by Peter Watt
Rachel said her grandfather had passed away peacefully just before the last world war. She loved him very much, and missed his colourful stories of the country of his birth. One day she hoped to travel to Queensland to see it for herself.
They sat down amongst the gum trees and watched the sun going down. The air was chilling, but they remained side by side.
David was drawn to the young woman, but fought his feelings. Even now he had an almost over-riding desire to hold and kiss her. He was struggling with his emotions when Elliot turned up.
‘David, I hate to break up this touching scene,’ he said with a half-smile, sensing that he had intruded on a private moment. ‘But you need to be briefed on a mission, scheduled for tomorrow. You’ll be going to Jerusalem with my sister.’
David and Rachel rose, brushing down their clothing.
‘Maybe one day I’ll be able to show you Queensland,’ David said. ‘It’s not all dust and flies as your grandfather experienced. It has beautiful rainforests, mountain streams and coral reefs alive with brilliantly coloured fish.’
‘I would very much like that,’ Rachel smiled. David resisted the temptation to hold her hand as they walked side by side back to the settlement.
That evening, David huddled with the leaders of the kibbutz, Elliot and Richelle.
‘You’ll be Richelle’s escort to a very important meeting at a location in the Old City,’ Ben said by the light of a kerosene lantern.
‘Will I be told what the meeting’s about?’ David asked.
‘It’s better that you do not know,’ the kibbutz leader said. ‘It’s what your intelligence people call a “need to know” situation. You do not need to know.’
David shrugged. He knew he had the council’s respect and could be trusted. Richelle looked pleased at his inclusion.
Details were planned, and the meeting broke up. David stepped outside into the clear, cold night to gaze up at the stars.
He was surprised to hear Rachel’s voice in the dark. ‘Did you agree to go with Richelle tomorrow?’ she asked.
David turned to see her step out of the shadows of the meeting hall.
‘Yes, but I wasn’t told who Richelle is meeting.’
Rachel was now inches away from him. ‘She and Elliot have links with the Irgun,’ Rachel said. ‘I suspect Richelle will be going to a meeting with them.’
‘Irgun,’ David echoed. ‘I thought they were Haganah members, not Irgun.’
‘We tell the British that we do not associate or condone Irgun tactics of terror,’ Rachel said. ‘But we are facing annihilation if we do not work together. Irgun are fearless, and the British have already killed many of its members. A war is coming, which will decide the fate of all Jews in this country. We cannot afford to lose.’
‘Irgun or not, I have agreed to escort her,’ David said.
Without warning, Rachel kissed David on the lips, and stepped away just as quickly.
‘That’s for good luck,’ she said with a twinkle in her eye. ‘It means stay away from the Irgun, and come back to us.’
Before David could respond, Rachel was gone, leaving him with the sweet taste and memory of her lips.
The following morning David stepped aboard the kibbutz bus and noticed that besides the driver and two young, armed kibbutz men, he and Richelle were the only other passengers. David knew that if they were stopped by a British army roadblock the weapons disappeared into cleverly concealed panels in the bus. He and Richelle were instructed not to carry firearms.
They sat in seats on either side of the bus. David noticed Abigail tuck a map inside her blouse, relying on the British sensibility of not body-searching a female in the field.
The bus made its way onto the road that took them through sometimes hostile hills. All aboard were tense with nervous anticipation of an Arab ambush. But they felt a little more secure when a convoy of British armoured vehicles passed them.
The bus rounded a corner and all aboard felt their heart rates go up. Ahead of them was an army roadblock, manned by British soldiers.
The bus driver said something in Hebrew, and the guns disappeared. Richelle replied and turned to David. ‘We have to stop,’ she said.
David could see a Bren gun levelled at them from the hood of a vehicle ahead.
‘What do we do?’ David asked.
‘Nothing,’ Richelle answered. ‘Just have your papers ready.’
David carried papers, his passport, visa and some American dollars.
The bus driver stopped about ten yards from the roadblock and opened the side door as two soldiers strolled towards them. One of them was carrying a Sten gun whilst the other a .303 carbine, tipped by a thin bayonet. They boarded the bus. David remained in his seat.
‘Papers,’ the British corporal demanded. Richelle produced her identification papers.
‘Stand up,’ the corporal ordered, and Richelle stepped into the aisle. As she did, the map in her blouse slipped from under her shirt, catching the eye of the soldier with the rifle.
‘Corp,’ he said, bending to retrieve the map. As he did Richelle bolted past the NCO with the Sten gun, knocking him aside, and slipped past the startled private holding the map. She was out of the bus and hit the ground running towards the edge of the road that fell away to a ravine of rocks and small scrubby bushes. David hardly had time to react as the corporal with the Sten gun leaped from the bus after her.
‘Stop!’ he yelled, but Richelle was already scrambling down the hillside. A long burst from the Sten gun stopped her. David watched in horror as the nine-millimetre bullets stitched her back. She pitched forward as David also pushed his way past the soldier with the rifle.
‘You bastard!’ David roared, running at the British soldier with the Sten gun standing at the edge of the road and gazing down at the figure of the girl he had just shot. David slammed into him in a rugby tackle, causing the sub machine gun to rattle along the road. He raised his fist to smash the unfortunate soldier in the face when the metal butt of a .303 hit him in the back of the head. David saw a haze of red stars and then nothing.
When he regained consciousness he was still on the roadway, and a few yards away Richelle lay on her back staring with lifeless eyes at the clear skies above. He could see the driver and two young kibbutz men standing beside the bus, their hands on their heads.
David groaned as he forced himself into a sitting position. He felt the back of his head and realised that the rifle butt had split the skin of his skull.
‘You’re an Australian citizen,’ a lazy voice said, and David turned to see a young British lieutenant. He had an accent David knew belonged to the upper classes of England. ‘What are you doing with a known terrorist?’
‘What terrorist?’ David asked, touching the back of his head and feeling the blood oozing between his fingers.
‘This woman,’ the officer said, pointing to Richelle’s body. ‘She’s a known associate of Irgun.’
‘How do you know that?’ David countered, his head throbbing and his anger re-emerging.
‘We have had intelligence on her for some time,’ the officer replied. ‘Her death is unfortunate because we would have liked to interrogate her. My man was not aware who she was when he fired. But you’re now a person of interest to us. It is not every day we intercept a colonial in the company of a suspected terrorist.’
‘I’m here because in 1941 I served in Syria and had reason to visit Palestine,’ David said. ‘You could call me a tourist, and you better have a good reason to gun down a young woman when you admit you did not know who she was before your man opened fire. I would call that murder.’
David could see the face of the officer redden with rage. ‘These damned Jews fire on us on an almost daily basis,’ he said. ‘And we are here to protect them. They don’t deserve protecting. Hitler was probably right when he accused them of trying
to rule the world.’
‘I can see from your lack of ribands that you did not see any active service during the war,’ David said. ‘I lost a lot of good cobbers fighting Hitler’s forces in Syria, North Africa and Greece. I held the rank of major at the end of the war, and your king gave me a military cross for my service to the bloody British empire – which seems to be shrinking a bit lately. So don’t tell me Hitler was right. Also, did I mention that I’m a Jew?’
The British officer looked a little rattled but did not back off. ‘Sergeant,’ he said, turning to an NCO standing beside him with his rifle levelled at David. ‘Take this man into custody and arrange for him to be transported to the Acre jail. I’m sure our people will get something of value out of him.’ He turned on his heel and walked away.
‘Get up, sir,’ the sergeant ordered, but in a less hostile voice than David expected.
David rose on shaky feet.
‘I’ll make sure you get seen by our RMO before we have you sent to Acre,’ the sergeant said in an almost kindly voice. When David focused on him he could see that the sergeant wore a row of war ribands, including the North Africa Star.
‘You were in North Africa,’ David said.
‘I was with Monty for the big bash at El Alamein,’ the sergeant replied. ‘You Aussies were on our flank when we finally broke through. Your lads were bloody marvellous.’
‘I was out of the desert by the time we participated,’ David said as he was escorted towards an army truck. ‘I saw the war out as a company commander in New Guinea against the Japs. I can see your officer has seen no real action.’
‘Pompous little twit,’ the sergeant said. ‘They send us these Champagne Charlies straight out of Sandhurst instead of battle-hardened officers. This bloody war needs experienced soldiers – not Johnny-come-latelies.’
David grinned as he walked around the back of a tarpaulin-covered truck. He scrambled up the tailgate to take a seat on a wooden bench that looked inwards and was followed by the sergeant.
‘The first thing you have to do, sergeant, is get rid of the tarpaulin cover and face the seats outwards in case of ambush,’ David said when both men were settled and joined by two other soldiers.
‘Mr Ovens says that is not necessary,’ the sergeant said, and David guessed that was the name of the young British officer in charge of the roadblock. ‘You should be on our side, not with the Jews.’
The truck rolled into motion and bumped its way back down the road towards Jerusalem where David would be prepared for a stay in the prison located at Acre on the coast. The last time he had been in a prison was Dachau in 1936, but that was by the Nazis. Now it was by his own allies, the British. He knew that he had to get a message to Australia concerning his imprisonment. Maybe Sean Duffy had enough clout to arrange for his release. David was leaving behind the body of Richelle and the people he had come to befriend in the kibbutz. And also Rachel, whose kiss still lingered in his memory. Ahead of him was a prison on the coast of Palestine and an unknown future.
When they reached Jerusalem David had a moment alone with the sergeant. Although the British had searched him and taken all his personal papers, they had left the small wad of American dollars.
‘As one old soldier to another,’ David said quietly at the back of the truck, ‘I would like a favour.’
‘What would that be?’ the sergeant asked suspiciously.
‘I’d like you to send a telegram to Sydney, Australia, to my uncle, saying that I’m being held – most probably at the Acre prison. I’m only asking because if I don’t write to him he will be worried. That is all.’
The sergeant thought for a moment. ‘Just a telegram to tell him you’re in our custody?’ he said. ‘I’ll need money.’
David retrieved the Yank money from his pocket and handed it to the British soldier. ‘That’s all I have. After the telegram you can use what’s left over to shout the boys a beer.’
The sergeant could see that David was being generous, and he quickly pocketed the money. He supplied David with a pen and paper to provide details for the telegram, and David was then marched into British army HQ. All David had was the hope that the British soldier believed in the universal brotherhood of men under arms.
With the wonders of modern technology, three days later Sean Duffy received a telegram from Palestine. It was not signed, but did spell out all that David had relayed to the sergeant.
‘Oh, dear boy,’ Sean sighed. ‘You have done it again.’
It was time to call in a few favours from Chifley’s government and organise a seat on a flight to Europe on one of the military aircraft ferrying mostly armed forces personnel. He would also arm himself with the appropriate paperwork and references from the Australian government to free David. All other matters would have to take a back seat until he returned from Palestine with his boy home and safe. It was like 1936 Berlin all over again.
*
Six weeks later Sean stood with David outside the Acre prison.
‘You’ve done it again,’ David said, taking in the fresh air of freedom. ‘Got me out of a prison.’
‘My dear boy,’ Sean sighed as they walked towards a car waiting for them. ‘I’m getting too old to keep running around the world getting you out of scrapes. You have to go home, and get a steady job, and stay away from places where people shoot at each other.’
‘I’m sorry, Uncle Sean,’ David said as contritely as he could. ‘I know this would have taken a toll on you.’
‘Damned right,’ Sean said. ‘But you and Patrick are the only sons I will ever have, and it is a father’s duty to look after his kids. By the way, when I was in Canberra chasing up the few friends I have left there I came across something disturbing. Do you know a politician by the name of Henry Markham?’
David frowned. ‘I knew a Lieutenant Markham, back at Wewak,’ he said.
‘That would be Markham’s son,’ Sean said. ‘It seems his father has it in for you and personally intervened when you were demobbed, ensuring that you did not retain your commission. Apparently he has been putting it around you had it in for his son and without any grounds had him sent home. Markham has also raised the matter of you fighting with an international brigade in Spain before the war. He has accused you of being a communist.’
‘That’s a bloody lie,’ David exploded. ‘I joined up to fight fascism because of my experience in Dachau.’
‘I know that,’ Sean said. ‘But Markham is very influential in his party and has the ear of powerful people inside the government.’
‘God Almighty,’ David said as they reached the car. ‘I fought a bloody war for my country. What was Markham doing while we were risking our lives?’
‘Growing fat on the profits his properties made under contracts from the government,’ Sean replied, leaning on his walking stick. ‘But we will drive to the best cafe in Acre and enjoy a good meal, which you apparently have not had for the last few weeks, and tomorrow we leave on a ship for Italy.’
David knew that one of the conditions that he be freed was to leave the country on the first available ship. The British administration had declared him a persona non grata for his suspected links with terrorism. But David had wanted to return to the kibbutz. Whilst incarcerated he had not received any visitors or correspondence from the community he had worked with. He knew that anyone who contacted him would be placed under a spotlight.
Mostly he wanted to return to find Rachel Rosenblum. Thoughts of her had helped pass his time in the military prison for both Jews and Arabs suspected of subversion. He had been isolated from the other prisoners and frequently interrogated by British intelligence. But he really knew little of the politics of the Jewish underground and that became obvious to his captors. His exile was simply a matter of course upon his release.
Within six weeks David and Sean stood at the rails of a cargo ship staring at the shoreline of We
stern Australia. Already David knew what he would do with his life. He was independently wealthy – thanks to the Macintosh Trust – and had discovered a talent for art. He would travel to northern New South Wales and buy property on the beach, a large macadamia nut plantation. There he would paint and see if his belief in his ability was warranted. One way or another, he would make contact with Rachel on the other side of the world.
TWENTY-SEVEN
For almost twelve months the letters arrived from Rachel. David had been able to make contact by mail to her kibbutz, and between the lines that expressed her yearning to see him again was the foreboding news that the situation in Palestine had deteriorated. The Jewish population was at war with their Arab neighbours and the Australian newspapers reported on the bloody fighting for land.
Then, suddenly, Rachel’s letters stopped.
David sat at the edge of his property on the subtropical coast. His vantage point overlooked the serene ocean below, and a warm breeze stirred amongst a stand of banana trees that came with the acreage and old house he was renovating.
David held Rachel’s last letter in his hands, staring bleakly at the rolling sea below. The British were gone from Palestine and David knew that it was now possible for him to return. He would make arrangements to join the fight for the nation of Israel. If ever the tiny Jewish population facing the overwhelming forces of the Arab League needed help, it was now. The odds were against the Jewish fighters as they opposed the professional Arab armies encroaching from every side.
David carefully folded the precious letter and returned to his cottage with its tiny mesh-enclosed sleep-out. It was nothing special and did not even have electricity, but it had a great view of the ocean. He packed his old army kitbag and walked down the hill between the macadamia trees that grew on either side of the track. He hardly glanced at the trees. His aspiration to be a macadamia nut farmer had been a whim. He knew the only life he was suited for was to be a soldier. He was going back to war.
