the sea.

  Chapter 116

  Rivkah

  Gush Etzion

  Inside the burnt monastery, some Haganah boy played jolly tunes on an accordion, dancing numbers that sounded like a carnival or wedding. The music swam through the mist, through holes and busted windows in the monastery’s face, out to Rivkah in a trench.

  The mood in the trench was somber. Rivkah and a dozen fighters were close enough to the Arabs to hear them talking.

  She rested her head on her medical bag. She must have napped, for when she opened her eyes, the fog and the deep night remained, but the accordion had stopped.

  The voices of the Arabs were gone, too. Rivkah sat up to the grinding of machines, the growl of armored trucks, and the squeal of tanks. She could not see through the fog and the predawn dark, but the sounds were warlike.

  An hour later, the charcoal light of sunrise revealed five hundred Legion soldiers and an equal number of villagers below Russian Hill, all squared off against the monastery. A second Arab force marched through the Brakha Valley toward the Saddle; a third flooded into the Wadi Shahid. For this attack, the Arabs brought two thousand. Three Legion tanks bided their time in the Hebron road.

  The sun peeked above the hills, then a bugle tweeted. From the beds of twenty armored trucks, mortars cut loose against the monastery. The opening barrage had little effect; the defenders were well dug in. A bunker protecting a Spandau took a direct hit, but the crew shook off the timbers to right their machinegun.

  The bombardment lasted only a quarter of what the Arabs had thrown at the monastery last week. With double the attacking force, they were surer. A last salvo descended, smoke rounds. Another bugle called from behind the boiling smoke. Shouts followed: “Udrub! Wahad al wahad!” Strike. One after the other.

  The guns of the Haganah, the Brens, the Spandau, the fighters in the trenches and monastery, all held their fire.

  Ten armored cars rolled onto the battlefield, shooting as they came at Rivkah’s forward trench. The boys had no answer, no armor-piercing rounds.

  From the monastery and Yellow Hill, the Haganah’s mortars entered the fray. The fusillade destroyed an armored truck and forced another to drive over a mine. Behind their armored vehicles, to the call of bugles, Legion infantry advanced through the smoke.

  The Haganah held the high ground; now it came into play. Automatic fire from the monastery hacked at the Arabs’ front ranks. Mortars from Lone Tree Hill and Yellow Hill set off landmines under the assault. The Spa
ndau cranked up a murderous crossfire along with the boys in the trench.

  Wounded and dead began to reduce the Arabs’ numbers; still, the Legionnaires pressed the attack with discipline, moving behind covering fire that drove down the heads of the Haganah and Field Force. Arab villagers crept across the cratered ground that the Legion took for them.

  The boys in the trench made the Arabs pay for every inch they gained. Rivkah clutched her medical bag, ready to jump at the first howl. The fighters tucked their cheeks to their guns, and none were wounded in the first minutes.

  The Legionnaires battled to within three hundred yards of the trench. The fighting paused; the trench and monastery, the Spandau in the wrecked bunker, all waited for the Arabs to take another step.

  The sun cleared the hills behind the Hebron road. Under a truce flag, two armored cars climbed the slope to collect casualties in the valley.

  The boys with Rivkah counted ammunition and shared with those who were short. The Spandau crew called over that they had a half-dozen fifty-round belts left. In every window of the monastery, a Haganah fighter kneeled beneath a brow of soot from last week’s fire.

  The boys passed canteens. Some slumped to steal some rest.

  The second assault began when the three Legion tanks rolled off the Hebron road.

  In the trench, the Haganah boys muttered, “Hold your fire. Hold your ground.”

  No one pulled a trigger against the Arab armor. The boys continued to say “Hold,” strapping themselves down with the word.

  At two hundred yards, the armored trucks opened fire. Bullets raked the trench, zinged off stones, and sizzled the air. The Haganah boys ducked and waited.

  The lead tank thundered. A shell struck the monastery with enough force to shake the raw ground under Rivkah. A cry went up for first aid.

  Rivkah scurried to the end of the trench. The fighter calling out had run under fire from the monastery, then jumped into the ditch. Blood trickled between his fingers clapped over his forehead. The berm of the trench perked with incoming bullets.

  Rivkah lowered the man’s hand to examine his wound. Through a squint beneath his bleeding brow, the Haganah commander said, “Hello, Rivkah.”

  “Let me see.”

  The bullet had sliced a groove over the commander’s eye but only that. Rivkah slapped a bandage on the gash, then circled his head with gauze.

  “How is my sister?”

  “Armor’s moving into the valley. We had to abandon Yellow Hill. I sent her unit to Kfar Etzion.”

  “I’ll see her tonight. What are you doing here?”

  The commander reached past Rivkah to grip the leg of a kneeling Haganah boy.

  “Tell everyone to get back to the monastery. Now.”

  “Yes, sir.” The young fighter leaped away to spread the retreat order. He ran off with bullets scalding the rim of the trench. The commander said to Rivkah, “Please hurry.”

  She cut the gauze, then tied off the bandage. Three fighters stayed in the trench to cover the commander and Rivkah. He asked her, “Ready?”

  She jumped out with him. The Spandau laid down fire; running past the machinegun crew the commander yelled, “Retreat!”

  With Rivkah he bolted into the blackened, battered building. Behind Rivkah, the Spandau crew ran in, hauling their heavy weapon.

  The commander touched his bandaged head. He said to Rivkah, “Go back to Kfar Etzion.”

  “I’m needed here.”

  “We’re not going to hold out long.” The commander called a fighter to him. “Take her bag. You’re the medic now.”

  The boy did as he was told, then hustled back to his jagged hole in the wall.

  Before Rivkah could protest, the commander said, “It’s not going to matter where you are. Go to your sister.”

  Another shell shook the monastery, sprinkling cinders and dust over the defenders. Rivkah and the commander nodded, then sent each other off.

  Chapter 117

  Vince

  Tel Aviv

  The press wasn’t allowed inside during deliberations. Vince milled with reporters and photographers he didn’t know.

  In their cars under seacoast palms, some listened to the news. A dawn attack led by the Arab Legion was underway in Gush Etzion.

  Several officials recognized Vince as they arrived or exited. He heard many times, “Vince Haas. We thought you were dead.” A few asked where he’d been. When he said the Etzion bloc, they patted his shoulder. No one knew more than what was on the radio. All figured the assault was a sample of what the Yishuv could expect soon when the Arab nations attacked together.

  In the afternoon, the journalists pitched in to send for food and beer. Vince ignored his hunger and stalked the doors of the Jewish Fund building. Soon a Haganah officer came out, a mustachioed and narrow man with hair parted in the middle. Vince walked alongside him.

  “Vince Haas, Herald Tribune.”

  “Of course, Mister Haas.”

  “Do you have a minute?”

  “I’m afraid I do not.”

  “I’d like to know what’s going on.”

  “As would we all. Thank you.”

  Vince stopped. At the officer’s back, he said, “I was at Buchenwald. The King David. Nebi Daniel. In Gush Etzion. Stop fucking walking away.”

  The Haganah officer dragged his feet. “Come inside. I will speak only with you. You will not quote me by name.”

  He led Vince into a building quieter than it ought to be. He found a small office with a potted tree in a corner. The officer settled onto the edge of the desk.

  He began. “I was at Nebi Daniel, as well. What would you like to know?”

  Vince shook the Haganah man’s hand. “What’s happening at Gush Etzion?”

  “May I ask, what is your connection to the bloc?”

  “I lived there the last four months. I’ve got friends there. A child coming.”

  “I see. Mister Haas?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I need to return to Haganah headquarters. To monitor this exact situation. You have my sympathies.” This officer, too, laid a hand on Vince’s shoulder. “Now please ask me questions about Palestine.”

  “Did you know Emile?’

  “I did.”

  “Because of him, I’m not in Gush Etzion.”

  “I was not aware of that.”

  “I belong there.”

  “Report what I tell you, Mister Haas.” Vince pulled out his notepad and pencil. “The council has asked me if we can win the upcoming war.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “The Arabs have conventional weapons and equipment. A greater number of troops. Many have been trained by the British. Some will even be led by the British.”

  “Who will invade?”

  “We are preparing for the entire Arab League. Syria, Egypt, Trans-Jordan, Lebanon, and Iraq. If they all come at once, they will have an advantage.”

  “But?”

  For the first time, the Haganah officer smiled.

  “Very good. But. War is not mathematical. It cannot be predicted unit against unit, weapon against weapon. Morale must be considered. Our forces are steadfast, the Yishuv is mobilized. We are trained, we have a plan, and we are stubborn. The Arabs, you have noted, can be somewhat disjointed. If I wanted to be cautious, I’d say our chances are even. If I were honest, I’d say the Arabs have an edge. For now.”

  “For now?”

  “A mass conscription of Jewish youth has started. We have weapons coming. Many weapons.”

  “Such as?”

  “Get this down. I think I should like it read in America.”

  Vince scribbled to keep up: In Czechoslovakia, the Haganah had purchased ten German fighter planes, thousands of Mauser rifles, machine guns, and millions of rounds. In the United Sta
tes, decommissioned B-17 bombers and transport aircraft waited to take off. In France and Italy, mortars and mountain guns, light tanks and half-tracks filled the holds of cargo ships at anchor. All of it counted down until a Jewish state was declared and Britain’s embargo on Palestine’s harbors and skies was lifted, in two days.

  “Will it get here in time?”

  “It must. It does us little good to have a nation and no one to live in it.”

  Vince stood to shake hands again, for Nebi Daniel, Gush Etzion, and what was coming. The officer stepped into the hall with a hand up to pause Vince. He would go first, by himself.

  “I have one more thing for you. Please tell no one. Let this be announced by the Jews.”

  “Sure. And thank you.”

  “By a vote of seven to two, the council decided on a name for the new Jewish nation.”

  “What is it?”

  “We will be Israel.”

  Chapter 118

  Rivkah

  May 13

  Kfar Etzion

  The windows of the recovery ward had been sheeted over to block the lantern light, so the Arabs would not have it as a target in the night. The air inside stank from kerosene and gauze, swabs and sweat, stirred by the comings and goings of orderlies who lifted the wounded from beds to stretchers.

  Rivkah stood over the last fighter to be evacuated. She helped move him to a stretcher, supporting his head. When he was settled on his back and biting his lip, Rivkah set a hand over his bandaged chest but did not pat.

  “You’re going to be fine.”

  The boy’s wound whittled his voice into rasps. “When this is over.”

  “Yes?”

  “Will you go to dinner with me?”

  “Of course.”

  She’d gotten many such proposals since sundown. Some hurt boys reached for her hand on their way into surgery, some when they woke and took stock of themselves. The appeals ranged from a meeting in Jerusalem to marriage: the worse the wound, the more dear the request. Rivkah said yes to all the hurt boys—and was a widow several times.