Grossman pointed to the detailed map of Sicily.
“We could bring the ship in, almost run it aground, at some beach nowhere near a town or village. It looks as if there’s a lot of deserted area around here. We could bring it in at high tide, anchor it to shore, and wait for the tide to run out.”
“How do you know she’d tip the right way?” Brodsky asked.
“We use the davit pulleys to make sure she tips the way we want. Then we replace the damaged planking and let the tide float her again.”
“Cellotti nodded. “It’s a good idea if we can do the job between tides …”
“We’ll have to.”
“Then let’s do it!”
Oddly enough for Jews, they didn’t even take a vote on it.
They repaired the Naomi on a Saturday, on a shingle beach in a deserted cove wall beyond Aciriale, under Grossman’s direction, despite the objection of the more religious Jews who felt that labor on the Sabbath should be avoided. These even refused to watch, but marched off over the hills to stare out at the rolling countryside and act, unconsciously, as lookouts against unwanted intrusion. And the following day the Naomi was refueled in Augusta, the water tanks filled and additional food purchased and stored aboard. And once they sailed, Wolf brought out the guns that had been hidden in the bilges, wrapped in oiled silk, cleaned them until they polished, and mounted them in a makeshift gun rack set on the wall of the wheelhouse, proud of his work.
There was a holiday mood on board once they cleared Augusta harbor and were out of sight of land. They had come almost four hundred miles without being discovered by the British, and while the closer they came to Palestine the greater the danger, there was always the hope that as long as they maintained their appearance as an innocent fishing vessel, they might continue the deception successfully.
As if to compensate for the rough waters in the straits, the sea turned beautifully calm. When no ship was in sight, which was most of the time, since Cellotti took advantage of the charts to avoid popular sea lanes, the passengers took turns on deck, spelling each other every few hours day and night, luxuriating in the warm fresh sea breeze and the restful motion as the ship chugged its way through the small waves. When a ship was sighted only the men dressed as fishermen occupied the deck and the deckhouse; once the danger had passed the children would swarm back on deck, hanging over the bow despite the warning cries of mothers, or draped over the rail, staring down into the depths of the sea as if searching for some meaning to their odyssey in the green-blue dimness there. The trawls had been stowed, since they slowed the speed of the ship, but many of the men fished from the deck using makeshift poles, shouting with delight on the rare occasions when they caught something.
Ben Grossman’s position on the ship had changed. From being a pariah, albeit a self-imposed pariah, he had become a person to be considered in the daily functioning of the ship. As they sailed from the Italian waters into the Aegean Sea, he pointed out that it was possible the British might believe the missing Naomi had gone to the bottom, and it would not do to be reported five hundred miles from Nervi; the following day, rigged on ship’s cradles, he helped change the name to the Ruth. In the hot Aegean winds he had shown the men on board how to install simple air scoops made of cardboard, so that the ventilation in the cabin was immeasurably improved. He had rigged up a small air hose to act as a blower on the stove, pushing the fumes up the jerry-rigged chimney and out of the cabin. And every day he checked out the diesel, making sure its efficiency remained high, watched the generator and the air compressor, and made sure the batteries had plenty of water.
Nor did he mind. It was evident to him that he could not leave the ship before they reached Palestine, but he did have a valid passport, albeit a forged one, and once ashore it would only be a matter of time before he would manage to leave the country and get to Switzerland, because if Brodsky or any of the others thought he had forgotten his resolution, they were crazy. He would need more than the fifty dollars he carried, but they said everyone in Palestine was armed, and an armed man could arrange money. And of course they expected him to forfeit his passport once they were on Palestinian soil, but what they expected and what they got were two different things.
It felt good to be planning again, using the time to stare out to sea as they chugged their way east, laying out a plan in all the detail he had always enjoyed. Banks had money; he would locate a bank and study its operation. And leaving the country should be no great problem in a place where the pressure was on people trying to get in. There were undoubtedly ships for commerce, and if worse came to worse he could always try to ship on as a seaman. Or as a ship’s engineer; after his experience on the Ruth—he should be able to handle such a job with ease. A pity Switzerland didn’t have a seaport.
And so they chugged on, all eyes constantly straining to the east, as if they could see their destination across all the hundreds of miles, through the dark and mist and the sea fogs they encountered. Palestine! Each had his own dream, his own picture of the future.
BOOK II
Prologue
The history of Palestine is one of violence. Its land has been won and rewon a hundred times, and the price has always been death. One might think its soil would be fruitful with the constant gift to the earth of the rich protein of human flesh and the valuable minerals of human blood, but a large part of it remains a desert, the few oases torn from its arid soil only by great determination. Sitting as it does across the main trade routes between Africa and Asia, it has been the target for greedy invaders since recorded time. The Israelites ruled it; the Assyrians and the Babylonians ruled it; Alexander of Macedonia ruled it; the Ptolomies ruled it; the Romans ruled it; Islam ruled it; Napoleon tried to rule it and failed; the Ottoman Turks ruled it, and in between many others ruled it, and each left the mark of his hand upon the land and the people.
Now, in 1946, the country is ruled by the British under a League of Nations mandate approved in 1922, a mandate which incorporates within it the Balfour Declaration of November 1917, promising British support for the establishment of a national home for the Jewish people in Palestine. Still, the British white paper of 1939, which restricted Jewish immigration to 15,000 persons per year is, in this year 1946, still the official British policy, despite the toll of the holocaust, despite the desperate plight of the Jews of Europe. But in the interim six years the Jews of Palestine fought with the British Army on many fronts and were an important factor in the struggle against Rommel and the Afrika Korps. Egypt and the other Arab forces behind the Mufti of Jerusalem, Haj Amin el-Husaiani, on the other hand, actively supported Hitler and the Nazis. As a result, the Jews feel they have a right to expect a relaxation in British immigration policy as the minimum they should receive for their sacrifices.
In November of 1945 an Anglo-American Committee of Inquiry is formed to examine the status of Jews in former Axis-occupied countries and to discover how many are impelled by their conditions to migrate. After all, almost a year has passed since liberation of many of the camps in Europe, and many if not most of the survivors are still living in so-called assembly centers—camps in the very communities where they had been made to suffer. The committee recommends that all countries join in offering a new home to the survivors of the holocaust, and that as part of this program, Palestine permit the immediate immigration of 100,000 Jews. Although Britain has been instrumental in the formation of the Anglo-American Committee of Inquiry, she refuses to follow the recommendations of the committee. The British detain thousands of persons attempting to run the British blockade, stopping their ships even on the high seas, returning the ships and their crews to the ports from which they originally sailed, and interning the passengers, men, women, and children, in detention camps both in Cyprus and in Palestine itself, camps which are simply British-style concentration camps, barbed wire and all.
Britain is neither cruel nor inhumane. They need Arab oil, and to assure themselves of it they accede to almost any Arab d
emand, including the severe restriction of Jewish immigration. The Arabs honestly fear the immigration of Jews, feeling that the intrusion of Jews on any scale represents a threat to their own national aspirations. And the British have promised all things to all people, Jew and Arab alike, and are now in the uncomfortable position of being unwilling or unable—or both—to fulfill their promises to either side.
In their frustration, the British increase their repression, and the answer of the Jews is disregard for the authority of the crown. The Haganah, the defense forces of the Jews in Palestine, together with its elite striking force, the Palmach, as well as the Mossad, the intelligence arm of the Jewish forces who are responsible for helping the illegal immigrants reach Palestine in defiance of British restrictions, turn their full efforts toward overcoming these restrictions. The Irgun Zvai Leumi and the Stern Gang, underground armies dedicated to violent reprisal for each British act of repression, become more active. The Irgun and the Stern Gang are not particularly popular, nor are their methods approved by many Jews either in Palestine or in the rest of the world, but emotions are high and both underground armies have little trouble recruiting. Buildings are dynamited with large loss of life, Jews are caught and hung, British soldiers are hung in reprisal.
History is repeating itself in Palestine.
Chapter 1
Naval Lieutenant Dudley Arthur Mullins, commander of British Naval Patrol Vessel Portland-3 stationed in Yafo, was a man of singular emotions: he hated everything. He hated Jews, but he hated Arabs equally. He hated the weather and he loathed the food; he abominated his quarters on land and he execrated the confines of the ship. He hated his superiors and he hated his subordinates; he hated the girls Mustafa Kamal sent him for his pleasure and he destested Mustafa for selecting them. In short, he hated Palestine and his duty there. Not that he wanted to return to England; he hated that as well.
Mullins was a sour-faced, dyspeptic, overweight man of forty years of age and he should never have been a sailor, since he hated the sea. If it could be said that he abhorred one thing less than anything else, it was the fact that his duty allowed him to take people from illegal ships and see to it they went behind barbed wire.
The night of December 4 was foggy—Mullins detested fog—and the Portland-3 was doing a routine patrol between Yafo and Ashdod. At the radar station of the ship, the new invention that had been developed and perfected during the war and had now been installed on all ships of His Majesty’s Navy including minor patrol vessels in the Palestine sector, was Seaman-First John Wilburson. At his dials in the radio-communications room behind the bridge was Chief Petty Officer George Enderly. Seaman-Second Jonathon Martingale stood yawning beside the 40-mm Bofors gun mounted on the prow of the neat ship; the spotlight over his head was turned off in deference to the impenetrability of the fog as well as the fear of advertising their presence in the area. Eight of the other fourteen-man crew were in their bunks; the other six were about their various duties. It was a normal patrol night in every respect, including the dour looks Mullins cast at his crew as he made his final inspection round of the evening before retiring to his quarters to read a new book of pornography given him by Mustafa which Mullins suspected was intended to lower his resistance to the latest batch of girls Mustafa had brought in from Said.
He had no more than gotten himself as comfortable as possible atop his lumpy and uncomfortable bunk, than the intercom buzzed at his elbow. He picked up the handset, glowering at it.
“Well?”
“Sir, we have a blip on the radar—”
Mullins had never believed in the radar.
“Probably a malfunction in the bloody thing,” he said sourly. “I’ll arrange to have the port engineer take a look at the damn contraption first thing in the morning.”
“Sir—” Seaman-First Wilburson knew his duty and was determined to do it, commanding officer or not. “The radar is working perfectly, sir. There’s something in the water about two thousand yards east-southeast of us.”
“There are probably two thousand things in the water two thousand yards east-southeast of us,” Mullins said, pleased with his humor, “including fish and logs and land, as well—”
“No, sir,” Wilburson said stubbornly. “It’s a ship, sir, a small ship but a ship. It’s moving slowly in the direction of the beach.”
Mullins frowned. It seemed there was to be no rest with the crew of eager beavers he had inherited with his command, especially given all the new-fangled gear that had been hung all over the bloody ship. Still, he supposed there was a faint possibility that the radar was actually working the way they said it was supposed to work when they installed it, although that was hard to believe. He cleared his throat.
“And how far is the shore?”
“They have about two and a half miles to go, sir. They’re definitely within Palestinian waters, sir.”
As if that made the slightest difference, Mullins thought, and sighed. “All right,” he said, and pushed the button for the radio room. In the communications center, Chief Enderly touched a switch, opening a line.
“Sir?”
“Radar says there’s something in the water about a mile east-southeast of us. Thinks it may be a ship. I know none of ours are around. See if you can pick up any radio communication from them.”
“You want me to try to contact them, sir?”
“Good God, no!” What kind of idiots did he have on the ship? “Try to listen to them.”
“Yes, sir.”
There was a short pause; then Mullins barked. “Well?”
“I’m trying, sir. Nothing so far. Just some dance music from Tel Aviv …”
“Forget dance music from Tel Aviv!”
“Yes, sir. I’m running down the frequencies. They may be in silent, sir.”
“Or they may not be,” Mullins said sourly.
“Yes, sir. Sir!”
“Yes?”
“I’m picking something up. It could be from the ship.”
“Well! Cut radar in on this call.”
“Yes, sir.” Buttons were pushed.
“Radar, this is the captain. We have a radio signal, unidentified as yet, which might be coming from that ship of yours. Get me the bearing, will you?”
“Right, sir.”
Mullins tossed the pornographic book onto the narrow shelf that ran alongside the bulkhead beside his bunk. There would be no time to dwell on the houris in Mustafa’s book, and he was fairly sure they wouldn’t have been worth the effort in any event. He suddenly glared at the instrument in his hand.
“Well? Where is everybody?”
“Radar here, sir. Bearing one-forty-one-fourteen.”
Chief Enderly in radio said, “They’re in ‘open,’ sir. No code—”
“I know what ‘open’ means, Chief.”
“—only they’re speaking a language I don’t understand.”
“Yiddish.”
“No, sir. I recognize Yiddish.” As well I should, Enderly thought. He had been living, quite happily, with a Romanian Jewess on shore for the past two years. “It’s something else, sir.”
“Probably that new language, Hebrew, they’re trying to get everyone to use,” Mullins said after thinking it over.
“Maybe, sir, but I don’t think so …”
“Well, damn it, don’t we have anyone who speaks these bloody wog languages? What about Wolfson? I heard he does.”
“I’ll put him on the blower, sir.”
“And advertise to the whole eastern Mediterranean where we are? Send someone to find him and get him up to the radio shack!” God, what morons he had to put up with!
“Yes, sir.”
There was a prolonged silence as Mullins glared murderously at the handset he was holding. With crews like this it was a bloody wonder they ever kept a bloody ship from discharging a million bloody Jews onto the bloody beach every bloody half-hour! A third voice came over the intercom, a diffident voice, just about the time Lieutenant Mullins was
about to explode.
“Sir? This is Wolfson. Seaman-Second—”
“Wolfson! Get on the radio! Tell me what those wogs are speaking.”
“Yes, sir.” There was a pause. “Sir? They’re speaking Iraqi, sir.”
“Arabs?” Mullins couldn’t believe it. “What in hell are Arabs doing out at sea at this hour?”
“I don’t think they’re Arabs, sir …”
“Who in hell else speaks Iraqi?”
“Jews, sir. One second …”
In the radio shack, Wolfson listened carefully. It never occurred to him for a second that he might be doing the slightest harm to his coreligionists. He was, after all, a British naval personnel, whose forebears had been in England for countless generations, and who was pledged to do his best for King and Country. Palestine was just another foreign land, another outpost of empire, full of infidels, which was to say, non-British.
“Sir, they’re saying something about landing. They said something about waiting for trucks to pick them up …”
“Trucks, eh? Waiting to land, eh? What do you know!” Mullins felt exultant. Maybe the bloody radar did have its uses after all. The loss of Mustafa’s book and the erotic effect he had anticipated from it was nothing compared to the warm feeling he knew he would experience when this bunch was rounded up and shipped off to a camp somewhere. “Call the men to quarters! Wait! No bloody bugle calls over the P.A., for God’s sake! Send someone to roust them out and get them up on deck. And send Wolfson to me on the bridge.”
He put the handset back into its cradle and came out on deck, moving swiftly in the direction of the bridge. The man at the wheel came a bit more erect when his commander entered, but he said nothing, keeping his eyes fixed on the fog ahead. The ship crept forward silently in the thick mist.
On board the Ruth, Davi Ben-Levi was at the radio, holding the microphone, waiting. Standing at the wheel, Cellotti held the ship steady as they now inched slowly parallel to the shore. Their position was less than a half mile from the beach, and the trucks to take them inland were inexplicably delayed. On deck the others of the ship’s committee waited impatiently, scanning the waters about them for any sign of a hostile patrol boat, trying their best to see through the fog to the shore and the possibility of foot patrols there waiting to capture them. The waiting made them more and more tense each minute that passed. Below decks the apprehension was even more profound; faces crowded the small portholes, jostling for space to stare fearfully into the darkness, seeing nothing, wondering nervously at the delay in abandoning the ship.
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