Zion (Jerusalem)

by Colin Falconer

  “I’m ordering you to stop this!”

  “You can’t order me to do anything. You don’t have the authority.”

  The Arabs, emboldened by the lack of response from the British patrol, were edging closer to the bus. Two Hassidim in black gabardine coats and brimmed hats, leaped from the bus and tried to escape. They got just five paces when they were hit by a volley of gunshots and fell.

  “Hear the news this morning?” Chisholm said.

  “Stop this, for God’s sake!”

  “The Jews attacked one of our patrols in the Old City. Killed two of our boys, wounded three others. One of them isn’t ever going to walk again. I knew him, you know. He was in Normandy with me.”

  “That’s got nothing to do with this!”

  An Arab, a rifle clutched in his left hand, ran towards the bus. There was the crack of a pistol shot and he fell backwards, arms spreadeagled. For a moment his comrades held back.

  “It’s time someone taught these Jews a lesson. They can’t kill our soldiers and then expect us to protect them from the Arabs.”

  A blue Fiat, its horn blaring, nudged its way through the snarl of traffic on Jaffa Road. A Haganah flag trailed from the back window. Chisholm shook his driver’s arm, pointing. “Quick!”

  The jeep raced across the square to intercept.

  A woman, a baby clutched in her arms, ran out of the bus, headed for the Jewish Commercial Centre. Talbot thought she might make it. There was a single gunshot and she fell. A silence fell over the square. Then the baby started to cry.

  There had been three Haganah in the Fiat; they now lay face down on the cobbles, their hands behind their heads. Their weapons - a Beretta pistol, a Sten gun and two hand-grenades - lay on the ground behind them. Two soldiers stood over them, their Brens cocked.

  “Chisholm, what the hell are you doing?”

  “I am doing my duty, old son. These men have been caught in the possession of illegal firearms. They are obviously terrorists.”

  Talbot looked back over his shoulder. The mob had surrounded the bus. There was no shooting now. It was deadly quiet except for the wailing of the baby.

  “For the love of God, those people are helpless.”

  “Unless there’s British nationals involved, I’m not obliged to do anything.”

  Talbot started to run towards the bus. “Get back! ” he shouted at the mob in Arabic. “I am ordering you to get back!”

  He ran through the midst of them and positioned himself across the doorway of the bus, his arms outstretched. “Go home! All of you! I am the King of England and I am ordering you to go home now!”

  One of the Arabs raised his rifle and aimed. Go ahead and shoot me, you bastard, Talbot thought. They’ll crucify Chisholm then.

  But one of the man’s compatriots snatched the gun away. Killing Jews was one thing, killing Britishers was another, even if he was lying about being the King of England.

  The armored car rumbled across the square, scattering the mob. Chisholm drove behind in his jeep, his driver hammering on the horn with his fist. Talbot heard someone whisper a prayer of thanks inside the bus. The Arab gunmen melted away into the snarl of traffic choking both sides of the Jaffa Road.

  The jeep rolled to a halt in front of Talbot and Chisholm stood up, leaning on the windshield. “I don’t like you, Talbot,” he said.

  Talbot thought he was going to be sick. “The feeling’s reciprocated.”

  “Whatever that means.”

  “I shall be making a full report about this.”

  “Good for you.”

  Chisholm got out of the jeep and ordered the survivors off the bus. His soldiers escorted them through the crowd at gunpoint. Talbot saw Chisholm give the Nazi salute to a young girl, then go to the bus driver’s door, yank it open, and drag the man’s body from behind the wheel.

  The baby had stopped crying. By the time Talbot got there it was already dead.

  Talbieh

  When Henry Talbot arrived home James was sitting in the courtyard with Elizabeth drinking lemon, lime and bitters. Elizabeth looked serene and vacant in a long white dress, her hair freshly crimped.

  James jumped up, relieved to see him. His cheeks were flushed, probably from the effort of talking to her. I wonder what topic of conversation she found to entertain my intense young brother? Contract bridge? Tennis? Male impotence?

  “Good Lord, Henry. Are you all right?”

  “Sorry I’m late.”

  “You’re as white as a sheet.”

  ‘Just had a rather trying day, that’s all.” Elizabeth, he noticed, regarded him with something less than concern. “Henry, what have you got on the front of your suit?”

  “It’s blood, darling.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  “I shouldn’t think so.”

  “Jolly good.”

  “There was some trouble out by Jaffa Gate this afternoon.”

  “Yes, I heard. Did you get mixed up in it?”

  “Yes, I did, actually.”

  A servant brought Talbot a Scotch and water. Talbot downed it and handed the glass back. “Bring me another, will you?”

  The man raised an eyebrow and hurried away.

  “Be careful,” Elizabeth said, “they say it puts hairs on your chest.”

  “You should stop drinking it then.”

  “We’re in one of those moods are we?” She finished her bitters and stood up. “I’ll leave you two to your boy talk, shall I? I’ll just go and pluck my chest, Henry.”

  She went inside, her high heels clattering on the flagstones. There was a long silence. James cleared his throat. “Everything all right between the two of you?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I don’t want to intrude on anything ...”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, we invited you to dinner, you’re going to stay and eat it if I have to force-feed you, is that clear?”

  James flushed to the roots of his hair. He picked up his drink and lapsed into silence.

  “I’m sorry,” Talbot said finally. “I’m a bit on edge.”

  “I noticed.’

  Elizabeth was playing the piano in the drawing-room. The haunting melody of “Für Elise” reached them through the double doors.

  “What happened at Jaffa Gate?”

  “Did you hear about it?’

  “Someone said the Arabs attacked an Egged bus and one of our patrols chased them off.”

  Talbot laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Chased them off! I suppose that’s true. They did chase them, eventually. That bastard Chisholm was in command. He wasn’t going to do anything at first. He was prepared to let the Arabs murder them.”

  “Come on, Henry - ”

  “I saw at least five Jews murdered, Jimmy, including a mother and her baby! He wasn’t going to do a damned thing!”

  The help brought another whisky and Talbot accepted it gratefully. It was almost dusk. The wind rose, keen and fresh, and rustled the leaves of the fig tree over their heads.

  “I don’t know if it’s occurred to you, Jimmy, but our job here is quite simple. We have to hold the Jew’s hands behind his back while the other fellow hits him.”

  James finished his drink. “I can almost understand how the Jerries felt now,” he said. “They didn’t believe in what they were fighting for anymore, but what else could they do? When I was in Europe I was ready to make the sacrifice. Life for king and country, and all that. But if I die in this one I’m going to be awfully pissed off.”

  Chapter 10

  There was row upon row of market stalls, heaped high with the tawny glow of plums and peaches. The square resounded to the shouts of hawkers and shopkeepers bartering, but inside the café the sounds of the market were barely audible over the deafening noise of the radio.

  Sarah sat in a corner with Talbot. The way they sat, whispering, it perhaps looked like a lovers’ tryst to a casual observer, except that the man seemed perhaps just a little too old and a little too unremarkabl
e for such an exceptionally pretty girl. The woman, in her khaki shirt and long blue denim shorts, was not dressed for romance. As she leaned towards the man her face was strained and angry.

  “We know the British are planning something.’

  Talbot raised an eyebrow. “Oh? What is it you know?”

  “You’re building another camp near Raffa, the government printing press has ordered another forty-five thousand blank detention orders.”

  “A routine stationery request.”

  “The administration has nine thousand forms already in stock. What does that tell you, Henry?”

  “It tells me you’ve thoroughly compromised our administration.”

  “It tells us that Cunningham has plans to make large scale arrests in the very near future. We need to know who, when and how.”

  “I don’t think I can help you with that.”

  Sarah sighed. “We have been reviewing the help you have given us so far. It doesn’t amount to much.”

  “I gave you Emmerich.”

  Sarah shrugged.

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “Unless you provide us with hard information in the next seven days Sir Alan Cunningham will receive a postcard through the mail, with views of Jerusalem he has not seen before.”

  Talbot drummed on the edge of the table with his fingertips. “Do you enjoy your job?”

  “No, I don’t, Henry. And just for the record, it’s not a job. They could never pay me enough to do this sort of thing.”

  Talbot stared at his hands and said nothing.

  “I heard an interesting story about you the other day.”

  “Oh?”

  “One of my colleagues witnessed the attack on the bus at Jaffa Gate. He said you prevented a massacre.”

  “I’m sure he overstates his case.”

  “Does he?”

  “You think I have some secret sympathy with your cause? Don’t be misled, Miss Haganah. It was common humanity.”

  “What is the difference between saving a busload of Jews, and saving six hundred thousand?”

  “About thirty years in prison.”

  “Look, Henry, if we release this picture, your career’s finished anyway. Help us. If Bevin moves against the Haganah, the Jews in Palestine will be defenseless, like the people on that bus.”

  “Are you appealing to my humanity or my self-interest?”

  “Both.”

  He looked at his watch. “I have to go.”

  “Seven days.”

  “Yes, yes, I understand.”

  “We can’t meet here again. Next time I’ll wait for you in Zion Square. I’ll go in to a cinema. You follow me in.”

  “A good picture, I hope. I’ll bring the chocolates.” He went out into the hot sun, hanging his head, as if the weight of it was too great for his shoulders.

  Yemin Moshe

  Yemin Moshe was the first Jewish settlement ever built outside the walls of the Old City. It had been financed by the British philanthropist, Sir Moses Montefiore. Marie lived there in a small one-bedroom flat above a grocery store. She had found a job as a clerk at the Histadruth, the Federation of Jewish Labor and they had taught her to use a typewriter. Because of her intelligence and willingness to learn she had quickly been promoted to a position as a stenographer and personal secretary to a member of the central committee.

  She lived quietly. Each day she left for work at eight in the morning and came home at six o’clock at night, except on Shabbat. In the evenings she prepared a frugal meal and listened to the radio, then read for a while before going to sleep. She seldom went out.

  When she first started work at Histadruth she had received countless offers from the men there to go out to dinner, but she had made it clear to them that she was engaged to be married, and after a while the offers stopped.

  She surrendered to the routine of her new life like an exhausted swimmer hauling herself on to a raft. It was safe; she had enough to eat; she had a warm bed. There was no one waiting in a queue to rape her. It felt like luxury.

  The grocery shop downstairs was owned by a man named Fromberg, an old Berliner Jew who had fled Germany in 1934. Apart from the few casual friendships she had formed at the Histadruth, he was the only other person she spoke to regularly. He had a great bald dome of a head and a weeping egg-yellow moustache. He was cheerful and kind, and spoke German with her, rather than the Hebrew she was still trying to master.

  “Fraulein Helder!” he shouted, as she reached the bottom stair of her flat. “Did you have a good day at work today?”

  “Yes, thank you, Herr Fromberg.” Every day was much like another, of course. But even the worst of days was a day spent in Paradise when she compared it to Oswiecim.

  “Hot weather we are having.”

  “I don’t mind it.” She turned and went into the shop. It was crowded and dusty and smelled of dried meats and musty cheeses.

  “You would like to join us for dinner tonight? My wife is making schnitzels. I’ll tell her to set an extra plate, all right?”

  “It is very kind of you. But not tonight, Herr Fromberg.”

  “Ach, but you never eat! Look at you! If you stand sideways, there is not even a shadow! You need some of my wife’s cooking.”

  “Perhaps another night. I am very tired.”

  “No wonder it is you are tired. There is nothing of you! When the hamsiin comes, it will blow you away!”

  “I will wear heavy shoes.”

  “My wife is always saying to me: Why don’t you get that skinny girl upstairs to come down for dinner? How will she ever get herself a husband looking like a breadstick?”

  “I already have a man who wants to marry me, Herr Fromberg.”

  He frowned, “Ja, ja, well, little Fraulein Breadstick, is there something I can get for you?”

  “Perhaps two of your wonderful eggs for my tea.” Fromberg’s eggs were very popular; he bought them from the Arabs. Arab eggs were free range, but chickens on the kibbutzim were fed special diets and there was hardly any color or flavor in the yolks.

  Fromberg fussed under the counter for the eggs. “Still no luck at the Jewish Agency then?”

  “No, not yet. Perhaps soon.”

  Fromberg became suddenly gloomy, as he always did when discussing Marie’s search for her fiancé. Having an unmarried and attractive woman in the flat above him made him fret. It was as if he owned an unmatched shoe.

  “The Jewish Agency is inundated with people looking for lost family and friends,” Marie said. “They will find him eventually.”

  Fromberg wrapped her eggs in newspaper and shouted to her as she went up the stairs that his wife would cook an extra schnitzel anyway, in case she changed her mind. Then he sat down to brood. It was not right that such a pretty girl should live alone like that, not going out, not enjoying herself . . . not eating. Sometimes he wondered if this fiancé of hers even existed. He had seen the death camp tattoo on her arm and he wondered if there was not more troubling little Marie Helder than a poor appetite.

  Talbieh

  There were two empty glasses on the table in the courtyard, and cigarette stubs in the ashtray. Abdollah and Hasna were conspicuous by their absence.

  It was cool inside the house, a fan revolving slowly on the ceiling, one broken blade breaking the cadence. His footsteps echoed on the parquet flooring. He went up the stairs to the bedroom and threw open the door. He knew what he would find.

  Elizabeth was not quite naked; she still had on most of her jewelry. She was sprawled over the edge of the bed, her feet on the floor, a pillow under her buttocks. Chisholm was not quite naked either; he had not removed his boots. Immaculately polished, Talbot noticed. He was kneeling next to the bed between Elizabeth’s legs.

  He had a mouthful of ice cubes.

  Elizabeth sat up, covering her small breasts with her hands. “Oh, Henry!” she said. “You must think me a terrible flirt!”

  Chisholm stood up. Talbot had always believed that it was i
ncumbent on a man caught in flagrante delicto with another man’s wife to grab his trousers and escape through the nearest exit, but Chisholm made no attempt to leave. He did not even look embarrassed.

  Talbot could not take his eyes off his genitals. Substantial was the word that sprang immediately to mind. A major and his meat. Perhaps the 6th Airborne were issued with such weapons when they were inducted into parachute school.

  Chisholm spat the ice cubes on to the marble. “Can’t you knock?”

  “This is my bedroom. That’s my wife!'

  “Well, I’m using her at the moment, old son. So piss off.”

  The bastard hadn’t even lost his erection. “I’m going to kill you,” Talbot said.

  Chisholm looked genuinely confused. “What with?”

  Talbot threw himself at the larger man. Chisholm swung lazily with his fist, caught him on the jaw, and sent him spinning back across the room. Talbot landed on his back, and his head cracked on the marble floor.

  “Now stop it!” he heard Elizabeth scream. “That is quite enough! Get your clothes and get out!”

  Chisholm dressed. His boots echoed on the stairs and then the front door slammed and he was gone.

  Talbot propped himself against a wall. Elizabeth sat on the edge of the bed, holding a cigarette in an ivory holder. She did not bother to dress.

  “Do you want me to call a doctor?”

  Talbot shook his head.

  “It’s not very civilized, brawling in one’s own home.”

  “Less civilized than screwing army officers in one’s own bed?”

  “You’re so terribly old-fashioned about these things. What am I supposed to do? If you won’t do these little jobs for me, I have to call in outside help.”

  “I just expect some discretion.” Talbot put his fingers to his mouth. Two of his teeth were loose. “Chisholm - why Chisholm?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because . . .” Talbot thought about Jaffa Gate. How could he explain that? “. . . he’s not . . . because he’s an utter bastard.”

  “Men who fuck other men’s wives usually are.” She stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray next to the bed and stood up. “I’m going to have a shower.” She walked out.