Jerusalem Interlude (Zion Covenant)

by Bodie Thoene

  Today, Captain Orde served double-duty. He was not only the protector of the members of the Woodhead Committee, he was also, regretfully, their tour director.

  “No one knows the place like you do, Orde!” his commanding officer had shouted. “You and your articles for the Geographic! By thunder, Sir John Woodhead has asked for you by name! Keep your Zionist nonsense to yourself, or you’ll find yourself back in England guarding coastal defenses!” A finger in Orde’s face had emphasized this last point. Then the instructions had continued: “No repeating of biblical verses unless they have a direct bearing on some historical point of interest. No comments about the biblical prophecies regarding the return of the Messiah and the Jewish people to the land of Israel. No religious drivel. No comments that might influence the commission on behalf of the Jewish population over the Muslims. Fairness and impartiality must be observed by you at all times—or else!”

  The or else had put Captain Orde in a particularly nasty mood. His men whispered among themselves. Their normally personable and gentle captain was looking for heads to roll. A half-shined shoe was reason for confinement to quarters. A misplaced gas mask was offense enough for a stay in the brig.

  Wide-eyed, the Old City residents gathered before their shops and stalls in the souks to watch the mighty display of precision. Here was the law of the land in evidence for any who might doubt its weakness. The display was comforting for many; frightening for some; enraging for a handful.

  The visit of the English lords of the commission was supposed to be impromptu, an example of daily life in the Old City—how the Jews and the Muslims mixed freely in the souks with all the Christian sects that warred against one another in a different kind of battle. But not one footstep went unplanned for these honored gentlemen. Not one word unrehearsed.

  In the Arab Quarter, schoolchildren who usually begged from the English for a living put on their finest clothes. In the Armenian Quarter, the bearded patriarch wore his ceremonial best. In the Christian Quarter, Greeks and Copts and Ethiopians and Catholics glared at one another from across invisible boundaries in the various shrines. They silently competed for the greatest glory of each of their sects before the lofty Englishmen.

  In the ragged Jewish Quarter, the steps of synagogues and apartments were swept. The shelves of shops were put in order. The dung of sheep on the way to slaughter was cleaned from the streets. Chicken crates were moved out of sight into an alley behind the kosher butcher shop. Yeshiva students cleaned the windows of Nissan Bek, while ancient rabbis prayed for a favorable impression and admonished the schoolchildren of the significance of this visit.

  15

  Great Performances

  The little kitten Psalms was such a comfort to Rabbi Lebowitz. She had lost any vestige of her original timidity, and now she claimed his one-room flat as her own.

  The old man, mindful of the four boy cats at Tipat Chalev, carried her in his pocket to a vacant lot where she tended to her basic needs twice a day. The rest of the time she strutted languidly about the room, staking claims on the table and the bed. At night she slept on the old man’s chest just beneath his beard, where she purred happily until he fell asleep.

  He filled his most recent letter to Etta and the children with all the news about the little creature—about her brothers, who now followed Hannah Cohen everywhere as if she were a mother cat. He told how Hannah Cohen seemed to act as if she had rescued them from a pack of wolves. Ah, well. They would maybe grow up to kill rats. In the meantime, they had their own special plates, a warm bed in the basement, and another beneath the steps in the alley.

  “My little Psalms sends greetings to the children,” wrote the old rabbi. “Since Hannah has stolen her brothers, she hopes she will soon have children from Warsaw to come play with her here in Jerusalem!”

  ***

  “Today is an important day,” Rabbi Shlomo Lebowitz addressed the serious group of five-year-old boys in the classroom where Eli taught at the Torah school.

  Eli looked first at the sturdy old man with his lined face and gnarled hands, then at the collection of miniature Orthodox students in their black coats and earlocks and yarmulkes perched on shorn heads. The old man shook a finger at them in warning. “Today the English gentlemen are coming with Captain Samuel Orde from the British Army. They are coming to see if Jewish boys are good boys and if more Jewish children should be allowed to come to Palestine!” There was a long pause. Rabbi Lebowitz let the weight of responsibility rest heavily on the shoulders of Eli’s pupils. The entire fate of Jewish immigration depended on their behavior during the visit from the Englishmen!

  A small hand moved tentatively into the air. The rabbi jabbed a finger toward it in response. The tiny brown-eyed child stood beside his desk to speak. “And if we are not good, will the Englishmen not let your daughter and grandchildren come here? Mama says that you want them to come very badly.”

  The old man glanced toward Eli. Perhaps it was wise to make this a personal issue. “This is correct, Yosef. If you chatter or squirm, or misbehave, the Englishmen will notice. They will say, “Well, we want no more of that in Palestine!” Then they will send me a letter saying that my own grandchildren cannot come to Jerusalem. And there are many thousands more just like my own family who will wish to come, but will not be allowed.”

  This was effective. Yosef took his seat. Brows furrowed in consternation at the thought of one errant spitball on the back of an English head. The consequences were great and terrible!

  Rabbi Lebowitz turned the classroom back over to Eli. Eli walked to the lectern. Today was indeed an important day in the Old City Jewish Quarter, but he could think of nothing but the fact that it had been over a week since he had seen Victoria. This was going to be the longest day of his life. Carry on, he told himself as he thanked Rabbi Lebowitz.

  “And so, students, you can see that each of us is a representative of all our people, nu?”

  Little heads bobbed in silent agreement.

  Eli continued. “Perhaps some of you have family in Germany or elsewhere who want very badly to come here, just as Rabbi Lebowitz wishes his grandchildren to join him.”

  Again, nods of assent. Rabbi Lebowitz seemed pleased. He crossed his arms in satisfaction and stepped back against the chalkboard. This classroom would behave well for Captain Orde and his group of politicians. They would go home to England and tell their committees how polite Jewish children are in Jerusalem, that such politeness should be considered when they decide on how many more should be allowed through the Mandate.

  Eli consulted the clock. His morning teaching assignment would end in thirty minutes. The English commission was scheduled to pass through in five minutes. After that, he would have to dismiss his pupils and return to his own studies.

  He turned toward the rabbi, who was smiling pleasantly through his beard. “Would you care to remain with our classroom while the Englishmen are here? Then you can see for yourself that my students will be the best behaved of anyone in the Torah school.”

  “It will be a pleasure.”

  The old man took a seat at a desk near the back of the crowded room. Eyes glanced furtively in his direction. Determination was on every young face. They would not let him down or disgrace all Jewish children by their behavior.

  Eli resumed instruction of the Hebrew alphabet. Rote memorization was the method of teaching. When he had been given this assignment as part of his training as a rabbi, Eli had hated the monotony of it. Now it was a relief. While his mouth taught the alphabet, his mind could wander easily to Victoria.

  The British delegation arrived. Even though the school had been planning for this visit for weeks, all the teachers were warned that everything must appear normal.

  Rabbi Lebowitz went smiling to the doorway. The suntanned face of Captain Samuel Orde appeared. Behind him came six men in British suits, varying in age from forty to sixty. They peered around the room as if they were looking for a speck of dust or a desk out of line with the others.


  “This,” Rabbi Lebowitz said with pride, “is our class of five-year-olds.” He extended a hand toward Eli. “Eli Sachar is their teacher. He himself was once a student in this very classroom, and now he studies to become a rabbi.”

  Eli stepped forward. He extended his hand and smiled. What a nuisance this was, performing for a collection of English bigwigs when he could have been daydreaming about Victoria! “How do you do?” He applied his most perfect accent and was immediately assaulted with half a dozen how-do-you-dos in reply.

  Rabbi Lebowitz motioned for the men to come farther into the room. The boys looked like little clay figures. They sat rigidly with their hands clasped on their desk. It was almost their time to perform!

  “Our children learn several languages,” Rabbi Lebowitz said. “Including English, of course.”

  Eli raised his hand like a conductor. Little mouths opened to draw breath. Out came the much rehearsed words that must appear unrehearsed and spontaneous: HOW DO YOU DO-O-O! The class recited this in unison. It was perfect. There was not a single straggler in the lot. Eli nodded his approval, and a little boy sighed with relief. They had not failed their people!

  And then it was over. En masse, the Woodhead Committee turned and proceeded to the next classroom where the same little drama was repeated.

  Rabbi Lebowitz seemed pleased. He smiled. “Very good! And tonight at dinner you will have a special treat for dessert! Hannah and Shoshanna have made cookies for you in honor of what good boys you are!”

  A delighted A-h-h-h-h followed him from the room.

  This was good. Now the old man would go back to the soup kitchen where he supervised charity meals. The boys would recite the alphabet and think of cookies. Eli would drill them and dream of Victoria.

  ***

  Against Theo’s better judgment, he accompanied Dr. Chaim Weizmann to the offices of the British colonial secretary, Malcolm MacDonald. Since the afternoon at the British Museum, Theo had regretted his request that the officer who tailed him remain out of sight. The illusion of freedom was always tainted with the awareness that somewhere on the street a man named Beckham watched his every move.

  Today, with a sort of bitter amusement, Theo considered that agent Beckham was probably walking into his own headquarters.

  Weizmann and Theo were five minutes early. Secretary MacDonald kept them waiting for ten minutes later than their scheduled appointment. When they entered his large, opulent office, he was warm and friendly to Weizmann and yet cool to Theo Lindheim. No doubt he had read the Nazi accounts of Theo’s “crimes” in Germany.

  Half an hour passed as Weizmann patiently explained Theo’s plan to the colonial secretary. He concluded with a wave of his hand. “I am a scientist and a humanitarian. Born and raised in England. I thought it best if you have any questions that you would be able to address them to a former businessman from Germany.” He gestured toward Theo, who had not offered to speak during the entire meeting.

  MacDonald appraised him with an indifferent gaze. “So, Dr. Weizmann.” He refused to address Theo. “You propose that we increase our purchase of German goods in exchange for German Jews released from the Reich with some assets. I fail to see how this benefits Great Britain.” He smiled a quick, unfriendly smile.

  Weizmann did not reply. He looked at Theo for a response. For a moment an uneasy silence hung in the room. Weizmann cleared his throat expectantly and at last Theo spoke.

  “It would seem,” Theo said deliberately, that “the successful placement of German Jews among the Western democracies should be a major goal of this government.”

  “Oh?” MacDonald was almost rude in his strained propriety. “And why would you think that?”

  Theo shifted in his chair. “Palestine is currently the only haven for Jewish refugees, is it not?”

  “Both legal and illegal, Herr Lindheim. We have heard that you know well enough about the illegal sort.”

  Theo ignored the jibe. He would not defend himself or his actions in financing underground immigration from the Reich. That was not the issue here. “It would be better . . . for England . . . for everyone if all immigrants were legal. If other nations were willing to cooperate in a trade agreement with Germany, as Dr. Weizmann has explained, then perhaps there would no longer be such a flood of those attempting to flee to Palestine. Perhaps the pressure would be taken off the British Mandate.”

  The pure logic of Theo’s explanation took the colonial secretary by surprise. He frowned, then opened his mouth in some attempt to argue, but he could not find an argument. “All very well and good, Herr Lindheim.” He sniffed. “But will the German Chancellor go for the idea?”

  Theo smiled knowingly. “I would ask your British ambassador. Mr. Henderson, is it?”

  “Henderson. Berlin. Yes.”

  “I would suggest that Hermann Göring be approached with this idea first. He is, after all, in charge of the plan to improve the German economy.”

  “Göring. The fat one?”

  “Yes. That is Hermann Göring. The one with all the medals,” Theo prompted. “We were pilots together in the last war. Hermann Göring has always been a man with his mind on money. He agrees with the Führer about German Jewry mostly because he sees Jewish wealth as something he would like to have in his own account. He is a practical man.”

  Theo’s bluntness surprised MacDonald. “He was a friend of yours, you say?”

  “Of a sort. After he had me thrown into Dachau, I heard my paintings were on the walls of his home. He also confiscated my library of rare books in the name of the Reich. I am certain he enjoys the volumes almost as much as I did when they were mine.”

  MacDonald smoothed his eyebrows as he considered the practicality of Theo Lindheim’s statements and insight. It was no wonder the Nazis wanted the man bound hand and foot and extradited back to Germany in a brown paper wrapper!

  A cautious respect filled MacDonald’s eyes now as he offered his hand to Theo and then to Weizmann with the assurance he would bring up the matter in tomorrow’s cabinet meeting. He inclined his head slightly and said in a lofty attempt at pleasantness, “It was quite . . . interesting to meet you after all this time. Perhaps we shall talk again.”

  ***

  Victoria raised her eyes from her typewriter as Parker, the British supervisor, entered the office and called for attention from the two dozen typists.

  Frail and nervous on the best of days, today Mr. Parker mopped his brow and grimaced behind his round spectacles as he waved a piece of paper over the heads of his all-Arab staff.

  “Attention, girls!” he cried a second time when Tasha had not stopped her furious typing. “An important assignment has come our way.”

  There was silence in the room. Victoria was grateful for the break. She looked past the harried supervisor to where the rain tapped against the window.

  The high, effeminate voice of Mr. Parker began again. “For reasons known only to God and the British Mandate, an assignment has been passed down the chain to me. Unfortunately I have no one else to pass it to.” His statement was thick with irritation. Parker, as the lowest man on the British administration’s roster of command, was often handed the unwanted chores.

  “The high commissioner has arranged some sort of concert for tonight. Not that I am invited,” he added under his breath. “Someone needs to meet this musician at Egged Terminal. This musician is, I am told, from Germany or Austria or some such non-English-speaking place. I haven’t the foggiest idea about the language of the Huns past Guten Tag—” He shoved his glasses up on the bridge of his long nose. “Pray God,” he said dramatically, “that someone among you has a rudimental grasp of that language?”

  Victoria and Tasha exchanged looks. Had Allah ever made a bigger fool than their supervisor? Victoria shook her head imperceptibly and smiled as she raised her hand. German was one of several languages spoken by her father in his business as purveyor of Persian and Oriental carpets. An easy language. Much like English. Victoria u
nderstood and spoke it quite easily.

  Mr. Parker slapped his chest in relief and rolled his eyes like a pilgrim overcome with ecstasy. His red polka-dot bow tie trembled under his bobbing Adam’s apple. “Miss Hassan! Thank God! Divide your file between Miss Habashi and Miss Aman and come along quickly then! We just have time to motor to the terminal before they arrive.”

  Victoria grinned happily as she deposited her day’s stack of transcription onto the desks of her glowering co-workers. “You just did not volunteer fast enough,” she whispered to Tasha in Arabic.

  ***

  The rain had become a cloudburst by the time Moshe ducked beneath the awning of the King David Hotel where the administration office of the British Mandate was housed.

  Following the example of the English hotel patrons around him, he greeted the doorman with a cheery greeting: “Quite a storm, eh wot?”

  Shaking the water from his slicker he entered the lobby of the King David Hotel as if he belonged there. The plush red Oriental carpets were damp from the feet of British officers and faithful British civil servants and the Arab staff who served them. Today there were more uniforms than usual in the lobby, owing to the visit of the Royal British Commission of Inquiry headed by Sir John Woodhead. Everyone in Jerusalem knew of the important visitors from London, and so, it seemed that the British high commissioner was taking extra precautions against any sort of potential dangers.

  There were guards at the doors of the elevators. Guards at the foot of the grand staircase. Guards beside the men’s room. Guards flanking the doors of the administrative wing of the hotel where Victoria labored over the endless paperwork required to run such an operation as the British mandatory government in Palestine. Eli had told Moshe that Victoria typed requisitions for everything from tea and cigarettes to toilet paper. How small are the cogs of great government.