The Hadassah Covenant

by Tommy Tenney

  Chapter Five

  The Wall Street Journal Europe, Monday, June 30, 2003, p. A1

  For 1,500 years, from the era of Alexander the Great to the late 13th century, a high Mesopotamian priest in Babylon ruled as the supreme leader of Eastern Jewry. Known as the Exilarch, he settled all disputes brought before him by Jews living as far away as India and Spain. The Exilarch’s authority ended only when Mongol hordes sacked Babylon, for centuries the city with the world’s largest Jewish community.

  —“EXILE SEEKS REPARATIONS FOR JEWS FROM IRAQ IN FIRST STAGE OF PLAN”

  * * *

  COALITION HEADQUARTERS, THE GREEN ZONE, BAGHDAD—THE FOLLOWING MORNING

  With a loud slap, the leather-bound sheath of ancient documents struck the briefing room table and slid sideways. The short, thickly muscled United States Army officer who had slammed it down stood, exhaled loudly, and glared around at the four men sitting before him in the canvas-filtered light of the divisional briefing room.

  It was a careless way to treat objects this sensitive, but Colonel John McIntosh also knew that he didn’t care. Tiptoeing around ancient artifacts was just the kind of time-wasting frivolity he hated most about his job. Precisely the sort of politically correct goose chase that resulted in soldiers getting killed for no useful purpose. Such as the case at hand—classic example of bureaucrats messing with the mission profile and getting good men zipped into body bags.

  For his opening salvo, the colonel fixed a disdainful scowl at the bearded Brit, Osborn, the personification of all this nonsense.

  “So—you really think this is what those men fought and died for? Took out a chopper and a dozen men?” “I do, sir.”

  Good. Ari “Osborn” was relieved he had been able to deliver the response flat and unmoved.

  “Must have been real antique lovers.” The colonel rolled his eyes at the others, military men all, and elicited a few cheap, sympathetic chuckles.

  “Sir,” Osborn continued, the first lilt of a defensive pitch unavoidably stealing into his voice, “the documents were likely stolen from the Battaween Synagogue in Baghdad when it was looted several months ago on orders from the highest ranks of the insurgency—maybe by al-Zarqawi himself. You know how sensitive the subject of Jews and Judaism is in this country. This whole region, for that matter. So you begin with the fact that truly ancient Jewish artifacts are extremely rare. To the rarity, you can add the anti-Semitism, which adds to their attraction. Then add any possible intelligence value they might hold.”

  “Well, that’s fine, but I have neither the time nor the patience to front this little turf war. However, for the sake of clarity, let me state my sympathies right up front. We’re here to conquer terrorism, not start a museum. So who’s gonna end up signing for these things and baby-sitting them until we can get on to serious matters?”

  The colonel’s pugnacious demeanor was so stereotypical, Ari almost smiled.

  The Italian colonel stood up and said in careful English, “As you said, Viper 5 lost twelve of our best men and friends to secure this material. Our mission is to protect or reclaim stolen antiquities. And we paid a very high price to carry it out. These items must be returned to the Antiquities Protectorate.”

  “Sir,” began an American intelligence officer sitting beside him, “I’ve had a look at one of them since Dr. Osborn brought them in. And from what I could tell, it was still in pretty good shape. Hardly an antiquity.”

  “What is it, then?”

  Another American in the corner mumbled, “It’s a hot potato.”

  “You have no idea,” Osborn put in with a nod at the comment. “I asked a friend from Israel to read—”

  “You what?” The colonel leaned forward on his fists. “I asked an Israeli friend to read the parchment.” Osborn was carrying off the ruse on orders. Headquarters in Jerusalem had instructed him to signal the American that Israel would soon know—without destroying his own cover. Osborn consciously relaxed his shoulders, his breathing, and fixed the American with strong eye contact. He was skilled in making these things work—only with expert training and a good deal of luck would the colonel know the truth. “There was no other way. I read Latin, Greek, and a smattering of Persian. But Hebrew—”

  “An Israeli?” The colonel’s face had turned bright red, and he leaned even further to stare into Osborn’s face.

  “Sir, there’s not a single Hebrew interpreter anywhere in the theater, at least officially. We just never anticipated Jewish documents being trafficked. In order to assess these items properly, I had to move quickly and get expert help.”

  The colonel sighed deeply, stood to his full five foot seven, and swept the group with glowering eyes. “And what did your Israeli friend say?”

  “He said the other documents were lists of family names. Genealogies.”

  “Harmless, no?” offered the Italian colonel hopefully. “Well, I thought so at first. But then my friend explained further. It turns out quite the contrary. They’re explosive. See, there are only a few dozen Jews left in Iraq. But there used to be an enormous population here. Hundreds of thousands in Baghdad alone. They were not only influential, but in many cases, enormously wealthy. They owned or controlled many of the organs of industry. Over the years, many of them escaped the occasional outbreak of persecution by moving away to more friendly countries. This exodus started centuries ago, but it picked up steam as time went on.” Osborn paused a moment, but when no one spoke he continued. “And then, when Israel was formed in 1948, the Iraqi authorities cranked up the persecution to an all-time high. Finally, the government struck a deal with Israel. If the Jews would renounce their Iraqi citizenship and abandon their holdings, they’d be allowed to leave with a single suitcase and the equivalent of fifty dollars in cash. So for the next few months, Israel started flying out Jewish refugees in an airlift called Operations Ezra and Nehemiah. By the time they were done, only a few thousand Jews were left in the whole country. Ironically, Iraq was supposed to accept a sizable number of Palestinian refugees from the West Bank in exchange, but they reneged on that part of the deal.”

  “But, sir, what does this have to do with genealogies?” asked the Italian, shrugging expressively.

  “Yeah,” chimed in the colonel as he sat down again. “What’s your point?”

  “Well, when the anti-Jewish pogroms first started in Iraq, many of the Jews who remained started slipping away from their communities and just melting into the population. Assimilating. Changed their names, their language, everything. They tried to erase every possible sign of their heritage. Not out of cowardice but genuine fear. Fear for their lives and for their children.”

  “And the documents . . .”

  “They’re the last reliable records of who all these assimilated Jews really were.”

  A long, knowing pause fell upon the group.

  “See,” Osborn’s tutorial continued, “it was a tradition among these people to make their children memorize their genealogies going back twenty or more generations. So there was no written record—but in case they ever found themselves on free soil and were asked to prove their Jewishness, it was all in their heads. These other, written synagogue genealogies were kept as a sort of ultimate backup record and were very carefully hidden. But they could quickly become death warrants for every one of these people and their descendants if they ever fell into the wrong hands.”

  “Which they did.”

  “Yes, they did. In fact, there was something worse still.”

  The air suddenly filled with the colonel’s expletives.

  “We found fragments of translated copies. Into Arabic.”

  The colonel frowned and shook his head. “You mean—?”

  “Yes, sir. The records were copied. These names were written down and moved elsewhere.”

  Now the colonel thrust his fingers across his face and up through his short blond hair. “Of course.” His sarcasm was returning; his face bore the expression of one weary of living. “So these . .
. death warrants, as you call them, may have been freely distributed into the ranks of Islamic insurgents.”

  Osborn replied, “To the thousands of Jews who’d gone underground, living like Iraqis, these documents are without a doubt road-maps to their own assassinations.”

  The diminutive but powerful man looked upward, as though imploring G-d for help. “Now, is there any chance that your Jewish interpreter friend has no ties whatsoever to the Israeli government?”

  Ari Osborn was silent for a moment. He fought back a wry smile as he thoughtfully stroked his full beard. “Little chance, sir. He works for the . . . Israeli National Library.”

  McIntosh’s exhaled breath made every one of them jump.

  Another officer spoke up from the center of the table. “Sir, the State Department will probably have to be notified.”

  “Of course I know State will have to be notified!” the colonel shouted.

  “I don’t understand,” Ari said in his best lame-question voice.

  “Really! You mean geopolitics isn’t your specialty?” McIntosh was in full fury now. “Well, you may have heard that Israel has stayed as far from this war as it possibly could. At least officially, that is. Their Mossad is everywhere; we know that. But it’s all as far undercover as possible. Best for both sides.”

  Osborn monitored every muscle in his body and even held his breath. The smallest inhalation, if taken too quickly, could give him away. For that matter, his own pupils could betray him—but he could hardly control that.

  “If word ever reaches Jerusalem that some of their own people have been exposed to terrorists and are in grave danger,” McIntosh continued his tutorial, “well, you know Israel has always taken the initiative. The military initiative. And the least involvement from Israel could destroy the Coalition. Radicalize the Iraqi Parliament. Maybe destabilize the whole region. Heck, who knows—maybe even fuel a real war. Is that serious enough for you? You sure fired up a storm with your little museum pieces!”

  There was a pause. Finally, Ari spoke up in a low, measured voice. “You can assume that Jerusalem already knows.”

  “Why?”

  Osborn shrugged.

  “Why?” This time, McIntosh’s voice had risen to a shout.

  Osborn fixed the American with a dead-level stare. “Because my friend was, shall we say, highly agitated after I was finished with him. His credentials are from the Ministry of Religion in Jerusalem. And who knows, he could be . . .”

  “Great. Mossad.” The colonel’s voice was flat. The histrionics were over. “These documents are property of CIA, all right? Forget the archaeological side ever existed. And Craig, fire up the Black Hawk. I’m going to have to see the general right away.”

  “Which one?”

  “The general. Do I make myself clear? This is big problems. Things are about to hit the fan. Anonymous Jews are about to start dying all over the place.”

  As if to add its own exclamation point, the distant yet too-close crackle and thump of an exploding car bomb launched the normally unruffled men to the edge of their seats. Embarrassed chuckles filled the room.

  But no one stayed behind to continue the discussion.

  In the outer parking area, far removed from any American watchers, Osborn jumped into his car, sighed deeply to release the tension wracking his body, and slowly lowered his forehead to the steering wheel.

  So far, so good, he told himself. He was nearly certain he had pulled off the deception with his cover intact. Not a meeting for the faint of heart.

  Without even glancing aside, he fumbled between his front seats and tightly grasped a plastic bag wedged there. He sighed again in relief.

  Thank goodness, he had made copies of everything, and withheld many of the originals for himself. . . .

  Almost to reassure himself that he was in control of the unfolding events, he opened the bag, removed the first scroll, and carefully unrolled it. He chuckled to think of the sanitary environment in which a document like this would normally be handled.

  Then, right there in the daylight, he pulled out the infrared scope again and began to read the second part of Leah’s desperate letter—a plea that now threatened to shake a world three thousand years removed.

  . . . Esther, I elaborated to you on my own night with the King to let you see why the events that followed came as such a shock, and also to spare myself the ordeal of trying to describe my emotional state in the minutes after Mordecai informed me of my rejection.

  To have the most remarkable thing seemingly happen, to see the King actually fall in love with me before my very eyes, and then to have my instincts confirmed by—dare I say it?—awed and overwhelmed words from his very own lips, not only that but to feel myself fall in love with him, and then be rejected, with no knowledge of why. . . .

  I have no words to convey my feelings. These have been the darkest days of my life. To have given away what is most precious to a woman, and then be spurned. Had I simply fooled myself? All I could think was that I finally had come to resemble my biblical namesake, Leah, the wife of Jacob, who was rejected by her husband after her long-ago wedding night.

  I had left the King’s bedchamber that morning feeling as though I was riding on the wind. So to have the dream-come-true dashed only three nights later, when Mordecai came in to tell me the King wished no further contact with me—no, not even as a concubine, much less as queen—well, again words fail me. Mordecai himself appeared shocked.

  Self-doubt took up residence at my door. Had I been wrong? Was I that deceived? Was I that unprepared? Had all my lessons from Jesse, the lessons of Mordecai, and your own intimate tutoring all gone to waste? Was I that poor a student?

  And then came the ultimate self-condemnation. . . . Was I that unattractive?

  I struggle to fully describe to you my feelings, for fear of appearing selfish or naïve. But I will try, for I have always found you to be a wise and loving listener. And I am confident that, in time, you will understand my heart.

  You see, I am of two minds. On one hand, I am quite content to offer my life—my hopes and aspirations, my love, even my innocence—in the service of our people. If the loss of my love will help relieve some of the tensions within the palace, and help in any way to ensure the rebuilding of Jerusalem, then please believe me, I am glad to endure it.

  Esther, I have never forgotten your heroic undertakings when the entire palace had been turned against us, swayed into ordering the extermination of every Jew in the empire. Nor do I overlook the fact that even though I was only a child at the time, I and my family especially would have been numbered among the victims. You risked instant beheading to go before the King, reveal your sworn secret, and plead our cause. I have never heard of a braver thing in my life—except for maybe what Mordecai did, refusing to bow before the vile Haman even if it cost him his life.

  Yes, you were willing to risk certain death, and I think I am no different. If I can play a part in ensuring the ongoing safety of our people and the rebuilding of Jerusalem, I am honored to do so. Even if the cost is a lifetime of boredom, humiliation, and loneliness, I will pay it. But what did this rejection have to do with that “price”? It seems without purpose, senseless.

  However, now that the price is paid, I look ahead to the long, long years stretching before me, and can hardly believe I am now a relic of more worthwhile times, awaiting death and some hope of happiness in paradise. Is this lingering twilight all I can possibly hope for? Is it right to pray for something more? Is it selfish to wish for some sort of betterment of my lot in this long period of aftermath, of solitude?

  Because, my friend, the harshest truth is this: When I see my reflection in those polished bronze serving dishes of ours, I see a young woman of twenty, and it nearly rips my breath away to think that at my age, life is already over, that I will never love again, never bear children, never even leave the palace grounds. The sheer outrageousness, the seeming unfairness, of the thought leaves me gasping for hope, for relief. I am a
prisoner in a luxurious cell serving a life sentence, for I know that having shared the bed of the King and been rejected, I will never be released from the harem.

  I understand the realities of life. I also concede the advantages of my rather pampered surroundings here in the harem. Surely many women harried by the demands of family and children at least occasionally would long for a life of luxury and leisure within a royal palace. But for me, it is torture.

  If all I have left is to wait, to count the weary moments until my earthly existence is over, then why not invite death? Why not take my life, as several of my sisters-in-bondage have done since I was moved to the harem?

  Please forgive the selfishness and petulance, even the wickedness, of my words, dear Esther. I do not mean to turn the focus onto myself. In fact, I am equally concerned about the future of our people. In my foolish moments of premature triumph, I had pictured myself as queen, granting royal patronage to my parents in their old age, working to enshrine Mordecai’s new position of Exilarch as some kind of permanent royal post in the empire, perhaps even in time adding the influence of my own royal Jewish blood to bolster the proposition. Knowing that the Exilarchy is not universally accepted among all the segments of Jewish society, especially the priesthood in Jerusalem, I imagined myself working alongside Mordecai to champion its cause, and that of our people, at a time when they are being hated as never before.

  How glad I am that I never shared these presumptuous thoughts with Mordecai or Jesse before they were forced to come to me and deliver the terrible news!

  As I count you such a trusted friend, I know you are the only one with whom I can share my tormenting and mortifying experiences. But here is the question I must ask you, and to which I desperately hope you can identify.

  Esther, do you ever feel that your life is over? That you already have played the significant role you were born to play, and you have spent your life’s purpose? Or possibly that you mismanaged life’s cues and missed further opportunities for your life to have meaning? That since things did not turn out the way you had believed they would, others have taken the stage and now you’re simply waiting in the wings for your turn to die?