by Alba Arikha
Ezra is thin, painfully so, and appears younger than his twenty-three years. When he speaks and laughs, there is something iridescent about him. Being with him jolts me out of my sadness. If he can live again, so I must. “The inferno swallowed up my parents, but not me. I am lucky. There is no guilt to be had in luck, only gratitude,” says Ezra.
I learn from him. I grow with him. Ezra has had many girlfriends before me, and his physical prowess take me by surprise.
He is man, he is mine, he is desire. He is poetry, passion and fire. He is cigarettes, carnal words and moist fingers. He is pale skin, like a high moon.
At night we speak loss, that silent language the departed have left behind. The vortex of war has spared us, and we lie entwined, our bodies glistening with drops of pleasure as we defy the spectre of our common history.
In the morning, when Ezra lights his cigarette, I see his shadow on the wall, the movement of his hand towards his mouth, the way the smoke blends with the first rays of the hot, burning sun.
8
Ezra and I have been together for a few months. His landlord, an unpleasant Romanian shop owner, has found us in bed and has kicked him out. He cannot stay with me, because my room at Mordechai and Sonia’s, a single bed with a small desk, is too small for the two of us. And also they probably wouldn’t approve. So he is temporarily living with Lotta. I should be jealous – Lotta is pretty, albeit much older than us – but I am not. I trust Ezra with all my heart. If he were to ask me to marry him, I would say yes.
Unequivocally yes.
And then perhaps that would solve the accommodation problem.
*
Something has happened and I am nervous, although Ezra tells me not to be. “Don’t worry: we’re safe,” he says, running a finger along my bare skin.
We are sitting on my sofa on a Saturday afternoon. Outside we can hear voices, the occasional sound of gunfire – a reminder of war, of Paris, which until now had seemed so far away. But then everything here is done differently, including this curfew, which has been imposed throughout the country. In France, the concept of safety was reserved for all non-Jews. Here it is the opposite: we are being told to stay in for our safety. The Mandate government has dispatched seventeen thousand troops and arrested members of a paramilitary Zionist organization, in retaliation for attacks on government buildings, railways and British troops. They have called the operation “Black Sabbath”. Documents have been seized and taken to the King David headquarters for safekeeping. The government has promised to eradicate terror and violence, a promise which has been met with a tepid response. Why is that?
When I raise the topic with Ezra, he appears bored; I am surprised. “The government will never be able to tame the people. There is too much anger. And anyway, politics doesn’t interest me,” he mumbles.
“But how could it not? These Irgun people are savages! Look at what they’ve been doing to the country! They’re destroying everything!”
I think I catch something in his eyes, a blink of unease.
“I suppose they are,” he finally answers.
*
I stop by Lotta’s a few days later, as I occasionally do after work. In general, I prefer meeting Ezra elsewhere; Lotta’s presence still makes me nervous. This time, I’m relieved to see she isn’t there, and the house appears empty. Ezra isn’t in the kitchen or his bedroom. I’m about to leave when I hear voices. I follow their trail and I find Ezra in a room at the back of the house, speaking to a man I’ve never seen before. He is short and pudgy, with an unpleasant face. I cannot hear what he and Ezra are saying, but it looks important, because they are standing close to each other and seem to be very concerned about something. I stand by the door briefly, then walk away. That is when Ezra calls out my name. “Flora, come here! Come and meet my friend!” he says, as if there is nothing untoward about what I have just witnessed.
So I go back in and am introduced to Shlomo. He has small eyes, and his face is bruised, with patches of dried blood near his nose. He looks unlike Ezra’s regular circle of friends. He says something in Hebrew and smiles wanly. “Shlomo has just had an accident,” Ezra translates. “Which is why he looks a bit red in the face.”
“What happened?” I ask.
“He got beaten up by an Arab,” Ezra answers. “Wrong place at the wrong time.”
“What do you mean? What happened?”
“Stupid, really. All about a pack of cigarettes.”
I’ve heard of several incidents between the Jews and the Arabs, but not among my friends and acquaintances. They, as well as I, respect the Arabs. No one wants trouble. Those who do are part of those radical groups the British Mandate is trying to eradicate. I look at Shlomo and wonder whether he might actually be part of such a group. He is speaking quickly in Hebrew, and I cannot understand what he is saying. He is sweating now and looks distraught. He glances at his watch and mumbles, in broken English, that it was nice to meet me. He bids me goodbye and Ezra walks him to the door. When Ezra returns, I badger him with questions. “How come I’ve never met him before? How do you know him? What happened with the Arab?”
Ezra explains slowly. “The Arab got upset over money Shlomo owed him. Nothing to do with cigarettes. He just didn’t want to get into it in front of me. And I know Shlomo because we work together,” Ezra adds. “We’re not really friends, just colleagues at the British government office. We process naturalization papers together.” I look at Ezra as he speaks, and I can tell that there is more to the story.
“What else do you do there? I’m sure you do something else.”
“That’s all,” he says firmly.
“You don’t lie well,” I remark. “It shows on your face.”
Ezra raises his head and looks at me quizzically. “Does it?” He smiles. “Yes, it’s true. There is something else. But I’m not sure you’re going to like it.”
“Try me.”
He hesitates. “Are you sure?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“All right then,” he says slowly. “As you know, we handle the applications of Palestinian Jews. All above board. Except that we also happen to have the files of those who have disappeared during the war. So we help smuggle Holocaust survivors into Palestine.”
“How?”
He speaks cautiously. “I know a forger. He’s been able to copy government stamps.”
“Really?”
I’m not sure whether to condemn him or say nothing. After all, we were both smuggled into Palestine. I can hardly hold it against him.
“So who’s the forger?”
“An Arab, in Jaffa. And you are not to tell a soul, do you hear?”
“Of course.” I pause. “So you smuggle Jews into the country?”
He raises his voice. “Is that a problem for you? Are you going to tell anyone? You know I could go to jail for that, right? Do you know that? The British have a quota they have to respect. I disrespect it. Do you understand? I was in the camps and I thoroughly disrespect their quota.”
“Yes, of course. But they’re not the ones who put it in place, are they? That would be the League of Nations, not them. They’re just following orders—”
“They follow orders like dogs. Do you hear? Rabid fucking dogs!” His voice has risen, and his eyes are shining in a way I’ve never seen them shine before.
“Ezra—”
“No, now you listen! Do you know how many refugee-filled ships are sent back by the British?”
“No. Please don’t shout. I understand this is important, but calm down. Don’t shout.”
“I’m not shouting. The French, the Italians and the Americans are prepared to take the Jews in. But the British? Nah… Not even when it’s a matter of urgency. Like the Struma, in 1942. Do you know about that? You must – it was a big scandal.”
“I’m not sure.”
The truth is
that until I arrived here I knew little about the British Mandate or Palestine. But I don’t feel comfortable admitting it.
Ezra looks at me intently. “The Struma was a ship – actually, not a ship, but a lousy wreck of a boat – which had 769 refugees on board, many of them rich Romanians who had paid a fortune to escape the Nazis. It left from Romania bound for Palestine in 1942. There was a short stop in Istanbul, because the engine failed. But the Turkish government wouldn’t let the passengers off the boat, so they ended up spending weeks awaiting a decision about their fate. The Jewish Agency pleaded with Palestine to take the refugees in, but the answer was a resounding ‘no’. The British ambassador in Ankara said that he didn’t want these people – these people – in Palestine. And so what happened?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll tell you what happened: the boat was torpedoed by the Soviets, and they all died, except for one survivor. They all fucking died.” He pauses and breathes deeply. “Another time, a submarine – a Soviet one again – machine-gunned four hundred Holocaust survivors in the water.”
“That’s awful,” I whisper. “But why?”
“They thought they were Germans.” He pauses. “So say the Soviets. That they thought they were Germans.”
Ezra lights a cigarette and blows the smoke towards his open window. I can hear children singing in the street.
“There’re many more stories like this one,” he says. “So yes, I think that every Jew should be let into this country. I think that we have suffered enough. Those quotas should not be in place.”
I nod. I cannot speak. The image of the Struma ship and the machine-gunned survivors is haunting me. But there is something else. Ezra has revealed an anger – more than anger, a rage – which takes me by surprise. How come I didn’t detect it before? Why did he lie and claim that he wasn’t interested in politics? He is more than interested. He is committed. But to what? To peace? Or something murkier?
“Are you involved in anything I should know about?” I ask him straight out.
“No,” he answers firmly. “I knew you would ask that, but no. All I am is a holocaust survivor. The British have to stop intercepting our boats and putting our refugees in concentration camps. They must stop behaving like Nazis. The Jewish people will never again capitulate. We have suffered enough.”
I reach my hand out towards his. “It’s true, Ezra. We have all suffered enough, especially you. But I don’t think the British are behaving like Nazis. They’re just doing their job. I’m sure many of them feel bad about it. They’re human after all.”
Ezra continues to smoke and says nothing. I look into his eyes and see flecks of black, like tiny bullets, against the blue of his irises.
Ezra has found a new place to live. It is in the German quarter, on Emek Refaim Street, an old stone house with purple bougainvillea dripping down its whitewashed walls. It has a room with a large bed, a bathroom and a kitchen. The furniture is elegant, and from his window one can see the Scottish Church of St Andrew. It is a beautiful, peaceful place, and for the first time I am jealous. I wish I lived in an apartment like his. To make matters worse, the rent is low, because it belongs to a friend of Lotta’s, who has spread the word that everything must be done to help Ezra the “wunderkind”. So the words come out before I can stop them. “Lotta always wants to help, doesn’t she? I mean, does she ever NOT do anything for you?”
Ezra’s face darkens. “I’m not having an affair with her, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“No, no of course not.”
But there is something about the way he says it which makes me think otherwise. Why would he jump to such a conclusion so soon?
I tell him I need to get back to work, I have papers to grade. It’s getting late. My voice is wobbly – soon I will cry, and I’d like to leave before that happens, because I don’t like anyone to see me cry. But Ezra doesn’t give me that option. He comes towards me and takes me in his arms. “What’s the matter? Don’t be upset. There is absolutely nothing for you to worry about, do you understand? I love you, don’t you know that? I love you, Flora Baum.”
He has uttered those words before, but this time, more than any other, there is an urgency, a despair nearly in the way he holds me against him. “I need to go,” I say, pushing him away. “I have a lot of work to do.”
He grabs my shoulders. “Nothing happened between us,” he says sternly. “Nothing at all. Lotta may want something to happen, but I’m not attracted to her. I never will be. Do you believe me?”
“Yes,” I answer softly. “I believe you.”
“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispers, his eyes resting on mine. “We cannot lose each other.”
“No,” I whisper back. “We cannot.”
“I’ll see you tonight. I love you,” he says again.
It is 21st July 1946. Ezra has to spend the evening in Haifa. His superior wants him there for an early meeting the next morning. It will be easier for him to spend the night. “I’ll be taking a train straight after work,” he says.
Because he is employed by the British, Ezra has a special pass that enables him to travel wherever he wants. But I worry about him travelling, because there have been many incidents lately: bombings, kidnappings, people being shot in broad daylight. Last month, five British officers and one RAF serviceman were kidnapped. For all I know, Ezra could be next. “Be careful,” I tell him.
“Of course,” he reassures me. But he seems nervous. He holds me tightly against him and begins to kiss me and fumbles with my bra and tells me that he wants me, even though he should really be going back to his flat. “But it’s ‘that time of the month’,” I tell him shyly. I also have stomach cramps – although I have kept those to myself; I find it embarrassing to discuss such matters, and so clearly does he. “OK,” he mumbles, as I button up my blouse. I grab a hairbrush and brush my curly black hair more vigorously than I should. Ezra lights a cigarette and paces around the room. “What are your plans tomorrow?” he asks, tapping his ash into a cracked coffee cup. “Will you be home in the morning?”
Because he has never asked me anything of the sort before, I become suspicious: “Why are you asking?” I say, holding the hairbrush in mid-air.
“I’m just wondering, that’s all. Is that bad?” he asks, sounding defensive.
“No, no of course not,” I retract. “I don’t know what I’ll be doing. I may go for a walk with Ada. I don’t teach tomorrow.”
“OK.”
I wonder, not for the first time, whether he’s cheating on me. If so, is it Lotta? Is he really going to Haifa? Or am I being paranoid?
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Ezra says.
We kiss at the door. He smells of soap and summer sun.
*
Yael, the headteacher at the school, has asked to see me. She wants to discuss the curriculum for next year, and is also interested in my teaching English. She suggests we meet at 12.00, in a café near the school. It’s a hot and muggy day, and my stomach cramps have been replaced by a bad headache. But I don’t dare cancel the appointment, because I need to display enthusiasm and I need this job. I’m starting to run out of money.
Yael is in her late thirties. Her hair is prematurely grey, which makes her look much older. She has two children, one of whom is at the school, an intelligent girl who has learnt to speak French very quickly. Yael seems to think it’s thanks to my teaching, whereas I’m inclined to believe that her daughter just learns fast. Whatever the reason, Yael is happy and I’d like to keep it that way.
She’s a bit late for our meeting, so I order coffee and a pastry while I wait for her. I’m hoping the food will make my headache go away. But if anything, it makes it worse.
By the time she arrives, my head is pounding. “Are you OK? You look pale,” Yael remarks.
I explain and apologize profusely. “I’m so sorry, but I thin
k I need to go home.”
“Of course.” She looks at me. “Have a lemon juice before you leave and don’t drink any more coffee.”
I do as she says. I drink the lemon juice slowly and it does alleviate the pain, but not enough. I apologize again, and Yael walks me to the door. She stands close to me and I can smell her armpits. “Take care of yourself; we’ll speak tomorrow, it’s fine,” she says gently.
I walk back slowly. My head is throbbing. I cross the street and increase my pace. I look at my watch. It is 12.30. I wonder whether Ezra is back from Haifa, and if I should go and visit him. I miss him suddenly. I shouldn’t have overreacted the way I did. I shouldn’t get so jealous. He doesn’t have another woman. He only has me. Then again, he gets jealous too, even more than I do. I realize that we’ve seen each other practically every evening since we first met. Last night was the first time that we didn’t. And we left on a sour note, all because of me.
I cross the lights at King George Street. The King David Hotel stands in front of me, like a fortress. I think of the evening Ezra and I spent there only a week ago. There was an Egyptian man who spoke perfect French. He was very elegant and courteous. We talked about André Gide and Paul Éluard, and drank champagne. The Egyptian said he was a foreign correspondent from Cairo, and the King David was his pied-à-terre. “Nowhere else in the world will you find private detectives, socialites, Zionist agents, journalists and Arab sheikhs all in one place,” he said, laughing. I asked Ezra to join in the conversation, because the man was so interesting. But he didn’t, because he was jealous. He said that he wanted to leave early, so we did, even though I would rather have stayed. As we walked back, I realized that the man hadn’t even told me his name. For all I knew he could have been a spy. Jerusalem is filled with spies, and I suppose that’s what makes it exciting.
My headache is starting to lift. I walk by Steimatzky, the bookshop. Perhaps I should go inside and get a book or two. I wonder if Ezra has read The Great Gatsby. He must have. Ezra has read everything. But something is happening. A thunderous, deafening eruption. What is it? The ground beneath my feet is shaking. Is it a bomb? I look up, and then I see it and gasp: the south-west wing of the King David Hotel has just collapsed into a mass of stone, cement and twisted iron. There is a billowing of black smoke and charred debris everywhere. There are screams, and people running and cars overturning on the street, and broken trees and shards of glass everywhere, and men and women covered in blood and white dust, then sirens blasting from fire trucks, ambulances and police cars – and I fall to the ground. A man helps me up. He is covered in white dust, as I am. He says something to me in Hebrew. I don’t answer. Time passes. Or does it? Palestinians and British soldiers are digging in the rubble for survivors. Dead bodies are strewn around me. I gasp. I see my mother, my father, and I begin to wail, because the void of grief Ezra and I had kept so tightly sealed has burst open, like an abscess. Then I see a man lying near me on the ground: he is wearing his British soldier’s uniform; his black boots are covered in debris, and a woman rushes towards him. “James!” she is screaming. “James!” She is young and pretty, probably my age, and her pale-green dress is smeared in filth and blood – and James, her husband, is dead. He has managed to open his eyes and see her one last time before dying, and she is holding him against her and swaying back and forth and touching his boots and speaking to him as his head now tilts backwards. I rush towards her and say a few words of comfort – I don’t remember exactly what – but I do remember that she listens and I get her to release her husband’s corpse and gently close his eyes – and she kisses his eyelids, then kisses his still, white face, covers him with kisses while the sun burns hot above us, and she leans him gently back on the ground and then turns towards me and whispers that he was the love of her life, no other man like him, that she’s expecting their first child, that nothing will be the same without him ever again, that he was her life, her love.
