by Bodie Thoene
“Please,” Weizmann urged him on.
“If the Reich will allow its Jewish population to leave with, say, one-third of their assets, this would satisfy the countries who refuse to take paupers.”
“And how do we convince Hitler and Himmler and Goebbels of the value of such a scheme?” Weizmann expressed the question in every man’s mind.
“If we manage to lift the boycott on German exports, if the nations of the West pledge to purchase large quantities of German exports . . . You see? This would then be a matter of simple economics.”
“Ah.” Weizmann frowned at the simplicity of the idea. “The Nazis have attempted to sell Jewish hostages without success. The only profit they have found is in looting Jewish homes and businesses. But . . . if we can make it more profitable for the Reich to allow the refugees to leave with even a fraction of savings in exchange for larger purchases of German goods . . . ”
“Then we manage to appeal to the bank account rather than the decency of Hitler’s Reich. There is no other way.”
The men in the room exchanged startled glances. Why had they not thought of such a plan before Evian? And where would they begin, now that doors seemed to be closing around the world?
Theo also had the answer to that question. “Perhaps it would be sensible to propose a meeting with the British foreign secretary. And another with the colonial secretary?” He again directed his proposal to Weizmann. “You know them both well.”
Weizmann nodded. It would take a businessman to match wits with the Nazis, all right. “What is the saying?” Weizmann pondered a moment. “We must be wise as serpents and as gentle as doves.”
***
So. Just like that, the Old City was open for business again. Had anyone been shot on the wall? You could not tell it from the way the merchants argued over the prices of fresh vegetables in the souks. Back to normal, they said this morning among the minyan of Rabbi Shlomo Lebowitz.
“Maybe the English have given the screaming Arab child his lollipop under the table, nu?” Something had quieted the racket, at any rate.
Rabbi Lebowitz carefully penned a note to the Eternal and headed through the narrow lanes of the Old City toward the ancient stones of the Western Wall. Once there, prayer shawl over his head, he raised his hands in blessing to God and placed the folded slip of paper into a crack between the stones. The prayer of eighteen blessings rose in a whisper before the Eternal, who hears the hearts and secret desires of the righteous. “And grant, O Eternal, that I may live to see my grandson here in the land of Zion. That we may worship you together in this place where our fathers worshipped you in days of old. A blessing upon Yacov, son of the Covenant.”
***
The black smoke of Muslim bonfires was replaced this morning by a cool breeze and rain clouds that promised some relief to all of Palestine.
Still in Shimon’s arms, Leah was awakened by a crisp knocking against the wooden tent frame. A cheery British voice called out their names. “Shimon and Leah Feldstein in here, are they?”
Shimon wrapped a rough army-issued blanket around himself and pulled back the tent flap a fraction. A smiling British officer with a broad handlebar mustache touched the brim of his hat in greeting. “Mr. Feldstein?”
“I am Shimon Feldstein.”
“Yes. They told me you were here. You have friends in high places, eh?” He presented Shimon with a folded yellow slip of paper. “From the British high commissioner himself. Permission for you and your wife to continue ahead to Jerusalem without the usual stay here in the camp.”
Shimon studied the message. “But the demonstrations . . .”
“Nothing more than demonstrations,” shrugged the cheerful officer. “No danger. A few burning tires is all. Little show from the Muslims for the benefit of the Woodhead Commission. Quite effective. I heard they were trembling in their shoes. Thought the ground was exploding around them.”
The fellow peered around Shimon to where Leah gazed back with sleepy curiosity. “Mrs. Feldstein,” he said. “Leah Feldstein.” He touched his cap again nervously. “I heard you perform once in London. Several years ago. Stunning.” He motioned toward the slip of paper in Shimon’s hands. “The high commissioner heard you had arrived. He is quite hopeful you might perform for the troops in Jerusalem. A bit of civilization from Europe, as it were. There is an important British committee visiting from London. It would be . . . helpful . . . for their impression of the Mandate.”
“Perform?” Leah and Shimon exchanged looks. “Where? When?”
“Tonight. The mess hall at Allenby barracks in Jerusalem. Members of the Jewish Agency would also be invited. Your recordings are quite popular with the high commissioner, I understand. After yesterday’s demonstration, a little music to calm the savage beasts, eh?”
“And then?” Shimon asked wonderingly. They had never dreamed they would be allowed into Jerusalem so soon.
“Well, then I suppose you may go where you like. You have relatives in the Old City, we were told.”
“One relative. A great-aunt. I have never met her,” Shimon explained. “But we have corresponded. Our things were shipped to her address in Jerusalem.”
“Well, then.” The officer seemed quite pleased. “It is all settled. Tonight you sleep in Jerusalem. Your bus leaves in twenty-five minutes.”
With the promise he would phone the high commissioner with the good news, the officer hurried off across the tent-studded compound.
***
Haj Amin gestured with a sweep of his hand at the twelve sullen Arab warriors who now gathered to meet with Doktor Hockman. Beneath their keffiyehs, black eyes burned, impatient for news from the Führer of Germany.
Hockman had memorized each name, each country of origin. Most of those within the crowded room were not from Palestine. They had been sent from neighboring Arab states to express complete Arab solidarity in the fight against the hated British and the Jews.
Hockman knew that Adolf Hitler was admired and now emulated by many of those in Muslim leadership. After all, the Führer had managed to defeat the decadent Western powers on the issue of Czechoslovakia without even a shot being fired. Britain’s leadership cowered before Hitler’s demands, and increasingly the Czech industrial territory was being devoured by the Reich. Every demand was being met. Every expectation was being exceeded. Hitler had only to speak and Britain and France obeyed, even at the expense of their allies. Perhaps it would be the same in Palestine. Even here the Führer would prevail!
Hockman opened his mouth to speak. “What you have seen in Czechoslovakia will also be accomplished here, my friends. Our armies marched over the Czech fortifications, and all the enemies of the Reich fled to Prague in hopes of shelter.” He smiled at the irony of anyone running to Prague for safety. “The Führer has demanded that those enemies be returned to the Reich for proper punishment. Thousands are already on their way to German prisons for the punishment they deserve. The Czechs now tremble at the Führer’s words, just as England and France trembled. Nothing is refused.”
A surly, grim-faced young man from Iraq lifted his chain defiantly. “Why does the Führer let the Jews go? Why does he let them come here to Palestine? Why does he simply not settle the Jewish problem on German soil instead of letting them go free for the nations of Islam to deal with?”
Heads nodded to this troublesome point. Haj Amin raised a hand to silence the muttering. “Have you forgotten?” he asked with a righteous smile. “Our holy prophet Mohammed tells us that when the Jews of the world are gathered east of the river, we will destroy them there. These refugees, these Jews, show us that this day is coming soon. The German Führer is the hand of Allah, as the prophet foretold. He drives the Jews toward destruction.”
Hockman smiled as well. “The Führer wishes you all to know that he has chosen a messenger of that destruction to come here to Jerusalem soon. Very soon you will meet him face-to-face, and he will teach you what you need to know to make the words of the Prophet come true.”
***
A soft autumn mist drifted across the face of the Mount of Olives. Gray wisps snagged on the onion-domed spires of the Russian Convent that bordered the Garden of Gethsemane.
Samuel Orde slowly climbed the narrow path that wound upward toward the ancient olive trees. He came here often—to pray, to think, to find some shred of hope in the fury that was wrapped around Jerusalem as the mist swirled among the olive trees.
This morning Orde’s heart was heavy. He knew the purpose of the Woodhead Commission’s visit to Palestine. The words and faces of these English aristocrats betrayed their intentions even before the inquiry had begun. And Orde had been commanded to keep his personal beliefs in check, or else.
He raised his eyes as a white-robed shadow moved beneath the branch of a gnarled olive tree. Stopping, he waited as the figure knelt on the hard ground—not to pray, but to pull weeds.
He smiled as he watched her. The Mother Superior of the Russian Convent pulled weeds with the same concentration as she might have exhibited saying her rosary.
Glancing up at him, the old woman smiled and waved, her fist full of grass. “Good morning, Samuel.”
“Morning prayers again, Mother?”
“A task that reminds me of the shortness of this life.” The old woman placed the weeds in a heap beside her and gestured for him to sit down. “We are like the new grass of the morning,” she said quietly. “’In the morning it flourisheth . . . in the evening it is cut down and withereth.’” The old woman raised an eyebrow and considered the troubled expression of her companion.
“A depressing thought, Mother,” he said glumly.
“On the contrary, Samuel.” She brushed the soil from her hands and sat back on her heels. “It is a thought of great comfort for those who love God and do His will. Life is short. Our trials in this life will pass quickly. ‘Teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom . . .’”
“Psalm 90, verse l2,” Orde responded, but his voice was not light as he spoke. He looked away from the old woman’s sparkling eyes. She was the daughter of a Russian aristocrat in Moscow. Once, before the revolution, she had been young and beautiful and courted by many men. But she had never been happy until she came to Jerusalem as a penniless refugee. She had lost everything she had loved, but here, she had found true life.
“You are troubled today, my friend.” The old woman patted his hand.
He nodded slowly, grateful she was here for him to share his thoughts. “Things are . . . ” He faltered, wondering how much he could say. “I am afraid a great injustice is about to be done.”
She raised her chin slightly. “I am certain you are right.”
“And I am unable to speak up. To do anything about it.”
“Ah.” She nodded. She was remembering something . . . something very far away, and yet still very fresh and near to her. “Perhaps you do not yet see how you may help, Samuel. It is not always clear until the Lord puts it right in front of you.”
“These are great matters. Dealing with many innocent lives.” He spoke carefully, reasoning his way through the frustration he felt. “Men from England who will decide . . .”
“I have read about their arrival. About the matters of the refugees.” She picked up a spindly weed and sighed. “These great men. They forget that they are grass, do they not, Samuel? I pray their decisions are wise. Merciful. Because great men are also grass.” She tossed away the stem and sat in silence for a moment, then closed her eyes and whispered, “But you, O Lord, sit enthroned forever. You will arise and have compassion on Zion, for it is time to show favor to her; the appointed time has come. The nations will fear the name of the Lord. The Lord will rebuild Zion and appear in his glory.” A soft smile crept across her lips. She opened her eyes. “It is written, Samuel. Do not be afraid. Men are unjust. But God is still God.”
That was all true, yet Orde could not rid himself of this sense of hopelessness, helplessness in the face of such twisted political power. He did not want to wait until the Lord himself returned to this peaceful mount in order for things to be put right! He longed for a righteous world now!
Orde looked around at the garden where Jesus had prayed until drops of holy blood had dripped onto the ground—this ground, where the weeds grew and an aged nun knelt to pray while she worked in peace. He felt a twinge of resentment that the old woman could manage to lump the wicked and the innocent into the same pile and say that God alone would sort them out.
“I do not doubt God’s future justice, Mother,” he said with a frown. “I only wish it would come now. Today.”
She returned to her work, gathering another handful of weeds from between the thick roots of a tree. “We mortals have a small and troubled view of time. If the wicked could have one glimpse of their eternal future, perhaps they would repent.” She shrugged. “And if the righteous could have one glimpse of their eternity with God, they would no longer fear what evil men might do to them in this life. No. I think we might pity the wicked man for the price he will pay for his sin.”
The old woman dumped another handful of grass onto the pile and then began to hum softly to herself. It was usually this way. She was right in what she said, yet Orde found very little comfort in that truth. He longed to do something! Anything to help ease the suffering of Jerusalem! But all he could do now was pray.
14
Gentle as Doves
Great heaps of luggage were piled on the roof of the Jerusalem bus. Ashen-faced, Leah gasped as her precious cello was tossed from one man to another and then up to the very top of the pile. She watched with horror as the case was wedged between two large wooden crates of chickens bound for the poultry market of Old City Jerusalem.
“Be careful with it,” Leah called up to the scruffy young man threading rope through luggage handles and wood slats until everything on top of the bus was connected. Shimon squeezed Leah’s hand.
“I would bribe him so the cello could ride inside with us, but we may need our last few shillings for lunch.”
Leah pressed her lips together in disgust. She peered up at the threatening sky. “Welcome to the Promised Land,” she said dryly. “Come perform for us in Jerusalem if your cello is not ruined in a rainstorm or pierced by a stray bullet.” She closed her eyes and sighed. “My whole life is up there tied onto a chicken crate.”
Shimon’s brow furrowed as he studied the bus tickets. He handed them to Leah and kissed her cheek. “Not your whole life, darling. Not yet.” Then he began to climb up the metal rungs fastened to the back of the bus.
“Shimon! What are you doing!” She knew what he was doing. He was going to ride on top with the luggage while Vitorio rode inside in his precious seat. No one could protest the cello case if it had a proper ticket just like every other passenger. “Shimon! Come down!” she cried, her heart beating fast at the thought of Shimon riding up the pass of Bab el Wad in such an exposed place as sullen Arab eyes watched him and Arab fingers stroked hair triggers.
Shimon did not listen. He untied Vitorio and passed it down ever so gently to a luggage handler who shrugged at this meshugge fellow and handed the instrument to Leah. “Vitorio is our ticket to Jerusalem,” Shimon said stubbornly as he took a seat beside the chicken crate. “If it rains, I will dry out. Me and the chickens, nu? Get on the bus!” he demanded.
“But they might shoot you!” Leah protested as the other passengers gaped out the bus windows.
“Pray they do not,” he instructed, turning his eyes forward and lifting his chin. “Or the world will lose a great percussionist, and you will lose a great lover.”
At these words, the men on the bus cheered out the window for Shimon. The engine coughed and sputtered to life. And it began to rain. Just a few drops, but definitely rain.
Leah looked at the cello, then up at Shimon.
“Get on the bus!” he ordered, covering his plaster cast with the corner of a wicker basket.
More raindrops. It had been so clear and hot
yesterday. Why had it chosen this moment to rain?
The bus driver shouted at her. “Are you coming, lady?”
Shimon gave her a gentle look. Go on. I will be fine. We have no choice. “I will be the first to see Zion,” he called. “The earthly Zion, of course.” He motioned her away.
She backed toward the bus door. Clutching the cello, she reluctantly climbed the steps. The other passengers cheered as she and the cello took their seats.
Rain suddenly burst from the clouds, falling on the bus like the pounding of drums.
***
Ram Kadar inhaled deeply the smoke of the water pipe. His words came forth with the smoke on his breath. “I am speaking of your sister. Of Victoria.” He smiled and inclined his head. A black keffiyeh framed his darkly handsome face.
Ibrahim wiped his mouth nervously. He felt the curious eyes of his half brothers on him. For Victoria to marry a man like Kadar would be a great honor. It would also guarantee the safety and position of the family of Hassan within the Mufti’s council.
“She is . . . not ready for marriage.” He smiled and lifted the cup of thick Turkish coffee to his lips.
“She is too old not to be married.” Kadar shrugged off the answer. “My own mother had three children by the time she was Victoria’s age.”
“Times are different now.” Ibrahim shrugged. “You know, since the Mandate. She has her job.”
“A job that will be helpful to our cause.” Kadar narrowed his eyes. “She will obey a husband. She will help us once she is in my bed. Beneath my protection.”
His words brought laughter from the six men in the back room of the coffeehouse. Every man but Ibrahim.
“My father is in Iran on business,” Ibrahim persisted, attempting to put off the discussion. “It is my father who will have the final word in such a matter as her marriage.”
