Jerusalem Interlude (Zion Covenant)

by Bodie Thoene

  “Can you see my star, Reuven?” she whispered quietly. “Do you sit at the window of your room and wonder about me?”

  She turned to see her silhouette reflected in the mirror. Long dark hair. Creamy skin. Tall and slender, she was halfway between a girl and a woman. “By next year when you meet him,” Mama had promised, “he will not look upon a child.”

  Rachel was impatient for that time. The days moved so very slowly. Week by week new feelings awakened in her changing body. There was so much she did not understand. So many things she wanted to ask Mama. Instead she whispered her secrets to the wishing star. She learned to cook. Learned to be the sort of woman she must be as the future wife of a future rabbi. These things she learned from Mama, as was proper.

  From Papa, Rachel learned Torah. Mama had also been taught by her father. This was one of the things Papa loved about Mama. She was smart; she could talk with him. Other women cooked and cleaned and bore children, but Mama was a scholar, he said. No doubt young Reuven would appreciate such a gift in Rachel as well. This would also help her to understand the things going on inside the head of her future husband, Papa said. All the same, it would not be wise to talk about her lessons outside the family. And, he warned, she must never act as though she knew better than her learned husband! Knowledge was a dangerous thing in the hands of a woman who would use it to belittle her husband! The Eternal counted such misuse a grave sin! Such a woman would be worse than a golem! A witless simpleton would be better than such a wife!

  Thus warned, Rachel applied herself to the study of the Torah with humility. Thank you, O Eternal, that I who am only a woman . . . almost . . . may be privileged to study thy Holy Law. May I never use it against my future husband but for his pleasure only!

  Her prayer had become a promise to God, a vow that she would be the best wife young Reuven could have. He would never regret that his father and her father had struck a bargain and signed a contract of matrimony before she had learned to speak! Her entire life and education had been shaped for the purpose of fulfilling that agreement.

  There was security in tradition, even for a little girl. A man was a man. Some were better than others, but all men knew their responsibilities before God. A woman was a woman. Some were more beautiful or clever than others, but it was possible for anyone to be a good wife and mother if she learned her duties.

  All these things were ingrained into Rachel’s life. Even now she knew what was expected of her. She did not fear failing in those duties. But suddenly, when she dreamed of Reuven and her future, there was a deeper longing within her. She could not put a name to it. Not yet. But it frightened her.

  She sighed and whispered her prayer as she did every night:

  Spirit and flesh are thine,

  O heavenly Shepherd mine;

  My hopes, my thoughts, my fears, Thou seest all;

  Thou measurest my path, my steps dost know.

  When Thou upholdest, who can make me fall?

  Rachel opened her mouth to continue her evening prayers, but tonight the wishing star seemed less remote than God. It winked and blinked at her, encouraging her to speak again.

  “Little star, you are closer to heaven than I am. Please tell God that I want to be more to my husband than just a dutiful wife. Please tell Him that I wish . . . I pray . . . that one day my beloved will look at me the way Papa looks at Mama.”

  From the room below her, the strong, mellow voice of her father drifted up. Then Mama answered. Muffled voices. Loving words whispered with a sort of urgency. Rachel turned away from the window and tried to make out the words. Things spoken in the night between her parents were always like this. Just beyond her understanding. Perhaps they spoke another language? Was there some special secret language that only husband and wife could understand? Something that Rachel would learn someday when her own husband took her in his arms? Someday . . . someday!

  Again she looked up at the wishing star and prayed, “Shine down on my own beloved rabbi so that one day he might teach me too.”

  The lonely whistle of a train sounded from the Umschlagplatz. Rachel turned her eye in the direction of the sound. Muranow Square was dark and empty. Soft starlight glowed on the wet cobblestones. It was as if Rachel were the only person left in Warsaw. Then, across the Square a tiny flame flickered, illuminating a solitary man. One instant of light and then the shadowed figure was lost in the darkness again.

  Rachel raised her eyes quickly to the wishing star. Suddenly it seemed cold and remote. An uneasiness stirred within her. A feeling of awful foreboding that she did not understand.

  22

  Simple Gifts

  The request to write for publication was not an unusual one for Samuel Orde. After all, he had published a number of historical monographs during his tour of duty in Palestine.

  What was unusual was the subject matter editor John Murphy had outlined for him in the wire from London—the impact of current events upon the members of the Woodhead Committee . . . probable outcome of their inquiry into the demands of the Arab Council . . . any daily events of significance in Palestine.

  Orde read the telegram and then reread it a dozen times before he folded it carefully and put it into his pocket. He was certain of one thing: He would have to write under an assumed name if he accepted the assignment from Trump European News Service. His perspective would not be favorable to his own government in matters of their treatment of Jewish immigrants and his own belief that the hopes of a Jewish homeland were becoming more dim each day.

  “Winston is behind this,” he muttered to himself as Bowen, the duty officer, looked at him curiously.

  “Pardon, sir?”

  “Nothing. Thinking of an old friend in England.” He pretended to be busy at his desk. In truth, he was already composing the lead paragraph to his first story.

  ***

  It was all very confusing. First Rabbi Shlomo Lebowitz waited in line for three hours at the Office of Immigration in the British Mandate offices. When he reached the head of the line a very brusque and unpleasant Englishman behind the tall counter told him that he was in the wrong line.

  “So this is the line I wait in to find out which line I should be waiting in?” Rabbi Lebowitz thanked him, then moved to the back of yet another line, even longer than the first.

  In a muddled combination of broken English and Yiddish, he explained that his daughter, Etta, had been born in Jerusalem and she needed to come home again with her children from Warsaw. Several minutes of rapid-fire and unintelligible English had followed as a stack of forms had been carefully sorted out and passed across the counter to him.

  Such a problem! He did not understand a word of it. Catching the Number Two bus to Zion Gate, he had shown the forms to two strangers, each of whom had given him different advice. Then a third fellow had joined in the discussion, and an argument had broken out. The old rabbi considered the observations of the sages about his people. Three Jews together mean seven different opinions. True? Of course true!

  As the old rabbi walked quickly through narrow Zion Gate, it occurred to him that there were nearly three thousand Jews in his Quarter. This would truly be a confusion. Each one would have at least two different opinions about these papers, and there would be a very big argument about what was the proper way to fill out these things and get Etta and the family to Jerusalem from Warsaw. Such a thought made his head ache.

  He tugged his beard and considered the havoc. The shouting. The red faces. He thought about how important it was that he not have to scratch out things on these forms so he would not have to wait in line again.

  “So, Lord. I need the wisdom of Solomon, nu? Or . . . the wisdom of an Englishman.” This made his smile. He looked to the left toward the Armenian Quarter, remembering the nice English Captain Orde who had brought in the hoity-toity Woodhead Commission to visit the school. Captain Orde spoke English. He spoke Yiddish. He spoke Arabic like a native shopkeeper in the souk. Here was a sensible fellow!

  This l
ine of reasoning led Rabbi Shlomo Lebowitz to the office of Captain Samuel Orde.

  “Pardon me, Cap’n,” said the duty officer. “I can’t quite make it out, but I think this old Yid has some important documents for you.”

  Orde did not smile. He glared at his junior officer. “This is Rabbi Shlomo Lebowitz!” he snapped angrily. “A little respect, Bowen, or you’ll find you’re a private again!”

  The tone made the young officer jump to attention. First he saluted Orde and then he saluted the old rabbi, who merely nodded and bowed slightly. Yes, Captain Orde was the right man to see—a fellow without confusion on any matter!

  Orde addressed the rabbi with a sweep of his hand. “Sit, please, Rabbi. How can I help you? Is anything wrong?”

  “Wrong? Oy. No. Everything is good in Jerusalem, nu?” The rabbi raised his brows and tugged his beard. “The Arabs are good and mad. You English are good and sick of getting caught in the middle. And then there is me. I am good and confused! Things are so good in Jerusalem that everywhere I look there is a big shemozzl! True?”

  Orde laughed in spite of the truth of the remark. “Of course true. And have you come here with a solution for us?”

  The rabbi waved his hand as though he were brushing away a gnat. “The only one who can sort this mess out is Messiah!”

  “My sentiments exactly.”

  “And I did not see Him walk in with the Woodhead Committee when they toured the Torah school, nu?”

  Orde considered the old rabbi with curiosity. Were they speaking of the same Messiah? He agreed with an amused smile. “I was with them all day long in the holy places and I did not see the Messiah among them once.”

  “Ah.” The old man stuck out his lower lip. “Just as I thought. Then they will not find the answer for Zion. That is certain, Captain. So . . . on to another problem. Smaller, maybe, but still I hope the Eternal has some interest.”

  Within fifteen minutes, the old rabbi had the matter of the immigration forms straight in his mind. This righteous Gentile would be most happy to help him fill out the papers. Indeed! All that would be needed after that was updated passport photos of Etta and Aaron and each of the children, as well as birth certificates. It might also be helpful to have proof that Aaron had lived and studied here in Jerusalem, that the couple had married there. Such papers would not be difficult to furnish and must certainly open the eyes of the English clerks inside the immigration office.

  “I will write her a letter,” said the rabbi.

  Captain Orde considered that suggestion. “Too slow,” he concluded, shaking his head. Was that worry in his eyes? Did he know something about this Woodhead Committee? Were they thinking about closing the quotas of immigrants? “Send her a telegram, Rabbi. As a matter of fact, write it out with the address, and I will do it for you. I have also such a telegram to send today.”

  “Nu! Such a generous offer! I can pay, of course, but—”

  “No. This one is a gift from a grateful captain to you. Your students were the best behaved in the Old City when I made the rounds with the commission. I had not a moment of worry in the Torah school. That was the only time I breathed all day long.”

  And so it was settled. Such a gift! The rabbi carefully penned his message. Not too many words, lest he cause the English captain unnecessary expense and thus take unfair advantage.

  Mazel Tov Yacov Send Passport Photos Birth Certificates Immediately Jerusalem Stop Grandfather

  Afterward he wondered if he should have added the word LOVE before his signature. But he decided they knew he loved them. Otherwise, who would be meshugge enough to stand in line all day at the immigrations office?

  ***

  It was Friday in Jerusalem, the Muslim holy day. The plaintive cry of the muezzin echoed from the tall minaret over the domed roofs and courtyards of Jerusalem.

  Within the high, crenelated walls of the Old City, brown eyes turned with reverence toward the Dome of the Rock. Arab merchants shuttered their shops and joined the press of the crowds moving slowly toward the holy mountain.

  Here Abraham had offered Isaac to God. Here Solomon had built his temple, and the glory of the Lord had filled it. Here Jesus had driven out money-changers from the courtyards and had proclaimed himself to be the Living Water that could quench the thirst of Jerusalem and all mankind. Here the battering rams and fires of Roman generals had left the Holy Mount desolate and without one stone upon another until the Muslims claimed it seven hundred years later. A varied history of bloodshed and brutality followed as the site was holy to three faiths.

  English soldiers stood as watchmen on the walls now. What did these Englishmen know? They were newcomers. They had arrived to liberate the city from the Turks and the Germans in 1917. It was the opinion of every sector of the Old City that the British were a silly bunch. They would soon be gone. They did not understand the tightrope life here in Palestine. Their military governors were constantly tripping over the boundaries, sending thousands of years of tradition crashing to the stones. City water lines, electric lights, telephones had all come with the British Mandate. But none of it had yet reached through the gates of the Wall into the Old City.

  Here, information was carried the old-fashioned way: from mouth to ear to mouth. Who needed telephones? Cooking was done on the little kerosene primus stoves. Lights were lit with matches. Matches were modern enough for the residents of the Old City. Water was stored in cisterns as God sent the rains to the city. It had always been that way, had it not?

  Muslims worshiped on Friday. Jews on Saturday. Christians on Sunday. That way everyone got a day of rest of his very own.

  On this day, as the Muslims spread their prayer rugs and listened to the resounding voice of their Grand Mufti, the Jewish women of the Old City pondered a modern problem in the local soup kitchen. This problem had been thrust upon them against their will. Crates of small colored boxes filled with powder had arrived in their kitchen from faraway America. The crates did not contain something useful like boullion. No. On the outside of the crates was the word: JELL-O. This was followed by CHERRY or LIME. The gift had come from a bigwig executive who worked for this company in America. He had visited the Tipat Chalev soup kitchen and gone away with his conscience stirred. How could children live without Jell-O flavored gelatin? He had sent enough to make certain that each child in the Old City Jewish Quarter would enjoy the benefits of the squiggly stuff and not grow up deprived.

  Crates cluttered the dining room. Loose packets overflowed a table where women kitchen volunteers pondered the generosity of the American.

  “Meshugge! The man is totally meshugge! So why didn’t he send shoes to the children?” asked Hannah Cohen as she stacked small packets of cherry gelatin in front of her.

  “We can’t cook shoes, Hannah.” Rabbi Shlomo Lebowitz narrowed his eyes as he scanned the place. “If he worked for a shoe factory he would have sent shoes, nu? The man’s whole life is Jell-O. True? Of course true! What else would he send?”

  “Oy! But is this stuff kosher? I ask you,” moaned Shoshanna Reingolt. “Can we eat it? I ask you.”

  Rabbi Lebowitz bit his lip and grimaced as he plunged a finger into an opened box and then into his mouth. “Sour! Oy!”

  “You taste it without knowing if it’s kosher?” exclaimed Hannah.

  The rabbi licked his lips. “He seemed like a nice Jewish boy, this Mr. Lipwitz. A nice American-Jewish boy. Why would he send us something that wasn’t kosher?” He grimaced again. “Even if it does taste terrible?”

  Hannah and Shoshanna followed his lead. They dipped their fingers into the package of red powder and tasted. “Phui! Gevalt! Oy! Oy! Oy! This nice Jewish boy thinks the children will eat this stuff?”

  “He wasn’t a boy exactly. Fifty is not a boy. He was old enough to know kosher, so I don’t think we need to question the rabbi,” said Hannah through gritted teeth.

  Rabbi Lebowitz stared hard at the writing on the box. “We need someone who reads English. That is what we need.
How are we supposed to figure out how to prepare this if we cannot read English? True? Of course true!”

  The rabbi and the women were silent as they considered the problem. Tipat Chalev looked like a warehouse. The stuff might be kosher, but it tasted like poison. They could not read the instructions on the boxes. What had begun as an afternoon of excitement and joy with the twelve-donkey delivery of the crates had turned into sheer frustration.

  “Well.” The rabbi shook his head. “The modern world has invaded us. Nu!” The last syllable was uttered with a sigh of despair.

  “Twelve donkeys’ worth! Oy!” Hannah rested her chin on her hand.

  “The children will expect to sample this great gift from the American bigwig.” Shoshanna sized up the problem as she gestured toward the windows and two dozen faces gawking in.

  “We need an Englishman.” Rabbi Lebowitz thumped his hand on the table, sending a tower of Jell-O cartons toppling down. “An Englishman will know how to read the instructions, and I know one who will help.”

  “Yes. We need an Englishman!” agreed Hannah and Shoshanna in chorus.

  Englishmen were as plentiful in Jerusalem these days as this unwanted Jell-O. The trick was to find one who could translate the directions from English to Yiddish. Or at least Arabic, which almost everyone spoke in the Old City. These English fellows seldom bothered to learn more than the rudiments of local dialect. They seemed to believe that English was the first language created by God and everyone else, therefore, should learn to speak it.

  “Such a problem.” The old man stood and slipped one packet of lime and one of cherry into his coat pocket.

  “Going somewhere?” Hannah asked suspiciously. “Leaving this to me and Shoshanna, are you?”

  He squared his shoulders. They ached from the burden of sixty-two years and this long day of work. “I am going to the post office.” He produced a letter addressed to his daughter and the new baby in Warsaw. “If I miss the mail it will be Monday before I can get this off to Warsaw.” He pursed his lips. “Besides, will we find an Englishman if we just sit here?”