by Bodie Thoene
She held her breath and swung herself over the railing. For an instant she clung tightly to the makeshift rope, unable to move.
The bells of Christ Church chimed six as the sun began to push up over the horizon.
“Help me, please,” Victoria whispered. She did not address her prayer to anyone in particular. Allah, the god of her fathers, she now hated. Eli’s God she did not know. Once more she looked over the railing. Once more she heard the chiming of the bells from Christ Church. Go, they seemed to urge. Go now! Taking a deep breath, she slipped down and down, finally collapsing onto the stones at the bottom.
A light flicked on behind the curtains of her brothers’ room. Stifling the urge to cry out, she gathered up the pillowcase and fled toward the high wooden gate of the courtyard.
They will hear you! Her heart thumped a desperate warning. She forced her trembling hands to pull back the bolt carefully and quietly. The hinges groaned as she slipped through the narrow opening and eased the gate back in place.
First Victoria scanned up the street and then down again. She couldn’t decide which way she should run now that she was free. She had not really believed she would get this far.
She could not go to work today. Perhaps her brothers would look for her at the King David Hotel. Perhaps they would come into the offices and pull her out from behind her desk while the shocked Englishmen looked on.
Eli! Did she dare run to his home for shelter and safety? It could not be! The fury of Haj Amin and her brothers would turn there, and the day would become a day of massacre in the Old City.
Again she raised her eyes to the crowded skyline of the Old City. The purple sky lightened and a beam of light crashed against the bell tower of Christ Church. Come! the bells seemed to say. Come in.
That was it! She could hide in the garden of Christ Church. She could crouch behind the shrubs in the courtyard until Eli came for her! And then . . . ?
Victoria could not think that far ahead. Over the wall she heard the voice of Daud shout the alarm: “Victoria is gone!”
She began to run wildly through the deserted streets. Her robes clung to her legs, holding her back as if she fled in a nightmare.
Her breath pushed and pulled against the veil that hid her face. Just ahead she could see the crowded souk where farmers stacked their produce for a day of selling. There were no Muslim merchants in the souk today. The stalls were ominously empty. There were no Muslim women shopping early beneath the vaulted roofs. Only Christians. Armenians. Jews.
Victoria was frightened. She did not stop to listen to whispered words of warning that passed from one merchant to another.
“Something happening today . . .”
“I will not stay open long this morning!”
Victoria emerged on the other side of the souk into the Christian Quarter. She glanced back over her shoulder to see if she had been followed. They will come! They will come looking for me! Any minute they will be here!
She began to run again, bursting through a group of startled Copt priests, past the entrance to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and finally into Omar Square, where Christian Arabs already thronged on their way in and out of Jaffa Gate.
She dashed across the Square, bumping into two British soldiers.
They shouted something to her, then laughed. She did not hear their words. And then, when she was certain she could run no longer, Christ Church!
36
Saturday People
Herschel had never seen so much money. Almost a thousand francs were laid out on the rough wool blanket on his bed. Hans smiled benignly as Herschel lifted the bills up and let them flutter down like leaves.
“But how?” Herschel asked in amazement.
Hans shrugged evasively. “Let us say a collection. From friends.”
Herschel ran his hands over the money. He could scarcely believe it. This was much more than he expected or needed. “All of this . . . so much!”
“You will need a new suit of clothes. You cannot check into the hotel in the rags you are wearing. You will need a large trench coat, something with deep pockets for the gun. And the gun. Of course, you will need to buy a suitable weapon. The rest is for your escape.”
Herschel managed a smile. “Escape.” He repeated the impossible word. Then he frowned. “I have decided that I must see my uncle and aunt again. And my friend Nathan, before—”
Suddenly Hans looked angry. “You will jeopardize everything if you go back there! I forbid it!”
Herschel blinked stupidly at him. “Forbid? But I . . . I want to see my family at least before—”
Hans raised his eyebrow and studied Herschel. “Who found you this room, eh? Who has been your friend? You are worried to show your face, and who takes care of you? I do!”
“I wish only to know if they have any word about my parents.”
“Why? So you can back out now? After I have brought you all this? Made it possible for you to be a hero and avenge your family and your people?”
Herschel was silent.
It began to rain again. It had not stopped raining for two weeks. He looked at the money and thought about the new coat he would buy. The business suit. The gun. “You have been my friend,” he said with a note of shame at his obstinacy. “I will not fail in this.” Thus he dropped the issue of visiting his uncle and his friend Nathan. But he had made up his mind. There was a good chance he would not see them again. A very good chance that he would not walk out of the German Embassy alive. There were things he wanted to say. He would go to them after Hans left Paris for good tomorrow.
“I am grateful you see reason.” Hans appeared relieved, although Herschel had not told him his intentions. “I am leaving tomorrow. I will read the papers and wait for word. When you escape, you will know where I will be.”
“Marseilles.”
“And then Portugal. Lisbon.” He tapped his forehead. “You memorized the address?”
Herschel nodded again and began to gather up his fortune, stuffing the bills into the pockets of his ragged sweater.
***
No footprints marred the virgin white snow of Muranow Square this morning. Beautiful and glistening, the pristine blanket looked soft enough to sleep on.
Beyond the borders of the Warsaw ghetto, the goyim children would be building snowmen and pitching snowballs at one another.
But today was a special day in Muranow Square. Parents helped little boys and girls dress in the clothes they had laid out yesterday for the bar mitzvah service at the synagogue. Here in Muranow Square there would be no snowball fights, no noisy shouts or soggy mittens.
Rachel did not envy the raucous freedom of Catholic Warsaw. She loved the peace of their way of life.
Papa, looking more worn than peaceful, descended the stairs.
“Baby Yacov has a sniffle, children,” he said avoiding Rachel’s eyes. “Your mother will not be going to services this morning. Rachel, the boys will stand in the upper gallery with you, nu?”
Rachel felt ashamed. She could not forget the anger of her father’s voice toward her. She had not meant to listen in. She was wrong to have done so. She must ask God to forgive her this morning. She must pray that Papa would also forgive her.
He opened the door to a blast of wind; then, as the boys walked ahead, Papa touched Rachel on the arm and lifted her chin until his warm brown eyes held her sorrowing gaze.
“Forgive me for shouting, little one,” he said gently. “To speak harshly is more a sin than drawing blood. This morning I asked God to forgive me, and now I ask you.”
“Oh, Papa!” she cried, wrapping her arms around him. “Oh, Papa! I am so very sorry!”
He laughed, and everything was all right again. Mama called that they should go out or stay in, but at least shut the door! The voice sounded bossy and confident. Mama was all right again. Rachel followed Papa quickly out the door.
From every house, black-coated figures emerged. Cheeks were bright with cold. Little trails of footprints c
risscrossed Muranow Square. All feet pointed toward the steps of the great domed synagogue at the end of Przebieg Street. Mamas and papas. Old men and women hobbling on canes. Strapping young men in proud new beards and broad fur-trimmed hats.
Papa’s face was peaceful as Rachel looked up at him. Black hat and coat. Black beard and dark eyes. Breath a vapor that kept time with each crunching step. All this framed by the white backdrop of the snow.
Yes. Everything felt normal again. Rachel would not worry. Perhaps everything Papa had said was right. After all, she did not see any sign of the watcher this morning in Muranow. Had he given up? Decided that the Jewish rabbi was not worth watching, after all?
And then, as the peace seemed to descend over them, something in her father’s face changed. There were murmurs now instead of greetings. Children focused sharply on their parents’ faces as big hands clamped tensely around little fingers. The rhythm of her father’s breath quickened, and his eyes flicked nervously toward the end of Pokorna Street. Then he swung around to look over his shoulder at the far end of Muranowska Street.
Instinctively Rachel followed his gaze. Samuel and David also mimicked the searching glances of their father and the other adults walking toward the synagogue.
“What do we do?” shouted a short, round man. “Rabbi Lubetkin?” he called to Papa.
“Ignore them.” Papa’s voice was calm, almost patronizing.
In that same instant, Rachel saw them at the ends of the streets. There was a wall of them: Poles, Saturday people. They glared down toward Muranow Square. They did not speak among themselves. There were some men on horseback. Policemen?
“Papa!” David cried in alarm.
“Ignore them,” Papa said in that same too-calm voice. “Keep walking, children. Into the synagogue. Do not look back. Do not act as though you are frightened.”
Rachel was frightened. She had heard of pogroms. Such demonstrations were common in the outlying provinces—Jews attacked and beaten by the Saturday people.
Rachel felt her heart beat faster as they neared the steps of the synagogue. The great carved doors loomed up like a fortress. They swung open, and families hurried up the steps.
“Slowly,” Papa warned again. “We do not see them.”
Rachel wanted to run. The silence of the Saturday people was ominous. There were hundreds of them. Why did they stay just beyond the ghetto border? Were they content to send their hatred through the morning air on looks alone? Would they attack?
One step at a time, Papa nudged the children ahead of him. The color was gone from his face. There were others walking behind them. The doors of the synagogue would not be closed and bolted until every Jew on the street was safely in.
“Women and children upstairs to the gallery,” Papa instructed. Still rational, he helped the more frightened of his congregation to remain calm.
“Oh, Rabbi! Is it a pogrom? Are they coming? Are the goyim coming here too?”
Papa raised his hands to quiet the murmur that bordered on panic. “We will have our Shabbat service. Morris? Is everyone in?” A long last look out at the Square. A nod. “Then close the doors. Slide the bolt. Lock up tight.”
***
Eli stood with his cheek against the stones of the Western Wall as the sun rose. Lists of the dead and wounded had been posted. The name of Victoria had not been among them. For this, Eli gave thanks.
The faces of the young Arab men on the posters above the lists troubled him. He could not be certain, but two of the terrorists bore a marked resemblance to the two youngest brothers of Victoria and Ibrahim. Her brothers? What, then, was Eli to do if this was so? Surely someone else in the Old City would identify them! Someone would report this to the British authorities and they would be arrested if the sketches on the posters were Isaak and Daud! Such a thing was not Eli’s responsibility, after all. There would be many in the Arab Quarter who would recognize the likeness.
Almost as soon as that hope entered his mind, another thought chased it out. What Muslim would dare to report that the faces on the posters seemed like those of the Hassan brothers? Even for money, it would take a brave man to speak up.
How could Eli report them and still look Victoria in the eye? They were her brothers, after all! And yet, if they did this thing, many innocent people had died at their hands. The unborn child of Leah and Shimon was among the lost.
This morning Eli had watched from a distance as Shimon helped Leah up the steps of their flat. The women of the Quarter had whispered among themselves. “She was expecting, poor thing . . ..” Eli had not gone to visit. How could he face the couple with the images on the posters burning in his mind? “Shalom, I hope you recover. Oh, by the way, I think I know who bombed Julian’s Way, but I am not talking.”
Was it enough for Eli to pray that someone else in the Old City would recognize them and be courageous enough to speak up?
Eli stood before the wall and prayed that very thing. But when he had finished, he realized that a prayer for justice was not enough. If other men went to the authorities, Eli would be one more confirmation of their report. If no one else went, then Eli alone would do what he knew was right. He would pray now that Victoria would understand and not hate him for it.
***
Victoria was gone. She had vanished into the crooked streets of the Old City like a vapor. Ibrahim released the knot of her makeshift rope and let it fall to the cobblestones of the courtyard below. His brothers stood behind him, angry. They spoke of finding her, of taking her far away so that she could not betray them. But where to find her?
It was time, Ibrahim reasoned, to tell them.
“She will be with the Jew, Eli Sachar,” he said in a low, menacing voice.
Silence fell over the three brothers as they considered Ibrahim’s words and wondered how he could know such a thing.
“Eli? The Jew friend whom you have put above your own brothers?” asked Isaak.
“How do you know such a thing?” Ismael demanded, putting a rough hand on Ibrahim’s shoulder and spinning him around.
“Eli?” Daud asked stupidly, “Eli Sachar? The Jew?” He could not understand.
Ibrahim licked his lips. His mouth felt dry, and he tasted the iron taste of fear. “Victoria loves him.”
“But he is a Jew!” Daud declared.
Ismael shoved Daud. “Shut up!” he hissed. Then he stepped close to Ibrahim. “She loves this Jew, Eli Sachar? Tell us how you know this.”
“I have known for a long time. I did not discourage it, thinking he would join us.”
Ismael’s face contorted with rage. He spit into Ibrahim’s face. “You are the flesh of swine. You have given our sister to a Jew?”
Ibrahim wiped the spittle from his cheek. He clenched his fists and considered using the dagger beneath his shirt, but he restrained himself. “If we find Eli Sachar we will find Victoria. That we must do first. For the sake of Daud and Isaak, we must find her and bring her back.” He glared into the smoldering eyes of Ismael. “Later, I will settle with you. When we have her back, then I will fight you.”
Ismael nodded brusquely. He turned to Isaak and Daud. “You two go to the caverns beneath the Dome of the Rock. Find Vargen. You must hide there in case she has already betrayed you. Ibrahim and I will find her and bring her back. No word of this must be told to Ram Kadar or Vargen. Do you understand? We will need this marriage as an alliance.” He grabbed Daud’s shirt. “Before Allah and the prophet, you must swear that you will say nothing to them! Swear it!”
Trembling, Daud raised his hand. Then Ismael repeated the demand to Isaak, who also agreed.
“Get out of here, then,” Ismael demanded. “Ibrahim and I will find the Jew and Victoria.”
***
The frost of winter mingled with the breath of worshippers to fog the windowpanes of the Warsaw synagogue. Rachel watched through the lattice of the women’s gallery as the men of the congregation, heads covered by the wool of prayer shawls, faced toward Jerusalem. The words
inscribed above the ark proclaimed an awesome warning: KNOW BEFORE WHOM YOU STAND.
Although women were not required to pray the Shemoneh Esrei, Rachel let her lips move silently with the lips of her father as he recited the eighteen blessings. She had done so all her young life until the prayer was carved in her heart as clearly as in the heart of any man.
Blessed are Thou, Lord our God and God of our fathers,
God of Abraham, God of Isaac, and God of Jacob . . .
Like a flock of birds across the sky, other names filled the silent prayer of Rachel. God of my grandfather who worships you in Jerusalem, God of my own father, Aaron Lubetkin . . . She changed the words each time and so never tired of finding new ways of tracing her family lineage to the God of her fathers. She did not trust her own heart to reach out to this great and awesome God, but she had family connections, after all. So maybe God would listen—even though she was just a woman and perhaps not even that yet. Perhaps the great, mighty, and awesome God would turn His attention for an instant to the women’s gallery and hear this woman-child as she whispered her blessings and requests:
. . . Master of all,
Who remembers the gracious deeds of our forefathers,
And who will bring a Redeemer with love to their children for His Name’s sake.
King, Helper, Savior and Protector.
With this last word Protector, Rachel shut her eyes and grasped the lattice tightly as she prayed. Protect us please. My papa . . . I heard him and Mama talking. I am afraid. I am afraid for all of us. I am just a girl and You are the Awesome God, but I am here praying like the men. I hope You do not mind. Papa says Dr. Letzno has been followed, and now for a week I have seen a man outside in the street watching our house, too.
Rachel opened her eyes with a start. She had fallen far behind on the recitation of the blessings. Papa had already repeated the sixth blessing of forgiveness:
Forgive us, our Father, for we have sinned . . .
