Jerusalem Interlude

by Bodie Thoene

  The question was, how could Moshe, who was not in any way related to this grand operation, slip by the guards and reach Victoria? Even the most proper-looking Englishmen were being halted at the portals and checked for identification, as if a company of eunuchs had been set in place to guard the harem of secretaries.

  Moshe evaluated his rumpled khaki clothes—perfectly acceptable among the archaeologists of Britain who came to the digs of Palestine. But dripping on the red carpets of the lobby, he looked like a potsherd among Royal Worchester china.

  He gazed up nonchalantly at the gilded ceiling. He looked down at the potted plants, then searched for an empty chair where he might consider the problem. Too late! He had been spotted by an elevator eunuch. The fellow strolled purposefully toward Moshe, who glanced at his watch and tried to look impatient.

  “Looking for someone?” asked the guard.

  “Waiting.” Moshe displayed his most precise mastery of Oxford English. “For Professor Hrachabad. Professor of ancient Syrian ethnology, you know. We have a meeting scheduled, and he is quite late. Quite.”

  The guard looked doubtful, even though Moshe spoke the King’s English better than Sir John Woodhead.

  “Professor . . . ”

  “Hrachabad.” Moshe scoured the lobby in search of the imaginary professor as the soldier peered doubtfully at him.

  And then, miracle of miracles, Victoria Hassan emerged from the administrative offices at the side of a man who could quite easily be a professor of Syrian ethnology! “There he is now!” Moshe strode happily toward Victoria, who eyed him with a combination of muted astonishment and fear.

  Moshe took no chances. He hailed the fellow in the polka-dot tie in the Arabic street language of the Old City. Pumping the confused man’s hand, he did not look at Victoria as he smiled and chatted to the non-comprehending Mr. Parker.

  “Eli is frantic with worry,” Moshe said with a broad smile.

  “I dare say!” Mr. Parker was flustered. “Can’t understand a word. Do I know you?”

  Moshe continued in Arabic. “Eli languishes and must meet with you before his heart breaks with the pain of his love. I am sent as a messenger.”

  “Please!” Mr. Parker remained blinking in confusion as Moshe pumped his hand. “Miss Hassan, can you understand this blighter?”

  “Indeed,” Victoria nodded graciously, then through gritted teeth she smiled and answered in Arabic as well. “You are insane to come here.”

  Mr. Parker managed to free himself from Moshe’s handshake. “Whatever does he want? Doesn’t he speak English?”

  “He wants an address,” Victoria replied, calmly pulling pen and paper from her handbag and scribbling a note. After a minute she handed the note to Moshe with a slight bow. “Tell Eli I love him,” she whispered softly in her own tongue. Then with the grace of a duchess she swept past him and out through the doors of the lobby entrance.

  ***

  Victoria recognized the musician by the cello that rested on the floor of the Egged bus station beside a large wet man with a broken arm.

  Both Leah and Shimon Feldstein appeared to be wet—he more so than she, however. There was not one dry inch on the body of the big man.

  “Good heavens,” muttered Parker as he spotted them across the lobby. “They must have run behind the bus all the way from Tel Aviv.”

  The couple looked quite miserable and lost. The wide brown eyes of the cellist held an almost childlike expression of worry, like a little girl lost in the souks of the Old City.

  “Leah Feldstein?” Victoria called. She walked toward the musicians and saw Leah’s lost expression change to one of immediate relief.

  “Tell her I said good day,” mouthed Parker, exaggerating each word. “Guten Tag!” he said loudly as he extended his hand.

  Leah accepted the handshake doubtfully; then as the strange little man likewise took Shimon’s good hand, she said in German, “Should we tell him we speak English. His German is remarkably bad!”

  Victoria laughed at the comment, immediately deciding she liked Leah Feldstein. She replied in German, “My name is Victoria Hassan. I have been brought along as your interpreter.”

  “Your accent is much better.” Leah was smiling warmly as she glanced up at Shimon. “What do you say, Shimon? Shall we keep it among us three?”

  Parker’s mouth enunciated broadly as he relayed his message through Victoria to the musicians. “Tell them we wel-come them in the name of His Maj-es-ty’s Man-da-tory Gov-ern-ment!”

  “Is he just learning to speak English also?” Shimon quipped.

  “Just barely,” Victoria replied. “And tonight you are performing for the British Army, yes?”

  “For free bus tickets to Jerusalem for me and my cello,” Leah said. “Shimon was forced to ride on the top of the bus with the chickens, which may have been a blessing compared to what I rode with inside.”

  Victoria shook her head in sympathy. “I hear they hire these bus drivers at an insane asylum in Hebron. They stop for no one.”

  “I have heard that as well.” Leah laughed. “And now, where are you taking us?”

  As Mr. Parker continued to relay messages through Victoria, the car arrived at the King David Hotel. Arrangements had been made for Leah and Shimon to stay here the first night, if they wished, as guests of the government. If not, a taxi would take them anywhere they wished to go after the performance this evening.

  Leah squeezed Shimon’s hand as the doorman walked from beneath the awning of the King David to open their door. The gracious stones of the hotel seemed to Leah to mirror some of the elegance they had left behind in Europe. One night in such a place! The thought of it comforted her.

  “Last night we slept in a packing crate,” she said to Victoria. “Just tell me there are no scorpions or snakes here.”

  “None that I have seen,” said the dark-eyed beauty with a laugh. “Except the two-legged kind.”

  “And is there hot water with which I might thaw out my husband?”

  “That will take an hour at least,” Shimon quipped through chattering teeth.

  Victoria nodded. “And European-made tubs are big enough even for a man his size. And it is free. If you like, I will help you find your way to your great-aunt’s flat in the Old City tomorrow.”

  “Consider the request made,” Shimon said.

  This, Victoria relayed to the blissfully ignorant Mr. Parker. Ah yes, he supposed he could spare Victoria for half a day tomorrow. The government would expect such a courtesy, no doubt.

  Thus, the matter was settled. Leah and Shimon were shown their suite by the white-gloved bellhop who led them though the lobby and past the stiff-backed guards flanking the orange brass elevator doors. For just a moment, Leah felt as Jerusalem was not the end of the world, after all. Strange that her first friendly conversation had been with an Arab woman. It was not at all what Leah had expected.

  16

  A Land of Milk and Honey

  “Now I know how Joshua and Caleb felt when they came across the Jordan to spy!” Moshe grinned down at Eli as he presented the note from Victoria.

  Eli held the folded slip of paper as if it contained news of life or a sentence of death for him. He did not open it. “Is she . . . all right?”

  “She is a land of milk and honey, brother!” Moshe sat down on the ledge of the roof and crossed his arms with self-satisfaction. The mission into enemy territory had been a complete success. “So? Why don’t you open it?”

  Eli did not want to open such a personal note in front of Moshe. What if Victoria had rejected his love? Then it occurred to him that Moshe had probably read the note. He probably knew its contents backward and forward. Why did she not seal it in an envelope? He looked at Moshe, then asked, “Did you read it?” He knew the answer by the Cheshire-cat smile on Moshe’s face.

  “I had to know what it said.” Moshe touched the bruise on his chin as the memory of Eli’s fist came to mind. “What if the wind had torn it from my hand? It would
have blown away and then you would not have known.” He saluted. “Sergeant Joshua reporting as ordered, sir!”

  Perhaps Moshe was smiling because the affair was finally over. Perhaps . . .

  The trapdoor raised slightly and the irritated voice of Ida Sachar called up, “Eli? Have you seen Moshe?”

  “He is here with me, Mama.” Eli tucked the paper behind him.

  Silence. “What are you boys doing up here?”

  Moshe answered, “Praying and fasting, Mama.”

  “Oy! Oy!” She poked her head up and looked as if she could not believe her ears. She shook her finger at Moshe. “You could use a little praying, Moshe Sachar! You teach him, Eli. He is practically one of the goyim with all this archaeology nonsense!” She narrowed her eyes threateningly. “But if I hear another word about fasting tonight!” She shook a fist, then growled, “We eat in ten minutes!” She disappeared like a squirrel down a hole and let the door slam shut.

  Eli sat rigid, his smile frozen, his eyes wide with false nonchalance. This was the sort of look his mother would have recognized as caught-in-the-act-innocence if she had stopped long enough to notice. Neither brother breathed as the sound of her footsteps died away.

  Seconds ticked by. At last Eli wiped his brow and, with a shaking hand, pulled out the crumpled note.

  “So read it, already!” Moshe whispered. Mama had frightened the cocky smirk from his face.

  With a jerky nod, Eli opened the paper and scanned the neatly written note. “She wrote in English!” he protested, thrusting the paper into Moshe’s hands.

  “She knows Mama and Papa do not read English all that well.” The grin returned.

  “Neither do I,” Eli protested. “Speaking is one thing. Hallo, old chap! Cheery-bye! Can you show me the way to the W.C.? These Englishmen. Nonsense! Read the note!”

  “I knew you would need me, dear brother.”

  “Just read!” Eli said this too loud and instantly ducked at the thought of his impatient voice carrying through the window to Mama’s ear. Or down to the street to a customer at Cohens’. “But read quietly,” he whispered.

  Moshe cleared his throat and in a whisper he translated into Arabic what Victoria had written.

  Dearest Love, Not a moment passes without thoughts of you . . .

  Moshe paused and glanced up. He expected a blush of embarrassment on Eli’s face. Instead, Eli had melted like a lump of butter in the sun, his eyes dreamy. Truly he was meshugge for this girl!

  Eli sighed happily as he digested the first sweet words. He rolled his hand as a sign for Moshe that he was ready for the next delicious bite.

  There are reasons I could not send for you or meet with you. The torment is terrible without you. Please, please, my dearest heart, say you will meet me at one o’clock on Friday in the chapel of Christ Church. I will be there waiting for you! I am your beloved.

  V.

  Moshe handed the note back to Eli who scanned it over again. Had Moshe translated correctly? Meet her in the chapel of a Christian church?

  “Why Christ Church?” Eli pondered out loud. “She a Muslim and me a Jew. And she wants to meet in Christ Church?”

  “She is smart,” Moshe interjected. “Friday is the Muslim holy day. Her brothers will all be gathered in the courtyard of the mosque to hear the Mufti’s sermon. Muslim shops will be closed. None of her people will be around to recognize her.”

  Eli raised his eyebrows slightly at the sensible plan. “And none of my people would set foot in Christ Church. Yes. She has been thinking.”

  Moshe reached out and tapped the round black yarmulke on Eli’s head. “You will have to take that off. No one wears a hat in these goyim houses of worship. And you should wear my clothes. Comb your hair back. They will think you are an Englishman, Eli.”

  “Yes, and our people will be preparing for Shabbat. Everyone will be busy. Friday is a good day. The best day. I am not sure why we did not think of it before.”

  “There is less chance you will be killed in a Christian church than sneaking around after dark in the Muslim Quarter.” Moshe was still smiling, but there was relief in his words. “Although there is less chance that you will kiss her with much satisfaction in the pew at Christ Church with the rector looking on, nu?”

  Eli nodded. That much was inconvenient, to be sure. But seeing her again, just sitting beside her, seemed as urgent to him now as breathing. “I will be content,” he said, counting off the days and the hours until Friday. “One o’clock at Christ Church.” The thought would sustain him.

  Below them, a shrill voice penetrated the trapdoor. “Enough prayers, already! Eli and Moshe, come eat! And wash your hands well after being up there with the pigeons!”

  ***

  News of Roosevelt’s latest appeal on behalf of a Jewish homeland had just clattered off the London wires. Murphy scanned it briefly. He was certain that the American response to the Woodhead Commission’s purpose in Palestine would evoke a spate of indignant replies on British editorial pages in the morning. After all, the young soldier killed on the wall of Jerusalem had not been American, but English. It was not an American family who was receiving home the body of their son, but an English mother!

  Beyond the glass cubicle of Murphy’s office, the typewriters of a dozen reporters pecked out the latest news from around the continent of Europe. The arrival of the body of this soldier killed on the Old City wall had sparked a greater response than the brutality against twelve thousand Jews in Germany.

  The phone on his desk rang insistently, pulling him from his bitter reverie. He picked up the receiver, uncertain of the voice on the other end of the line.

  “Mr. Murphy? John Murphy?” asked the precise English accent of a man.

  “Speaking.”

  “You are the husband of Elisa Murphy?”

  The question made Murphy stir in a moment of dread. “Yes. What is it?”

  There was a moment of uneasy silence on the other end of the line. “This is Sir Thomas Beecham,” the conductor began. “I assure you that I am not normally in the habit of reading other people’s mail, but the secretary brought me something quite disturbing a few moments ago.”

  Now Murphy’s stomach churned. “Okay, concerning Elisa?”

  “A card addressed to her from Paris. I did not want to alarm her or frighten her considering her . . . delicate condition. But the message is one word. Written in German. It says, simply, GEFAHR. You understand German, Mr. Murphy?”

  Murphy nodded before he repeated the word in English. “Danger.”

  ***

  It was the look in Murphy’s eyes that frightened Elisa most. She cradled her violin in her arms and glanced first at Murphy, then back to the towering hulk of a man who stood grinning down at her.

  “Freddie has worked at the loading dock of the Times for years.” Murphy thumped the giant on his back. Freddie tipped his ragged tweed cap and continued to smile benignly. His face was pleasant but deeply lined, and his nose took a slight bend to the right. His chin jutted forward as if daring some invisible adversary to take a poke. Large ears protruded on either side of the lumpy face. The ears were the most interesting aspect of Freddie’s physical appearance. They seemed to have been inflated like helium balloons. Normal folds and indentations were the very image of cauliflowers.

  “Freddie was once one of the greatest Rugby players in Great Britain.” Murphy thumped the giant again and then tugged on his own earlobe as if to explain the man’s battered appearance.

  Elisa smiled politely. She had not yet guessed the reason Murphy had brought this kind ox home. At six feet five and three hundred pounds, Fred Frutschy was a man to reckon with; that much was undeniable. But why?

  Freddie shuffled his feet slightly. He doffed his cap, revealing a nearly bald head. He smiled broadly, displaying a gap where his four front teeth should have been. “Missus Murphy,” he said in a gentle voice, the voice of a man much smaller, “real pleased to meet you, Missus.”

  “You are wor
king for Trump News now?” Elisa tried to guess why the dock worker from the London Times now stood wringing his cap in her front room.

  Murphy and Freddie exchanged glances. Murphy cleared his throat and raised his chin authoritatively. “Elisa,” he began, faltered, and began again. “Freddie is working for me . . . for us.”

  Freddie was nodding enthusiastically and looking eagerly at his new boss to explain his position as an employee.

  “How . . . very nice.” Elisa was confused. There were no stacks of newspapers to load like at the news service. Janitor? Messenger?

  “Bodyguard.” Murphy dropped the title like a boulder in a clear pond.

  Elisa worked her mouth open and closed. Open again. “But why? Mr. Tedrick said there was . . . no threat!”

  “You don’t trust that government goon, and neither do I.” Murphy frowned. He thumped Freddie for the third time, as if demonstrating the muscle of a fine horse. “Nobody’s gonna get past Freddie here. Not Tedrick, or Tedrick’s men, or . . . anyone.”

  Elisa found herself nodding. Yes. The very fact that Murphy could think there was need for a bodyguard made her tremble inside.

  “We got me a uniform, Missus.” Freddie’s head bobbed vigorously.

  “Uniform?” Elisa squeaked.

  “Chauffeur.” Murphy was more confident, relieved that she had not protested.

  “But we don’t have an auto,” she protested.

  Murphy jerked a thumb toward the front window. He stepped aside as she went to look. A gleaming black car was parked at the curb. It seemed to stretch the width of the house. “A 1932 Duesenberg,” Murphy said sheepishly. “I got a deal on it.”

  “Used to drive a taxi, Missus,” Freddie volunteered. “An’ I can carry packages for you as well.” He waved a big paw toward her violin case. “I likes children. Me an’ the missus have seven of our own. Mostly grown now. An’ twenty-two grandchildren as well.”