by Bodie Thoene
Soldiers passed. An Armenian priest passed. Victoria did not come. He stared through the wrought iron into the courtyard of the church where an enormous oleander bloomed and plum trees dropped their leaves in memory of autumn in faraway England where their mother trees grew. Everything about this place was foreign. The English had built this stone church to lure Jews away from their faith, Eli had heard. He had grown up with the warning ringing in his ears that he must be polite to them, but he must not go into their building. Men entered as Jews and left as something else.
Minutes crawled by. Eli was angry at himself that he had thought this was such a good idea. He should have sent Moshe back with an alternate plan! But then, Moshe had also thought the strategy was sound.
A gardener worked beneath a plum tree. He raked and piled purple leaves onto the flagstones. Eli watched him, then turned and looked unhappily up the street toward Omar Square again. If she was coming that way, he would have seen her already. That meant she had either changed her mind, or she was already in there.
He drew a breath and stepped forward, laying a hand against the wrought-iron bars of the gate. Still I have not entered. A silly thing to be this nervous. Moshe would not be nervous. Moshe sees them all the time.
The wizened old gardener straightened his back for a moment, then leaned heavily on his rake. He was also dressed in rumpled khaki. He was an Englishman. Eli could tell easily by the white straw hat and the bright blue eyes that sparkled out from beneath folds of skin.
“Lovely day, isn’t it?” the old man said to Eli.
Eli answered with a nod. He did not wish to give away his origins by speaking.
“Just raking up the last of the plums. The ones the birds got.” He stooped and picked out a large half-eaten plum from among the leaves. “What a waste. Paid a boy to shoo them away, but more kept flying in. Finally I gave the tree to the birds. There are no finer plums in Jerusalem. Don’t mind sharing with the sparrows if they just wouldn’t waste!” The old man stared at the plum, then glanced at Eli. He studied Eli with the same intensity with which he had looked at the plum. “Waiting for someone?”
Eli nodded again. He tried a slight smile for the sake of politeness.
“You won’t find her out here.” The gardener scratched his head. He tossed away the plum and scowled up at the ungrateful birds.
“Who?” Eli was startled by the by the old man’s seeming knowledge of her . . . He took his hand off the iron gate as if it might burn him.
“Victoria. Are you not here for Victoria? She has been in the chapel.” He examined the sky as if it were a clock. “Half an hour. She was early. Come in! I did not notice you there, or I would have told you sooner. Come on. Through the gate and that way.” He pointed his rake toward the entrance of the church, then returned to his work as Eli held his breath and plunged that first step into the courtyard of Christ Church.
***
The letter to Etta was duly deposited into the mail slot at the Mandate post office in Allenby Square. The old rabbi knew that it would take at least eight weeks to arrive in Warsaw. First it would travel by slow boat to England. Once there, it might float aimlessly from this capital to that. Oy! The frustration! But at least it was quicker now than it had been when he was a boy. Then it had taken maybe eight months for a letter to go from Jerusalem to Warsaw. And sometimes it did not arrive at all.
Ah, well. Rabbi Lebowitz himself was slowing down these days. The heat of the afternoon seemed to push him backward as he leaned into the incline up toward Jaffa Gate. He raised his eyes to heaven and smiled. The Jell-O in his pockets seemed to call, Look up on the wall, old man. There are English soldiers there, nu?
“Yes! Enough! I see them already!” The old rabbi passed through the teeming gate and turned right along the road of the Armenian patriarchate. The barracks of the Old City British soldiers was along this road, near to Christ Church. Plenty of Englishmen there might be willing to explain the mystery of the lime and the cherry powders.
He yawned wearily and studied the faces of the soldiers in search for the one who might meet his eyes and be of service to the cooks of Tipat Chalev.
Soldiers emerged from the stone barracks along the wall. Other soldiers stood in the niches on guard against wild Arab bands and old Jewish rabbis with bombs disguised as Jell-O packets. Who to ask? There was an abundance of Englishmen here, all moving this way or that without stopping.
Rabbi Lebowitz stopped in the center of the cobbled road. He frowned. He squinted. He shaded his eyes against the glare. There, in front of the gate of Christ Church, was a young Englishman dressed all in khaki who looked very much—no, exactly like young Eli Sachar!
But of course it could not be Eli Sachar. Eli was back at Tipat Chalev moving crates of this loathsome, troublesome stuff. The old man removed a box from his pocket and held it up to hail the young man at the gate.
Such similarity could not be ignored! God had sent this English look-alike especially to help, the old man was certain. He could say, “You look just like a young fellow only a few blocks from here! Come see . . . and while you’re at it, there is this stuff from America!”
A crowd of Armenian schoolchildren passed between the old man and the miraculous twin. And at that moment, Oy! The young man who looked like Eli Sachar but who could not be Eli Sachar stepped through the gate of Christ Church.
This was also proof that the young man could not be Eli. Every old one in the Jewish Quarter remembered the reason all the Sachars avoided passing within the shadow of Christ Church. Some, over the years, had even walked on the opposite side of the street from the building, while the more devout among them took a different route altogether.
But still, might this be some descendant of that early apostate Sachar who had walked into Christ Church a Jew and emerged as something else? Interesting. “Perhaps I should wait,” the old man mumbled out loud. “There are reasons why these things happen.”
Behind him the horn of a military truck blared loudly. He jumped and whirled as if he were a young man. Then he forgot all about the Sachar relative. He dropped the box of lime Jell-O as he leaped to the side.
The truck pulled up in front of the barracks and the British captain, Samuel Orde, climbed out.
The officer strode directly toward the old rabbi, his hand extended. “So sorry!” he apologized. “The driver was watching the children, and . . . are you all right?”
Rebbe Lebowitz smiled. Everyone in the Old City knew that Captain Samuel Orde was fluent in several languages. No doubt he was familiar with Jell-O.
“Just the fellow!” the rabbi cried happily. “Such meetings are not accidental, you know. You have nearly run me down just at a time when I need your help.” He thrust the box into the captain’s hand. “A gift from America. Crates and crates for Tipat Chalev. We do not know if we should eat it or clean the sinks with it!” The rabbi paused as Orde grinned broadly.
“It may be difficult without proper refrigeration, Rabbi.”
“Proper . . . you freeze it?”
Orde laughed. He nudged his cap back on his head. “There might be something down at the quartermaster’s warehouse. Perhaps we could make a trade. Tipat Chalev and the British Army, eh?”
The old man nodded slowly. These Englishmen were really good fellows. It had been much better in Jerusalem since they had come. First the mail delivery had speeded up, and now this. Who cared so much if they sent their little fact-finding committees—as long as they only talked.
“Powdered milk? Maybe cocoa?” The rabbi grinned slyly.
“Into the truck with you.” Captain Orde gave the order. “We’ll see what we can do.”
The Eternal be praised! All along the Merciful One had this in mind. Oy! Still sending manna in strange ways, nu? Giving this Englishman an afternoon of rest from guiding his silly politicians around Jerusalem. And all so you can bring powdered milk and cocoa to your children at Tipat Chalev! True? Of course true!
***
The raspi
ng noise of the rake followed Eli beneath the high stone portals of a building that seemed to have been transported from the English countryside. He knew a little about Christ Church. His great-grandfather had fought against its erection as the first Protestant church inside the walls of Jerusalem. We fear these English missionaries, the old man had written in his journal in 1838. They capture the minds of our youth and pull them from their roots. The old rabbi’s battle against the London Society for Promotion of Christianity Amongst the Jews was still remembered. When the Protestants had opened a medical clinic, so had the Jewish Quarter. Other sects had become worried by the activities of these Protestants. A healthy competition sprang up because of it, and Jerusalem had become a better place. But in the end, a son of the old Rabbi Sachar had converted. He had walked through these portals a Jew and had emerged something else.
Eli looked up at the Gothic arches and wondered what thoughts must have gone through the mind of that young man to make him abandon his faith and his people? Since that day until this, no Sachar had ever set foot on the ground of Christ Church! Not until now! Eli wondered what the old rabbi would have said if he could have seen this moment.
He pushed the doors open and entered the auditorium. Spare and Gothic in construction, the place was one of the few buildings in Jerusalem with a wooden roof. So English! And yet in the center panel of the altar a Star of David and a crown were inlaid in the wood. There was no sign of the fearsome Christian cross in this building. Eli sighed with a release of tension. There were no graven images like the ones sold to pilgrims in the souks. No plaster saints. Only high stone walls and stained-glass windows and wooden chairs on the stone floor, and . . . Victoria!
She sat in a shadow at the very back of the church. She did not hear him come in, so he let the heavy door swing shut with a dull boom. She started, turned, and smiled with relief, motioning him to join her.
Every doubt, every feeling of foreboding melted away from him. He forgot about his clothing. He thought no more of his apostate great-uncle and the fury of the old Rabbi Sachar! He rushed down the side aisle. She stood and stretched out her arms to embrace him. And then, even here, Victoria kissed him, and Eli forgot entirely that they were beneath the wooden roof of the much-feared Christ Church! He could think of nothing but Victoria. Why had he ever worried? She loved him! That was all that mattered.
He stroked her soft hair and held her close. Delicate arms squeezed him as if she were afraid to let him go. He whispered her name. It was like a prayer.
“I thought you were not coming,” she said at last. “I was so afraid you had changed your mind.”
He pulled her deeper into the shadow of a pillar and kissed her again. “I have thought only of you.” The words were almost entirely true. The doubts meant nothing now that they were together. It was always like that.
She took his hand and led him to the chairs. “We have to talk, darling. So much to talk about.”
He did not want to talk, but he nodded and sat beside her. She leaned against his arm and he held her hand. He was grateful that they were alone in this place. Yes, there was much to talk about, but for a while, he simply wanted to sit here beside her and cherish her nearness.
24
The Barter
It seemed like a long time before Victoria raised her head and spoke. Her words were not about love, however. “Ibrahim is angry with me.” Her dark eyes flashed resentment when she spoke the name of her brother. “He says he will not help us any longer.”
“But why?” Such news startled Eli. All along he had interpreted lack of communication as a sign that Victoria had decided against his proposal. But it had meant something else.
“Because I would not promise him that I will not go . . . away with you.”
“He knows how we feel,” Eli protested.
“He hopes that you will join our people. He will not tolerate it if I should be the one to leave.” She clutched his hand and stared bleakly up at the red glass of a window. “There is something terrible coming, Eli. My half brothers talk quietly among themselves. They become silent when I enter.”
“Do they know? About us?”
Victoria shook her head. “Ibrahim will not tell them. I am certain of that. They would kill you, or have you killed. He does not like it that you have not joined our people, but he would never go so far.” She bit her lip. “No. It is something else. Something . . . terrible,” she finished lamely, letting her hands fall to her lap.
“Then we must settle this, Victoria.” He was resolute. He took both of her hands in his. “I will speak with my parents and with the rabbis. We will settle the matter.”
She shook her head. “I . . . I can’t. Please, Eli. I just need a little time.” She sighed and leaned against his arm again. “I am afraid.”
Eli smiled in spite of her fears. He had won. She would be his wife. He would not tell her now that their marriage would mean he could not be a rabbi. He did not seem to hear anything else. “It will be all right now.” He touched her cheek. “This is a good place to meet. We will come here every Friday, nu? Just like this. Time will pass quickly, you will see.”
She nodded. “But still I am afraid when I am not with you.” She pressed her face harder against his arm as if she might burrow into him and hide. “I see it in their faces. Little Daud. There is such hate in him now. He was such a good little brother. But now—and Isaak! He hates every Englishman and every Jew. He asks me always to tell him about things the British have me type each day. At night they go to meetings.” She paused as if the faces of her brothers were before her. “I am afraid for them.” She glanced up at Eli. “They are my brothers, and I am afraid for them! They argue with Father about the Mufti. At the table they shout about the British and Zionists. And my stepmother is one of them. I hear her after my brothers storm from the house.”
Somehow Eli could not find it in himself to share her grief about the Hassan brothers. He could think only of the fact that, like Ruth of old, Victoria would leave her people to be with him. His God would be her god. His people, her people. Was there anything else in the world that mattered?
He gazed at the altar of Christ Church as she spoke softly of her brothers. Her voice was a distant sorrow that receded behind his joy. He smiled at the Star of David. Strange to see that symbol in a Christian church. He had not expected it. It seemed as if it had been placed there just for him, a good omen that this was the ideal place for them to meet.
Victoria’s voice seemed far away. “ . . . and Daud’s face was bloody. But not his own blood . . .”
“Don’t worry,” he cajoled. “We will come here often. Maybe more than just Friday. No one will know. Everything will work out, you’ll see.”
“They would not tell Father where they had been. And then we heard about the British sergeant killed in Ramle . . . ”
“When the time is right we will marry and leave this place . . . ”
“It is so hard to think that my own brothers . . . ,” she continued.
“Perhaps we will make a life in America.”
“They think they are right. They serve Haj Amin, Shetan himself, and yet they think they are right.”
Their thoughts poured out like water, but the streams flowed in opposite directions. And so they passed the hour in conversation even though they were not speaking to each other.
“If only there was a way, Victoria.” Eli sighed and traced the Hebrew writing on the altar cloth with his eyes: Incline your ear, and come unto me: hear, and your soul shall live; and I will make an everlasting covenant with you.
She raised her head as though she heard a distant voice. “Perhaps we do not have to wait so long.” She squeezed his hand and new hope shined from her eyes as she looked up at the lofty ceiling. “May Allah help us,” she breathed.
“I will think what we must do, Victoria. I will send word to you with Leah Feldstein on Tuesday. Maybe by then I will have an answer.” He touched her face and gazed into her eyes. “Until then I make a
covenant with you. My heart is knit to yours.” He gestured toward the altar. “Here, in this place that is neither yours nor mine, there are no rules or laws that would forbid our love. For this moment and forever, I am not a Jew and you are not a Muslim.”
“You are not a Jew and I am not a Muslim,” Victoria repeated.
Eli smiled wistfully. “I had an uncle who entered this place one time and left it another sort of man. I feel . . . I do not know what I feel being here with you on this neutral ground. But I will pray and think.”
“I cannot think any longer, Eli.” Victoria leaned her head against his shoulder. “You must think for us both, or I will break. I only know I love you, and that I am afraid.”
Eli nodded. In his heart he whispered, I will incline my ear to you, O God!
***
Samuel Orde had never seen so much Jell-O—crates and crates of the stuff and anxious, unhappy Jewish faces looking hopefully at him.
“You think he will take it?”
“For milk and cocoa? You think they would exchange such schlock merchandise?”
These words were whispered in Yiddish as Samuel Orde strolled among the boxes labeled Cherry and Lime. He personally did not care for lime, but soldiers took what they were served and so the Old City troops would eat the stuff and like it. He would arrange the matter with the company cook and quartermaster. Here also was a chance to rid the warehouse of a ton of rock-hard English walnuts that the cooks had been cursing since their arrival a fortnight before!
“The merchandise appears to be in order.” Orde peered thoughtfully at a crate in the basement. The whispers at the top of the stairs grew silent with hopeful anticipation.
Can the Englishman be such a fool?
The old rabbi rocked coyly back and forth on his heels in an effort not to appear too eager. “Powdered milk and cocoa?”
“Yes, yes.”
“And also!” The rabbi held his finger aloft. “Sugar? Flour, perhaps?”
Orde considered the request. The cooks would not stand for sugar and flour to be traded. “No.” He scratched his chin. “But perhaps we might throw in a few bags of good English walnuts. All the way from England. Very fine nuts they are, too.”
