Birthright

by Alan Gold

  Golda walked down the gentle slope on Teatralnyy Prospekt and turned back to gaze up the hill toward the offices of the terrifying Lubyanka headquarters of the MGB. She knew that anybody who entered there as a prisoner was never seen again. The lucky ones died in interrogation; the less fortunate were sent to Siberia and worked, sometimes for years, until they dropped dead from the biting cold or their bodies gave up from the aching exhaustion of slave labor and inadequate food.

  She’d never been inside the Lubyanka, but from all the reports that came to her, Golda knew more than most Russians about the torture, the murders, and the disappearances concealed by the building’s four walls.

  Golda walked smartly past the Bolshoi Theater as she left the Metropol Hotel, crossed the street, and entered the massively guarded complex of red walls, multicolored onion domes, and grim towers that was the Kremlin.

  She showed the guard at the fortress gates the slip of paper and the official stamp of office and, without any words, was escorted through the courtyards to the inner sanctum.

  Within minutes, she was shown into the offices of the Soviet Union’s minister for foreign affairs, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich Molotov. The dapper man rose from his desk as his secretary ushered Israel’s most prominent woman into his office. He walked around, extending his hand and smiling in a gesture of friendship.

  “Mrs. Meir,” he said. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting one of Mother Russia’s most engaging and important women.”

  “And it’s a pleasure to meet you, Comrade Vyacheslav Mikhailovich.”

  “How does it feel to be back in Moscow after so many years absence? What is it? Forty years?”

  She smiled. “This is my first time in Moscow, comrade. I was born in the Ukraine and left when I was but a child to join my father in America.”

  “But your Russian is excellent.”

  “Then thank Gogol, Tolstoy, and Pushkin. I’ve a facility for languages.”

  They sat in the armchairs and waited until Molotov’s secretary had laid out the tray of black tea and cakes before continuing.

  “I was somewhat surprised to receive your note, madam. When it arrived from Jerusalem, I was concerned about meeting with somebody, even someone as important as you, at a nongovernment level. As foreign minister, I have to be careful to meet with my counterparts and not people who are, in effect, private citizens, albeit ones as important as—”

  “And I appreciate your giving me this time, Comrade Foreign Minister. But I think that as this meeting is top secret and nobody in Palestine knows of my visit other than my prime minister and the head of our secret service, this will not leak out. Unless, of course, the plumbing in the Kremlin has degraded since the time of the Revolution.”

  Molotov let out a small laugh but looked more closely at her. Her face was lined from living for so many years in a hot country, but the eyes were what held his attention. Golda Meir had the eyes of an ancient mother of Israel, burning with intensity and sharp intelligence. Molotov loved trying to analyze people through their eyes.

  “You said in your note that this meeting was of great importance to the future of relationships between our two countries, when your Israel is established by the United Nations. Of course, that’s an assumption that may or may not be—”

  “It will come to pass, comrade. Believe me when I say that Israel will be the world’s youngest country in a handful of months. With a voice and a vote at the United Nations, we will enjoy the same stature as the Soviet Union and the United States of America.”

  Molotov suppressed a smile. “My dear lady, while what you say may be true, it doesn’t behoove us to exaggerate our importance in the world. When Comrade Chairman Stalin was told how Russian Catholics could help us win the Vatican’s approval, he said, ‘The pope! How many divisions has the pope got?” You may have one voice among many, but Mother Russia has many army divisions, ships, aircraft, and guns.”

  “I’m not exaggerating the importance of Israel, comrade,” Golda said. “Merely pointing out to you that we live on a lump of rock floating on a sea of petroleum oil. And your tanks, planes, cars, and factories need oil to turn.”

  Molotov raised an eyebrow. “But Palestine has no oil. Your Moses turned left toward the sea when he brought your people out of Egypt. He should have turned right and settled in Iraq or Persia, Saudi Arabia or the Gulf. I can’t see what point you’re making, madam.”

  Like a grandmother dealing with an intransigent grandchild, Golda Meir spoke softly and patiently. “Comrade, who has the oil today may not have it tomorrow. You, more than I, know the geopolitics of the region. The Arabs sold themselves to the highest bidder in World War I, vacillating between the Turks and the British. In World War II, they stayed out of the fray, having learned their painful lesson, except for the mufti of Jerusalem, who became Hitler’s best friend, but he’s in exile and no longer counts. But the Arabs are not nations, even though they have national borders. They are tribes, and there is as much dispute between tribes within their country’s borders as there is between warring nations.”

  Molotov frowned. “And?”

  “And soon there will be war. Egypt, Iraq, Syria, Trans-Jordan, and Lebanon. Some Palestinians will participate, but we anticipate no true opposition.”

  “This we already know, madam. But what army does Israel have to mount? Our estimates are that the Arab armies will number sixty thousand. They have planes, tanks, modern weaponry. How can a small nation without an army match this might?” Molotov asked.

  Golda knew that this was a rhetorical question, and he already knew what her answer would be. “Comrade, in the Yishuv, we have four experienced fighting forces: the Haganah, the Palmach, the Irgun, and Lehi. Together, we can mount an initial repulse consisting of thirty thousand men and women. And if the battle lasts longer than a month, we’ll call up more than a hundred thousand of our best and brightest. Remember, comrade, that the Arabs are fighting to push the Jews into the sea. When they get tired or wounded, they’ll just go back to their homes. But we Jews are fighting for our lives, because we have nowhere else to go.”

  Molotov remained silent and sipped his tea.

  Golda continued. “But you already know this. Your people in Jerusalem have informed you of everything I’ve told you. Tomorrow I travel from here to the United States to raise money to buy arms, ammunition, tanks, and planes. I have speaking engagements in dozens of cities throughout America. I’m told that I might be lucky to raise a couple of million dollars because everybody is tired of wars and just wants peace. But I will return with fifty million dollars or I will not return.”

  Molotov considered her words. “You are aware, of course, that Russia’s official stance is to oppose Zionism.”

  “Let us also never forget, my friend,” said Golda, “that since Catherine the Great, Russia has been the most pragmatic diplomat in the world. You may be officially anti-Zionist, but your reality is that you need influence in the Middle East, and not just to accelerate the decline of British influence but also to ensure that America doesn’t become strong in our arena. You need us, Comrade Foreign Minister. You need Israel as a friend. Because you know who’s going to win this war, and you know which nation will become the key player on your southern border.”

  Molotov found himself intrigued that Golda Meir’s thinking was so closely aligned with his. He was nothing if not a pragmatist; flexible adaptation was always the key to survival, whether in evolution, politics, or war. Might Golda Meir make some of his work with his agents on the ground, with people such as Judit and Anastasia, redundant?

  “You and I are frank people, madam. You asked for this meeting. It has been my pleasure to entertain you. But what is the real purpose of your being here?”

  “Two reasons. The first is to ask for a gift of fifty million dollars’ worth of gold so that we can buy more munitions and planes on the open market.”

  Molotov remained silent.

  “And the second is to ask for the names of the deat
h squad you currently have in Palestine murdering our best and brightest Zionists.”

  His face was a mask of indifference, but Golda detected surprise in his eyes. She drove the point home by saying, “I do hope, comrade, that we can come to some agreement before I leave here and begin my talks with the Americans. And it would really assist our future friendship if your assassins could stop killing my people.”

  • • •

  The following morning, as Golda Meir was packing her bags to prepare for her trip to the United States, there was a knock on her door at the Metropol Hotel. She opened it and found a tall, gaunt young man standing there. Nobody other than a handful of people in Moscow and in Jerusalem knew that Golda was in the Soviet Union, so she was immediately suspicious.

  The young man, dressed in a charcoal gray suit, nodded in greeting. “You left a document on the desk when you finished your meeting yesterday. The gentleman with whom you met has asked me to return it.” He handed over a brown manila envelope and walked back to the stairs. Golda closed the door and ripped open the envelope. In it, she found a list of names. Many were Russian, such as Anastasia Bistrzhitska, and were listed with their known aliases. Some were clearly Jewish, the name of Judit Etzion standing out. Golda had heard of the girl’s bravery, but while she felt some distress, the boil had to be cauterized.

  Asking for the list of Soviet agents in Palestine had been risky but carefully calculated. The gamble was that the Kremlin might hand over their agents as a peace offering for future cooperation with Jerusalem if they believed it was a more secure bet. Having twenty minutes before her car took her to the airfield, Golda opened the lid of her suitcase and took a small code book from a hidden pocket in the lining. She sat with a pencil and piece of paper, cross-referencing the names on the list with the codes she had to use to transmit them to Jerusalem.

  • • •

  Judit and Anastasia sat in deep armchairs in a luxurious safe house. It had been purchased by a Russian Jew who had managed to emigrate to America but was still covertly a communist. While he lived in America waiting for the State of Israel to be created, the Soviet intelligence agencies used his abode.

  The windows were barred, the curtains closed, and they’d entered the house by a side door. For additional security, one had entered the house an hour after the other, and they’d leave at different times.

  The women appeared relaxed but in truth were pondering carefully the next steps they would need to take.

  Anastasia’s spies had confirmed what Judit had suspected since she had been picked up from the airport by Shalman. Immanuel Berin was suspicious, though neither could say how much he knew. It was Anastasia who worked out the source.

  “The truth is that you were careless, Judita.”

  The rebuke from her handler, a woman so much a mother to Judit, stung her almost physically.

  “You must have been careless, and you were seen.”

  “By whom?” demanded Judit, wanting so much to deny the charge, yet knowing that Anastasia would not have made the statement had she been anything other than certain.

  “A young Irgun woman named Ashira. I assume you know her?”

  Judit remembered back to the Lehi raid on Goldschmidt House, the British officers’ club. The girl had been so young, naive, but darkly determined. Ashira had also been there on the night of the vote, listening to the radio. That was the night Judit had killed the Jewish professor in front of his family. Anastasia vocalized the next thought in Judit’s mind. “That was the night she must have followed you. You were careless.” Anastasia leaned over and put a hand on Judit’s knee. “I understand. I don’t expect perfection. I expect diligence.”

  “How dangerous is she to us?” Judit asked.

  Anastasia took another sip of wine and reached over to the table to refill it. “I’m afraid she must be dealt with.”

  “Is that necessary? She’s just a kid. She has no influence. She can’t be sure what she saw. No one listens to her or takes her seriously.”

  “Berin might.”

  This simple answer brought the argument to a halt, but Judit was torn. She had killed many times over, but the thought that she would be asked to remove the young girl filled her with self-loathing.

  Anastasia, as if reading her thoughts again, reassured her. “Don’t worry. It won’t be you. We must keep you clean and away from such things, focused on higher duties.”

  Judit nodded. Her path had been carefully constructed by Moscow. She would be a heroine of the coming war between Arabs and Jews and, from that public status, elevated to office. There she would orchestrate the special relationship between the new nation and the Soviet Union. The Americans would be apoplectic, but only Anastasia, Molotov, Beria, and perhaps Stalin would know the truth about Judit.

  Now, because of one small error, a naive girl threatened to unbalance an entire geopolitical plan. To Judit, it all appeared so fragile.

  “And Berin?” asked Judit.

  “You have your orders, your plan, your disguise.”

  Anastasia was referring to the simple dark Arab dress and head scarf that would cover Judit when she made her move against Berin, the disguise that would ensure Arabs were blamed. Implicit in the plan was that Judit must be seen by onlookers to be the killer. When the police investigated, it would be a Jordanian Arab woman who would be blamed.

  “But we still need time to remove Ashira from the equation. We have to plan carefully so that no suspicion can fall on you. One way is for you to have a meeting with Berin when we put an end to Ashira. Knowing him, he’ll be suspicious of the coincidence. So I’m afraid that when Ashira goes to meet her god, Berin will have to suffer the same fate. You’ll have to be responsible. His death is too important to be left to an underling.”

  Anastasia swallowed the rest of the wine and returned her hand to Judit’s leg. “Then, when these dark clouds have departed, we can finish what we started.”

  • • •

  It was overcast and late in the day. In such light, Ashira was very good at being invisible. She was nondescript in many ways, ordinary in height, gait, and shape. Few saw her to be a threat as a young woman in Jerusalem, and her dark Tunisian features made her appear as much Arab as Jewish. The effect was that neither side immediately saw her as the other, and she dressed accordingly, wearing nothing that marked her as decidedly Jewish or observantly Arab. She blended in easily.

  Had she been trained as Judit had been, Ashira may have been a master spy. But her only training had been a harsh life and a determination to survive. For now it was enough as she lay on her belly atop a low hillock, nestled behind a tall tuft of grass and rubble, with a small but powerful pair of binoculars pressed to her eyes.

  She kept a long distance between herself and Judit. She had stayed on high ground, rooftops and embankments, using her binoculars. It had not been easy, and she had lost her target several times, having to guess her trajectory and scan furiously to find her again. But now Ashira lay looking down at a house into which Judit had disappeared.

  Just weeks ago, Ashira had been enamored with the woman who epitomized everything she wanted to be—strong, committed, defiant. But the assassination of the professor had turned her reverence for Judit into rage.

  Through the twin lenses of the binoculars, a lone figure appeared at the side of the house and slipped casually across the garden to the street. Ashira barely had to study the figure to know it was Judit. She had seen her enter the house an hour earlier and had been waiting patiently for her to emerge. Ordinarily, this would have been the cue to follow, but Ashira’s intentions were different this time. It wasn’t Judit who was important this time; it was whom Judit had been speaking to.

  Ashira had confided what she knew to Berin, his approval and acknowledgment important to her in ways she didn’t fully understand. He remained somewhat skeptical and seemingly unwilling to act. Shalman had revealed to him that his wife often went to places and meetings he knew nothing about. Berin had wanted to know
with whom Judit was meeting when she slipped away from her apartment, and Ashira was hoping to find out now.

  Ashira didn’t follow Judit but waited and watched.

  A further hour passed with no sign of anyone, and the light dimmed as night fell. A car, silent and still, had sat in front of the home since before Ashira had arrived. The road the house was on ran in two directions, away from Jerusalem and back toward Jerusalem, with nothing but small tracks and dusty dirt roads deviating from that path. Ashira knew that whoever came out of that house would be unlikely to head away from the city. Ashira also knew that not far down the road was a British checkpoint through which any car heading back to the ancient city would need to pass. This was her plan. But she would need to be fast.

  Through the binoculars she saw a shadow of movement—not from the front door but from the side of the house. The sky was getting dimmer, and there were no exterior lights on the home nor streetlights to illuminate the scene.

  The person moved slowly. Very slowly. Not creeping but with small steps. High heels on grass and stone, thought Ashira. A tall and lean woman. Ashira would have to be quick. She watched as the tall woman paused before turning slightly toward the waiting car.

  This was the cue; Ashira could wait no more. She pushed herself to her feet and ran. She would have to sprint to make it to a vantage point near the British army checkpoint before the car arrived there.

  Ashira carried no bag; she was light and ready to run. She left the binoculars on the dirt where she had been lying, choosing to have nothing to weigh her down except a Leica camera slung over her shoulder in a leather holster.