“I’ve been ordered,” the Englishmen explained apologetically. “It’s been agreed that the Arabs should have this town.”
“And you worry about a massacre.” Bar-El spat contemptuously.
“In these matters we have to be impartial.”
“Goddamn your impartial soul,” Bar-El said hoarsely. Gottesmann refused to interpret this, but one Englishman who understood Hebrew started forward. A Palmach girl stopped him.
Gottesmann said, “You’re so dreadfully wrong about Safad. It will not fall.”
Bitterly the MemMem added, “Turn the keys over to the Arabs and when you’re back home remember the name. Safad. Safad. Safad.” He spat on the ground and led his men away.
Gottesmann walked with the Englishman to the edge of the Jewish quarter. “I meant what I said,” he repeated. “We’re going to take this town.”
“May God bless you,” the Englishman replied. He could say no more, for now he must turn all fortified positions, the food supplies, the field glasses and the extra armament over to the Arabs. Nearly two thousand additional troops had moved down from Lebanon and Syria to be in on the kill. Six thousand well-armed Arabs were determined that not one Jew should escape.
Immediately after the parting two things happened. The tired Englishman said to one of his assistants, “It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Jews ready to fight back. They’ll last three days. Pray for the poor bastards.” And an Arab sniper, seeing Gottesmann neatly framed in an alley, fired at him, but the bullet missed and the final battle for Safad was engaged.
… THE TELL
In the dining hall one clear October morning Cullinane asked, “What did a Jew who had served with the English think of their behavior in 1948?”
It was an ugly question which most people avoided, for if the British had succeeded in their plan for turning Palestine over to the Arabs, Jews would have hated them forever; usually the topic was side-stepped. But Eliav had often considered it and had developed certain generalizations which he was willing to discuss.
“Normally,” he began, puffing at his after-breakfast pipe, “I don’t mention the matter, so I’m not sure my thoughts are consistent, but the English did represent a goodly portion of my life and I’d be stupid not to have acquired some ideas. Briefly, when the English picked me up I was a rough, uneducated tyke and they made a man of me. During their war against the Germans they treated me with dignity, and I grew almost to love them. During our war against them they behaved with notable crassness, and I had to fight them. Looking back on everything, I’m perplexed.”
“Let’s take your ideas one by one,” Tabari suggested. “First, they gave you manhood.”
Eliav nodded. “You could make it stronger. They gave me life. They rescued me from Europe. Educated me, gave me this Oxford accent which helps me so much in impressing American archaeologists. Imagine what you could do with it in Chicago, John!”
“I do very well with a fake Irish brogue, thank you,” Cullinane observed. “Remember, Chicago is an Irish Catholic city, not an English one. But tell me this, did the English ever admit you to full partnership?”
“I’ve thought about that. You know, some Jews have risen to positions of great power in England. Disraeli reached the top. Sir Herbert Samuel did pretty well. Leslie Hore-Belisha. It’s remarkable, really.”
“But did they accept you?” Tabari asked bluntly.
“For a few moments during the war, I thought so. But I was fooling myself.”
“Rather curious,” Tabari reflected, “because we Arabs who went to Oxford always considered ourselves full-fledged English gentlemen. Still do.”
“You didn’t fight them later,” Eliav said.
“Correct. We fought on their side, so our feeling was strengthened. There was another curious factor …” He was about to offer an obiter dictum but apparently thought better of it and pointed to Eliav. “Your second point. That during the war they treated you well.”
“They did,” the Israeli said. “They taught me how to fight a guerilla war, how to organize a military unit … everything. In the War of Liberation I had to do some fairly ugly things against the English, but I always said, ‘Tommy, old boy, you taught me how to do this.’ And I found that they had taught me right.”
“You’ve no bitterness?” Cullinane asked.
“None,” Eliav said. Then, after drawing on his pipe, he added, “And I suspect I speak for most Israelis.”
“Wait a minute!” Cullinane protested. “I’ve been reading some Israeli books and their scorn for the English pro-Arab policy … Why do you suppose a bunch of Jews blew up that lorry full of English soldiers at Tiberias?”
Eliav took a deep breath, studied his pipe which now rested between his palms, and said, “Let’s talk about that lorry. It was blown up, as you may recall, in retaliation for English blundering at Akko. I don’t believe you should leap to the conclusion that the lorry could have been destroyed only by Jews who hated Englishmen. The men who did the job may have respected England very much.”
There was a clatter of dishes as the kibbutzniks cleared away the tables, then Tabari resumed: “You said that during World War II you grew almost to love them. That’s a funny statement for a Jew.”
“I meant that after my escape from Germany … When I appreciated what horrible things were happening …” Eliav paused, then added matter-of-factly, “We were a large family. Few survived.”
Cullinane gripped his chair and thought: Sooner or later it smacks you in the face. I’ve known Eliav for all these months and now he tells me that he lost most of his family. In a restaurant you start to give a crude waitress hell. Then you see tattooed on her arm a Bergen-Belsen number. He bit his lip and said nothing.
Tabari, possibly because he had been educated in England, was not affected by Eliav’s last statement. “So everyone has a sorrowful story. What’s it got to do with the discussion?”
Eliav, like most Israelis, appreciated this impersonal reaction and said, “This. In the worst days of the war, when I was serving here in Palestine …”
Tabari interrupted. “You’re one of the few Jews I know who calls it ‘Palestine.’ I thought that was frowned upon.”
Eliav smiled. “When I’m speaking as a member of the British army I use their name. As an Israeli I’ll take it most unkindly if you call my homeland ‘Palestine.’ Well, anyway, when I served here and watched Rommel’s Afrika Corps coming at us through Egypt, and other Germans trying to reach us through Syria …” He stopped, puffed his pipe and said with great reserve, “If the British had not held desperately—you might also say heroically—six hundred thousand Jews would have been gassed to death in Palestine.” He relaxed and added lightly, “I rarely pray, and when I do I usually leave God and Moses out of it. But I have frequently asked blessings for Field Marshal Montgomery. I’m sure neither of you can imagine how I feel about him.” He tapped his pipe and said, looking at the floor, “It was a very near thing, gentlemen.”
Cullinane asked, “Then you’re able to differentiate between Englishmen who fought with you and Englishmen who fought against you?”
“Of course. Because I must differentiate between my two selves. The Jew who learned all he knows from the English and the Jew who later fought them with all his dedication.”
“You’re able to keep your many selves straightened out?” Tabari asked sardonically.
“You go nuts if you don’t,” Eliav laughed. “How do you keep your various responsibilities as an Arab Israeli …”
Cullinane interrupted. “It’s good hearing a Jew speak of these matters. As an Irishman I feel just about as you do. I must acknowledge that in the world at large the English have accomplished wonders, but in Ireland …” He threw up his hands. “I’m sounding like an Irish politician in Chicago, but what I mean is, in Ireland they never had a clue. They operated from an entirely different intellectual base.”
“You’ve made my speech,” Eliav said, “and now let’s heckle Ta
bari.” He relit his pipe.
“One more thing,” Cullinane protested. “I know why they went wrong in Ireland, but why did they go wrong here?”
The Jew finished lighting his pipe and in the interval Tabari leaned forward as if he were going to speak. Eliav, noticing this, deferred, but Tabari bowed and said, “Hyde Park is yours.”
“To understand the English in Palestine,” Eliav reflected, “you’ve got to understand which Englishmen came here. Then you’ve got to study those Englishmen against the Arabs they met, and against the Jews.”
“Precisely,” Tabari said with malicious pleasure. “Point is, Cullinane, we saw two types of Englishmen in Palestine. The poor, uneducated second-raters who couldn’t be used at home and who weren’t good enough for important posts like India. Don’t forget, our little Falastin was truly a backward place of no importance, and we got the dregs.”
“True,” Eliav nodded. “The other group, of course, were absolutely top-drawer. Biblical experts, Arabic scholars, gentlemen of broad interests. Now how did these two different types of Englishmen react in Palestine?” He deferred to Tabari.
“On this I’m the expert,” Tabari joked, “because my family used to hold drills … I’m serious. My father would gather us together and coach us on how to treat the stupid Englishmen. I can still hear him lecturing: ‘Words are cheap, Jemail. Use the best ones you have. Effendi, honored sir, excellency, pasha.’ He advised us to call every army person colonel unless we recognized him as a general. I had an Oxford education, but I used to take real delight in calling some pipsqueak from Manchester effendi. I developed an exaggerated ritual of touching my forehead and chest as I bowed low and said, ‘Honored sir, I would be most humbly proud if you would so-and-so.’ ”
“What do you mean, so-and-so?”
“Well, I judged whether or not he knew Arabic, and if he didn’t, I ended my sentence, ‘Kiss me bum,’ and the stupid fool would show his teeth and grin and give me anything I wanted. The Arab corruption of the average Englishman was criminal.”
“And on the same day,” Eliav added, “this befuddled Englishman would meet a Jew from Tel Aviv who dressed like an Englishman, acted like an Englishman. Except that the Jew was apt to be better educated. Here there was no effendi nonsense, no floor-scraping. The Jew wanted to talk legal matters or Beethoven or the current scandal. And there was one additional thing the Englishman could not forgive. The Jew insisted upon being treated as an equal.”
Tabari laughed. “Under the circumstances, who can blame the lower-class Englishman for preferring the Arab?”
“With the upper-class Englishman the problem was different,” Eliav said. “They came with good degrees. Usually they spoke Arabic, but rarely Hebrew. And all had read the great romantic books which Englishmen insist upon writing about the Arabs. Doughty—you ever read any of his daydreams? T. E. Lawrence, Gertrude Bell.”
Tabari said, “Yes, we Arabs have enjoyed about the best public-relations men in the world, all Englishmen. And tell him about the photographs.” The Arab fell into an exaggerated pose, right arm over chin, fingers extended poetically. With his left hand he threw a napkin over his head as a burnoose, and all in all looked rather dashing.
Eliav said, “The other day Jemail and I were reviewing some two dozen books on this area and in every one the English author was photographed in full Arab regalia. Robes, turban, flowing belt.” The men laughed, and Eliav concluded, “One of the worst intellectual tricks pulled on England was that photograph of T. E. Lawrence in Arab costume. Damned thing’s hypnotic.”
“Helped determine British policy in this area as much as oil,” Tabari suggested.
“If the truth were known,” Eliav said, “I’d bet that even roly-poly Ernie Bevin had hidden somewhere a photograph of himself in Arab robes.”
“But can you imagine any self-respecting Englishman who’d want himself photographed as a Palestinian Jew?” Tabari held up his hands in disgust.
The archaeologists winced at the image as a kibbutznik slammed up, growling, “You gonna sit here all day?”
“We may,” Cullinane said drily.
He did not embarrass the kibbutznik, if that had been his hope. “Just wanted to know,” the boy said, sweeping away the dishes in a clatter.
“I’ll keep my cup, if you don’t mind,” Cullinane protested.
“No point,” the kibbutznik said. “Coffee’s all gone.” Cullinane drummed on the table to control his anger and the boy went off whistling.
“There was one additional factor,” Tabari began hesitantly. “It doesn’t appear in official reports, but in this part of the world it was rather potent.” He leaned back, then continued, “Many Englishmen who came here had enjoyed homosexual experiences. At school. In the army. And they were predisposed to look at the Arab of the desert, who had always been similarly inclined, with fascination if not actual desire. If one was a practicing homosexual, what could be more alluring, I ask you, than an affair with an Arab wearing a bedsheet? You and he on two camels riding to the oasis. A dust storm raging out of the desert and only two date palms to protect you. One for him, one for you. Blood loyalty and all that. Some very amusing things happened in this part of the world in those years, I can assure you.”
“I wouldn’t have raised the subject,” Eliav said quietly, “but since Jemail has, I must say he’s not joking. Now suppose you were an avid homosexual, John …”
“We’ll suppose nothing of the sort,” Cullinane protested. “You forget it was Vered who interested me, not Jemail. Please to keep the names straight.”
“What I was saying,” Eliav continued, “was that if you were a young Englishman filled with romantic ideas and you stepped off the transport in Haifa, where would your sympathies …”
“Sympathies, hell!” Tabari protested. “Who would you want to go to bed with? Mustaffa ibn Ali from the Oasis of the Low-Slung Palms or Mendel Ginsberg who runs a clothing store on Herzl Street?”
Cullinane found the conversation preposterous, so he asked, “Considering the circumstances, you agree that the English did a reasonably decent job in Palestine?”
“Yes,” Eliav said.
“Speaking as an Arab,” Tabari added, “I think only the English could have handled things as well as they did.”
“Then you’ve no bitterness?” Cullinane asked the Jew.
“With history I never fight,” Eliav replied. “With the future, yes. And when I was fighting the English they represented the future. I had to oppose them.”
“Tell us the truth,” Tabari pleaded, as if he were a child. “Aren’t you generous in your present judgments because of the fact that when you served with the British army … wasn’t some officer … let’s say, a little extra nice to you? Come on, Eliav. We’ll understand.”
“Curious thing is,” Eliav replied, “they were all damned decent and I shall never forget it.”
• • •
Through the middle of Safad, running from the concrete police station down the hill to the cemetery containing the graves of the great rabbis—Eliezer, Abulafia, Zaki—stands a handsome flight of stairs built of finely dressed limestone. Its 261 steps, arranged in twenty-one separate flights, are wide and its whole appearance is one of solidity and permanence. These stairs will be long discussed in Israeli history, for they were built by the English for the express purpose of separating the Arab quarter from the Jewish, and there have been some to argue: “See! The English went out of their way to erect an official barrier between Arab and Jew. They made the division permanent, for by keeping the two groups apart they were able to play upon the fears of each, thus retaining for themselves the right to govern. The steps created new differences that would not otherwise have developed, and maintained old differences which would otherwise have dissolved. If you want a monument to English venality in Israel, look to the 261 steps of Safad.”
But it was also possible to argue: “We have historical records of Safad dating back to shortly after the time o
f Christ, and many different governmental systems have operated during that time, but so far as we can ascertain, there was always a quarter in which Jews lived by themselves and another in which non-Jews lived. There were synagogues and churches, then synagogues and mosques, and each held to his own. All that the English did in building their flight of stairs was to acknowledge existing custom and to externalize in concrete form a tradition as old as the town itself. The handsome flights of stairs did not divide Safad. The divisions of Safad called forth the stairs. Perhaps the time may come when the stairs can be dismantled, but this could not have been done during the English occupation.”
And the impartial voice of history could have argued: “The truth lies somewhere in between. I can remember periods extending into centuries when Jew and Arab shared Safad in easy harmony. In the early days of Muhammad this was so. In the period of the Kabbalists there was no friction. And even in this century, prior to the great massacre of 1929, Jews felt free to live in the midst of the Arab quarter. On the other hand, I can recall periods of desolation. The Crusaders killed off every Jew in Safad. In 1834 there was a pitiful slaughtering, and I do not believe that Englishmen were governing in Saphet at that period. At this date who can remember exactly why the beautiful stairs were built? All I know is that from 1936 through 1948 the stairs kept two warring people apart; and at night, when the revolving searchlight on the police station flashed down the stairs, Jews and Arabs alike were afraid to cross over and molest the other.”
But on April 16, 1948, things changed swiftly, and as the English, in a stirring ceremony, handed the Arabs the keys to all the fortresses, all the high, protected points in town, and marched away with bagpipes playing, it became obvious that the war for Safad would begin at the stairs. If the Jews could hold there, they had a chance to hold the town.
The Source: A Novel Page 118
