Despite the gloomy shadows, her smile showed clear. “Who on earth would dream of making trouble for a harmless old woman? Now go. I will meet you at the water tower.”
* * *
Jake was greeted underground by a sleeping head.
The stone guardian had long since fallen over on its side, the face now resting half submerged. Even so, it was broader than Jake was tall. He stepped onto the nose, grasped the ear, and swung himself up and over the chin. He stood and saw that attached to the back was a small rowboat. “It’s here.”
“So are they,” Pierre hissed. “I can hear them talking above us.”
Sally hesitated and demanded, “What about Phyllis?”
“We won’t do her any good in jail,” Jasmyn pointed out.
“Or wherever else it is they plan to keep us,” Jake agreed, and eased himself down by a series of pitted footholds. He helped Sally and Jasmyn down to Pierre’s waiting arms, watched them settle in the stern, then stepped into the unstable boat and centered himself with one hand on each gunnel. Once in the bow, he accepted the lantern from Pierre and watched as his friend stripped off his shirt and draped it over the light. Instantly they were enveloped in impenetrable gloom.
Sally started, “What—”
Pierre hissed for silence just as the darkness was illuminated again, this time by a flashlight beam from above. Not trusting the oars to move silently, Pierre lifted one out of the oarlock and gingerly steered them away. Voices called back and forth, the noise echoing through vast distances. Jake craned, searched, saw no end or wall or marking. Just a forest of huge pillars rising from the black waters, stretching out in every direction as far as he could see.
Quietly Pierre paddled on one side, then the other, steering them from one great pillar to the next, placing ever more distance between them and the searching light.
* * *
“We might as well admit it,” Pierre said, not bothering to whisper any longer, and uncovering the lantern to reveal worried faces.
Jake leaned back from his turn upon the oars, agreed wearily, “We’ve gone a lot farther than a kilometer.”
“We are well and truly lost.” Reluctantly Pierre turned to where voices bounced and echoed behind them.
“I guess you know what that means.” Jake massaged his back with both hands, searched the great vaulted ceiling overhead.
“It is our only hope of ever finding our way out again,” Pierre agreed resignedly. “Here, my friend, let me take up the oars again.”
Carefully Jake traded places, then tried to give Sally a reassuring smile as Pierre steered them around and back toward the echoing voices. She did her best to reply in kind, despite the worried light to her eyes.
It had proved far harder than they had expected to maintain a steady northward course. The vast reservoir was actually split into a myriad of chambers by pillars that grew into long sweeping walls. Earthen embankments rose like shallow shorelines, looming suddenly upward to connect with the ceiling high overhead. Jake held his lantern up high, recalled Phyllis’s warning about the two British explorers, and hoped desperately they would at least be caught in time.
Time passed in agonizing dips of Pierre’s oars until a flashlight beam split the darkness and a great shout of triumph sounded from close at hand. Soon a pair of boats were winging toward them, hemming them in, as more shouts and calls bounded back and forth around them. They were swiftly ringed by boats. Turks rowed toward them, under the careful supervision of lighter-skinned silent men. A rope was tossed and made fast to their bow. They were all too tired and dejected to protest as they were rowed back in the direction from which they had fled.
Wearily Jake assisted the ladies up and back over the great leaning face. He ignored the proddings and shouted orders, and climbed up the rusting ladder into the little storeroom. It was almost without surprise that the first words of English he heard came with the polished accent of a victorious Dimitri Kolonov. “You have given us quite a mad chase, Colonel. A pity that it must now end with you and your associates occupying a pair of rather dank and musty cells.”
“I think not,” another voice said, startling them all.
Jake raised his exhausted head, squinted through the gloom, and saw Consul General Tom Knowles stride into the crowded room. He was flanked by a grim-faced contingent of Marines. Knowles marched straight up to the dumbfounded Russian and said, “I am formally taking charge of these people.”
Phyllis Hollamby’s gray head appeared behind Tom Knowles. She smiled at Sally and explained, “When you failed to arrive, I decided, as they say, to call out the Marines.”
Sally beamed back in undisguised relief. “I’ll find the words to thank you someday, I’m sure.”
Dimitri Kolonov’s mouth worked several times before he managed, “Really, I must protest. These people have violated numerous statutes and must be held—”
“In protective custody under my personal supervision,” Knowles snapped back. “I remind you that they are all holders of diplomatic immunity.”
The Russian’s eyes scampered frantically for another ploy, but he could manage only, “I must warn you, my superiors will raise serious protest at this affair.”
“On the contrary, it is I who must warn you,” Knowles replied, his eyes hard as bullets, “that you are on the precipice of creating a major international incident.”
Impatient at this palaver in a tongue he clearly could not understand, one of the Turkish police grabbed Jake’s arm and roughly pulled him to his feet. Before he could protest, a shrill lash of Turkish froze the room. Anya Ecevit stepped from behind the consul general to unleash a full barrage upon the Turks. They stepped back, clearly cowed by the onslaught. Only when there was a circle cleared about the four did she pause, turn to Jake, and say, “Are you all right, Colonel?”
“Fine,” he said quietly. His head felt ready to burst from the aching fatigue.
“You don’t look fine,” Anya said. “You look beyond exhausted.”
“Enough of this malarkey.” Knowles dismissed the Russian and his minions by simply turning his back on them. “Sergeant, you and your men help these people along.”
“Right you are, sir.” The sergeant glided over and offered Jake a supporting arm and a grin. “It’ll be a pleasure.”
Chapter Fifteen
“Ah, Colonel, come in, come in.” Tom Knowles was already on his feet as Jake pushed the door open. “Hope you’re feeling better.”
“Fine, sir.” Two days’ rest had restored Jake in both mind and body. Not to mention the lift he had just received when Anya Ecevit had greeted him with the news that Charles Fernwhistle had been recalled to Washington. Jake took the offered seat and nodded in reply to Barry Edders’ broad smile. “Ready to get back to work.”
“Glad to hear it. A great deal has been happening, and even more is left to do.” Knowles nodded toward his political officer.
“Right.” Edders made a futile gesture to straighten the folds of his rumpled suit. “As you have no doubt gathered, Europe finds itself facing more than simply the peril of war’s aftermath.”
“Soviet aggression,” Jake offered.
“Exactly,” Knowles agreed, too animated to release the topic to Edders’ care. “One by one, the nations of Eastern Europe have begun falling like dominoes, entering into the nightmare of total Soviet Communist domination.”
“There was a hurried conference in Washington the day before yesterday,” Edders continued, “followed by an emergency meeting of both houses of Congress yesterday. Your findings were included in the President’s address.”
Jake sat up straighter. “What?”
“This is of the utmost importance,” Knowles assured him. “President Truman has informed Congress that unless vital emergency aid is sent immediately to the prodemocratic governments of Greece and Turkey, within months they could both fall to the Soviets.”
“Maybe even weeks,” Edders added gravely. “We’re talking right down to the wi
re here.”
“In the face of this potential disaster,” Knowles went on, “the President requested that a special aid package be offered to these nations, so long as they are willing to fight openly against Communist aggression.”
“They’re already calling it the Truman Doctrine,” Edders said. “I saw it on the wire this morning.”
“The aid you have been sent to handle is merely the first trickle of a growing flood,” Knowles told him. “It is vital that two things happen, and happen immediately. First, that people such as yourself are chosen to handle the funds in a manner which remains totally removed from bureaucratic battles. And secondly, we must ensure that the disbursement of these funds fosters this country’s democratic process and the growth of their private sector.” Knowles eyed him gravely. “With your agreement I will offer my strongest recommendation that this task be kept in your most capable hands. It will be an enormous and largely thankless undertaking. But I could think of no one more suited to the challenge.”
Jake glanced at his watch—a half hour yet before Sally was to join him for lunch. Sally and Jasmyn were like two excited children, full of plans to turn their vast apartment into a joint home. This ability of hers to go from sharing his work and his life to delighting in being a housewife amazed him.
Yet in his impatience to share the news of his appointment with her, time seemed to hang as still as the dust-laden heat. He looked out his window, where through the trees’ leafy green towered ancient domes and minarets. Numerous mosques rose and fell like man-made hills.
Directly below him, the streets were a constant, tumultuous theater. Young men pushed great handcarts bearing everything from logs to spices to carpets to bronze. A boy walked by balancing a folded cloth on his head, upon which was balanced a broad metal platter; on the platter was a pile of soft pretzels as tall as the boy. Jake watched him saunter down the slippery cobblestone lane, calling out to each passerby and doorway, accepting coins and pulling out wares, all without losing his balance.
In the far distance, Jake could catch a glimpse of boats nestled up to ancient docks or resting gently at anchor in the protected waters of the Golden Horn. There was a stillness to the noonday air, a vibrant sense of timeless energy so magnificent it made mockery of all human noise and strife and ambitions.
Jake swung about at the sound of a quiet knock at his door. “Come in.”
Daniel Levy entered. “I hope I am not disturbing you.”
“Not at all. Have a seat.” Jake unleashed his grin. “It looks like your job is going to be more permanent than either of us had dared hope.”
“You are staying on, then.” The bearded man sighed his relief. “That is wonderful.” A nervous tug at his beard, then he added, “My father will be pleased as well. He has asked when you will be returning for another lesson.”
“Tell him,” Jake replied, “I’d like to make it a regular event, if it’s all right with him.”
Daniel hesitated, his eyes downcast, then said quietly, “There is another side to the book you saw, the Me Am Lo’ez. I did not discover it until our lives were disrupted by the war, when we were settled in the camp. But it was there all along.” He raised his head, asked Jake, “Have you ever heard the word pilpul?”
Jake resisted the urge to steer the conversation forward, much as his mind wanted to return to the gladness that the day contained. There was something here, some opening that his mind did not recognize, yet was clear to his heart. He could sense an opportunity, a purpose to the moment. So even though his head and his world clamored to race on and leave the opportunity and the quietness behind, he settled back and said as calmly as he could muster, “I don’t think so, no.”
“It is a Yiddish word, and means a meandering argument with no real purpose or direction. Like many such expressions, it has a meaning that can only be understood through example.” The dark gaze turned away and inward, not seeing the room and the brilliant sunlight filtering through the window. “I must speak again about our internment during the last stages of the war. Conditions inside the camp were not too bad. Oh, the food was awful, of course. The barracks were overcrowded and always either too hot or too cold. The camp itself was utterly bare.”
“I could never imagine,” Jake said quietly, “being falsely imprisoned behind barbed wire and then talking about it as calmly as you do.”
“My people have learned to endure much,” he replied, his eyes distant and sad. “But that is not what I wished to discuss. I mentioned it only for you to understand that it was not as the camps which you have seen. It was a camp, yes, and it was very difficult, but our greatest battles were against boredom and uncertainty. We did not know anything, you see, not what was going on outside the wire, nor what was to become of us. The soldiers themselves had been ordered to discuss neither with us. Any wisp of rumor swept through the camp like wildfire, and as usually is the case with such, almost all the rumors were bad. Worse than bad. Horrible. A mysterious truck with no markings was either delivering poison for our food, or cement to begin building the gas chambers. Dreadful rumors. In many respects, they were worse than the camp itself.”
He lapsed into silence then, his face drawn, his expression brooding. Jake watched him for a moment, then granted him privacy by turning his attention to the street below his window. A pair of youngsters struggled by, one pushing and the other pulling at a spindly wooden cart piled with a mountain of turnips. The boys could not have been ten years old, yet they looked born to the task of toiling down the sweltering street, almost as ready to collapse as the overburdened cart. A very harsh land.
Daniel drew himself back with a sigh. “Where was I?”
“I’m not sure,” Jake said slowly, turning back around. “You were going to describe for me the meaning of a word.”
“Pilpul, yes, of course. Thank you. The imprisoned young men were truly beside themselves, as you can well imagine. Most were married. They only took those over eighteen years of age, you see, and it is our tradition to marry young. Many had families, babies, and no news. No word of how those families were keeping, where money and food were coming from, whether they too were perhaps being herded into camps.”
Daniel shook his head slowly. “It was an awful time for many. They turned to talk of violence, some against the regime here in Turkey, which was ludicrous, of course, a paltry handful of Jews plotting the downfall of a regime governing a Muslim country of some fifty million. What did they expect, that suddenly the impossible would happen and a Jewish leader would be elected? But they were young, and they were frightened, and logic played little part in their discussions. The majority began making plans to emigrate. To leave their home of centuries and begin anew in Palestine. The thought of a free Israel gave many the focus they required, you see, to believe that there truly would be a tomorrow.”
Daniel paused a moment, deep in memories, then continued, “A few of the elders gathered with the ones planning to emigrate. But most realized that they could not pull up the roots of centuries and move to a country that did not in truth exist. The uncertainty of such a journey was, at their age, beyond their ability to imagine. So they retreated into Torah.
“Night and day they gathered, little groups banded together around this vast camp, growing in numbers until some contained as many as a hundred or more graybeards. They would sit, and they would argue. Not discuss. Not debate. Argue.
“Did they offer answers to the young men who drifted listlessly about the camp? Did they lead them in prayers for their release? No. They sought escape into the minute. They argued over things of no value. Items so intricately complex that none but their inner circle could follow, much less care about.”
He picked up a pen, studied it, set it down, all without realizing what he had done. “I will give you one example. In the first volume of Me Am Lo’ez, there is instruction given over the prayers that one should say before opening the holy Scriptures, and again when completing one’s study. The reason for this is clear. Reciting th
ese blessings shows that a person considers the holy words to be precious and that the act of study is an act of worship.”
Daniel shook his head at the memory. “But the camp elders, they took this simple instruction, and they elaborated on it. They tore it apart with their endless questions and arguments.”
“I think I see,” Jake said, recalling another passage, one from the New Testament.
“They spent weeks arguing over points of no importance. If a person is up all the night and begins the day with a Torah reading, should he first say the morning prayers or the Torah blessing? If a person is reading the Torah and finds an error—remember, all our Torah scrolls are written down by hand—does he say the final blessing when he stops? Should he first take another scroll and repeat the segment as it is correctly written? If another scroll is opened, should the first prayer be repeated?”
Daniel tugged angrily at his beard. “On and on it went, with the arguments raging back and forth, day after day after day. At a time when unity among the Jewish community was most critical, these elders, these leaders of our people, would gather in groups and declare that other bands of elders were heretics. Worse than the nonbelievers, for they desecrated the name of Torah with their wild opinions. Such comments incited rages which shamed us all. And over what? Details which meant nothing to us, to our plight, to those among us who were racked with fear and worry and pain.”
Daniel shook his head again bitterly. “That is why I have resisted returning to my studies of the Scriptures since we were freed from the camp. I cannot help but remember where such studies led us in our hour of greatest need.”
When he was sure Daniel was finished, Jake said carefully, “There was another Jew who condemned the elders of His time for just such a waste.”
Daniel looked at him, his focus slowly tightening. “This is Jesus, yes? You are speaking of the Christian messach?”
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