The Settlers

by Meyer Levin

  The pious Jews quickly found themselves with other caftan-wearers who had already organized a cheder for their children. The better-off Jews of Jaffa went forth to hotels.

  No sooner had their group of future fighters got hold of a barrack-room and set down their blankets than Trumpeldor, appropriating a small table that was the sole piece of furniture, set himself up in a corner, with a sheet of paper in front of him, to write out his Jewish army plan to present to the British.

  As was his way, he could think or speak of nothing else. How many able-bodied men were already here before their arrival? A good hundred. And perhaps the Turks would expel still more, in any case hundreds more would surely flee here from Palestine. And among the Egyptian Jews? Surely at least a few thousand would volunteer. Without question, a regiment could be gathered.

  The next morning, Josef had opened his recruitment, taking down names on a sheet torn from his notebook. He would not present an empty plan to the British. As the sheet was passed around their circle, Gidon was the seventh to sign. Some were writing their names in Hebrew, some in Russian. He wrote in Hebrew. At once he felt a pure sense of relief. This was his own deed, not like the signing of the Ottomanization application. This time he felt clean.

  After some thirty names, Trumpeldor’s list lay on his table, un-added to. From the religious ones there was even grumbling at him. What was he up to—dragging their sons into the war? They recited passages and proverbs about the wars of the goyim; when Trumpeldor passed through their section of the barracks, a few even spat at his heels. As for the merchants and others who had been caught up in the Jaffa raid, they rushed in and out of the Mafrousi barracks, trying to get visas to America. “It doesn’t matter,” the Captain growled. “If we have thirty we will go, and if we have ten we will go, and if we have ten thousand we will go.”

  In the morning he called his men into the courtyard, divided them into squads of eight, and began to teach them to march.

  The whole refugee population poured out, watching. Some made jokes, some glowered, a few young men after watching for a time sidled up to Josef Trumpeldor and added their names to his list. Araleh watched for a while, then left. That evening Saraleh confided in Gidon. “I know it eats in him, not to be with you, to stand idly by. But it’s because of me and the baby. What should I do, Gidon?”

  He loved her; it was a woman like Saraleh he would want one day to find to love. And Gidon was moved, that for all his being younger, she should ask him for such serious advice. “Who knows, this may all come to nothing,” Gidon said. “If it really becomes something serious, then Araleh can decide.”

  But immediately things took a turn. In a carriage with one of the finely scented aristocratic young Jewesses of Alexandria, who came every day to help refugee mothers take care of their babies, there appeared a short, energetic, youngish man, a journalist. Quickly, he was in and out of every barrack room, talking to everyone. Wearing glasses, with a scowling yet sympathetic face, he talked rapidly in Russian, in Yiddish, writing down a word, a name here and there, sweeping through the crowded building, seeing everything at one glance. Much later when they read what the journalist wrote, they marveled how he could repeat every detail: the samovar an old bobeh had set up in a corner, the color of a scarf on a girl’s head, the shtetl a family had come from. Meanwhile his own name had spread; this was the well-known correspondent from Odessa, Vladimir Jabotinsky, and in no time he was in the courtyard watching Trumpeldor drill his men, who by now marched with straight backs, in step. Good, bravo—the reporter even clapped his hands. With Josef he was at once as a brother; the hero was of course known to him, though they had not met before. Instantly the journalist was involved with the plan for a Jewish army. As soon as he had heard there were Jewish refugees from Palestine here in Alexandria, he had rushed over from Europe, he said, with just such an idea in back of his own mind. What Josef was doing was exactly what should be done.

  Snapping out his questions, the journalist was oddly like a prime minister receiving information from his military chief. Right. Correct. Tak. Tak. Understood. Jabotinsky himself had been one of the self-defense organizers in the Odessa pogrom-year of 1905. And presently the two of them were in Trumpeldor’s “office” with their heads together, as Jabotinsky studied Josef’s memorandum to the British.

  —It has not yet been presented?

  —No. Josef had made a few inquiries of a British lieutenant who came here to the barracks—and first of all, the plan must be presented in English.

  —Just as well. Before it was presented, there must be more volunteers.

  Exactly as Josef himself had thought. Yet if volunteers were not forthcoming, perhaps recognition of the plan by the British would bring them out?

  “We’ll bring them out ourselves.”

  That very afternoon, with everyone packed into a huge unused stable to hear the journalist’s report on the war in Europe, and on things at home in Russia, they also heard his oration calling upon every able-bodied man to follow the lead of Captain Josef Trumpeldor. Too long had Jews fought for other nations, too long had they expected others to fight for them, and whoever failed to grasp this was like a slave who preferred to remain in Egypt rather than follow the call of Moses. They here would become the new troops of a new Joshua, to free the Land of Israel. They would wear the Star of David on their uniforms, and the world would know again that the Jew was a warrior, a man!

  Saraleh saw in Araleh’s face that he could bear it no longer. “Go, go and join them. We will be cared for here like all the others—don’t worry,” she said.

  At the end of the meeting a dozen men came up to sign, but before the day was over, fifty more had made up their minds and joined. In the morning the journalist himself moved into the Mafrousi barracks. He was everywhere, usually with two fine Alexandrian ladies on his arm, while he argued even with religious young men about joining the Jewish force, matching their quotations from rabbinical commentaries with equally strong Talmudic quotations on the other side. When his fine ladies were gone to their charitable duties, he was in the company of a handsome young woman from among the refugees who had volunteered to become a secretary. The journalist had even managed to commandeer a small room near the barrack entrance that now served as a headquarters for the Captain and himself; he hurried forth from there in a droshky, sending cablegrams, his secretary divulged, to England, to France, to Russia, to America. The names of high persons fell from his lips. And there came answers to his cables, praise, support, encouragement; he read the messages aloud at the meetings, translating from English, French, Italian.

  Now they must win recruits from amongst Egyptian Jewry. To the scented lady’s palatial villa, Jabotinsky brought Trumpeldor as a dinner guest. Fascinated that the one-armed warrior hero was a vegetarian, the lady had special dishes prepared for him. Among her guests, a young Alexandrian physician declared himself, even that first evening, ready to accompany the Jewish army. And several young men of the city’s ancient Sephardic families appeared a few days later at the barracks—all of them seemed to be named Nissim—declaring they were ready to enroll, though hinting that perhaps they should be enrolled as officers.

  New refugees arrived, swelling the ranks. Jews arrived on every sort of vessel—some on fishing boats, all with tales of how they had been fleeced of passage money. In the Yishuv, they related, the Turk was imposing tax upon tax. Food was gold. If it were not for the American vessels bringing wheat, there would already be widespread starvation. And ruin was everywhere. The orange crop remained on the trees, the entire crop, since no ships came to Jaffa to carry the fruit to be marketed in Europe.

  Young men, sons of the orange growers, even arrived from across the Sinai desert in camel caravans led by Bedouin hasheesh smugglers. At home the Turks were arresting everyone; old, respected Jewish notables were seized for possession of a Zionist pamphlet. News of the labor leaders? Nadina was arrested. Dovidl and Avner had been seized, and the Poale Zion’s journal was forbidden,
because of an article describing the raid in Jaffa. —And Galilee? Gidon asked anxiously. Of Galilee they had little news. The food situation was said to be better there.

  Enough! the newcomers swore, they were finished with the Turks, they were even ready to fight them.

  * * * *

  At last came the conference with a high British officer, a general, and from it Trumpeldor and Jabotinsky returned looking solemn, instantly locking themselves away in the small headquarters room. Gidon stood outside the door so that they would not be disturbed.

  How long can a secret be kept from a barrack full of Jews?

  Volunteers were welcome, the colonel—not a general after all—had told them. He was the officer in charge of refugee camps, and carried on his face the tight look of having to deal with a smelly situation. The colonel had even promised that the Hebrew volunteers could be kept together as a unit “as there would doubtless be problems of diet.” Such, he said, was the practice with other homogeneous groups such as the troops from India, for example. Why, yes—with a little intrigued smile—the Jewish volunteers might even aspire to their own distinctive insignia. But as to being sent to conquer Palestine—in the first place, as everyone knew, soldiers could not choose their battle-area but were dispatched as the high command saw fit. What kind of war would you have, Captain, if every unit could choose its front? He gave Trumpeldor a brief chuckle. And in any case the colonel was quite certain that there was no plan for, or even the contemplation of, a campaign in Palestine.

  —What did that matter! Trumpeldor was arguing. At the other end of the world, at Port Arthur against the Japanese, hadn’t he nevertheless fought as a Jew and made the Russians, despite anti-Semitism bred in their blood, see a Jew as a man?

  —But it would be a great military and historic opportunity lost! the journalist insisted. Here were the ships standing idle. In one single day the landing could be accomplished. No, the mistake on their part had been to talk to a subordinate. With underlings you got nowhere. One must always go to the men at the top, the High Command. Meanwhile their lads could already be told that in principle a Jewish unit would be accepted, with its own insignia, the Star of David.

  Yet clearly some great plan was under way, for the harbor that had seemed so overwhelming a concentration of ships and power to Gidon when he arrived was every day even more formidable. And on the land, like overnight crops, vast fields of tents sprang up. It was Herscheleh who brought the secret. An enormous expedition was to sail up the Adriatic to attack the Balkans.

  The journalist too had heard the plan. What a stroke! The Russians could push through from the other side and meet the British in Vienna. But still, why shouldn’t the British fleet, on the way, so to speak, drop off troops to conquer Palestine, and thus draw attention away from their real objective?

  This time a conference was secured at staff headquarters itself. The general had that other look of theirs, the level gaze of keen shrewdness in the narrowed eyes, and also the small tolerant smile around the mouth, a smile of gameness, of readiness to listen even to crackpots, in a determination to be fair and show no prejudice. Yes, the offer of Captain Trumpeldor had been considered. There was indeed the possibility of accepting a token force of Jews. How many could they muster? A thousand?

  “If it was to fight in Palestine, we could bring fifty thousand!” the journalist declared.

  The general smiled that aside. The fact was that in the coming campaign, no more fighting ranks were needed. Particularly—though he did not question the valor of their men—was there little need for ranks whose training was unfortunately minimal, and whose tradition in combat was unestablished. However, there was an urgent need for transport men. The terrain might be—ah—rugged. What he could suggest to them was a special Hebrew unit wearing their own insignia, to be sure, and serving in transport.

  Transport?

  Yes. Mules.

  The journalist went rigid. Was this a bad joke or a plain insult?

  Trumpeldor’s face had turned dark.

  Their task would be equivalent to combat, the general assured them, since their men would be carrying munitions and rations to the troops in the front lines.

  After a moment, Trumpeldor asked heavily, would they be armed?

  The small, tolerant smile appeared again; men had their curious pride—after all war was a game, one encountered amusing moments. Yes, indeed, in the British forces every man must undergo rifle training and carry arms.

  Mules, porters, haulers of water—it was a sly British insult, the journalist fumed, yet Trumpeldor remained silent. “God above, you’re not actually considering it, Josef?”

  —Mules, transport troops, it didn’t matter, Trumpeldor insisted stonily. In the midst of battle all were the same. An opportunity would arise to join the fight, and the world would see what Jews are made of.

  Each to his way. The journalist wasn’t giving up his vision. Not here by the military underdogs would the issue be decided. He would go to the summit, to London, for it was as a political matter that this must be seen, a world-wide cause, a Jewish army—such a vision could inspire the Jews of Russia, even of America, and to settle for a mule transport risked destroying it.

  15

  IN EVERY squad, since the mule-corps decision, half were missing; doggedly Trumpeldor re-formed the units. One by one, he explained to the doubters that in an army all were the same, there were cooks, there were messengers, there were artillery men who were far in the rear, and also sudden changes came about so that sometimes a transport unit turned into front-line troops. Certain of the recruits, he saw, even seemed pleased, believing that their chances of being killed would be less. Shrugging, Josef let them believe it.

  The journalist received a cable and was gone, first urging them all not to lose heart, he would fight up to the highest in London, for the Jewish army as a combat force!

  Among those who left the ranks was Araleh. To go and fight as a soldier, yes, he would leave Saraleh and their Dudu here—but not for the sake of an army mule would he leave his wife and child!

  Yet presently there appeared a handsome British officer in a handsomely tailored uniform; he watched their drilling, went away, and next day returned, and made them a speech, translated by one of the Nissims. Just as they were proud Jews, he was a proud Irishman, and he considered it an honor to be assigned to be their commander. Indeed, to be the commander of the first Jewish troops since the time of Bar Kochba would be the greatest honor of his career, the greatest honor that any soldier could ask for!

  Josef would of course remain as their Captain, but, since he scarcely knew a word of English, this regular army officer was assigned to link them to the service. And wasn’t that proof that the British took them seriously? And what had this Irishman not done? He had led troops in Africa and India, he had fought lions barehanded; if such an Irish warrior was ready to command a troop of mule transport, what was there to be ashamed of!

  Soon the men received their uniforms and good strong shoes, and the women from Eretz sewed Stars of David on their caps.

  Araleh and Saraleh had found Papa Zuckerman’s business friend, a Levantine Jew with a small pointed beard and a perennial smile; Judah Musara had moved them into a two-room apartment, and there Gidon carried his insignia, watching Saraleh’s smoothly combed head, bent over the sewing, and the flash of her teeth as she bit off the thread.

  The Turks had indeed made a wild attack on the canal and been torn to pieces by waiting cannon. In headlong flight the survivors had flung away their rifles, and here now stood the Irishman over a cartload of weapons, declaring again that he felt like Moses about to lead the Jews from Egypt—imagine, an Irish Moses, he jested—and to each man he handed his gun. Gidon knew the weapon well, a heavy long-barreled musket such as Shabbatai Zeira used to buy for the Shomer in Damascus, paying the price of a camel for each one. And into his fingers, as he held the musket, the very moment returned when he had brought down two enemies. A slow solid determination now s
ettled into Gidon that he was doing what needed to be done.

  In full uniform with packs they marched, one blazing day, through the streets of Alexandria, the Shield of David on their caps, and their ancient rifles against their shoulders with bayonets to the sky. A full three miles they marched while little boys, Jewish and Egyptian too, ran along and cheered, and in the doorways of Jewish-owned shops stood their owners, paunchy men like Jewish shopkeepers anywhere in the world, and Gidon saw more than one of them wiping his knuckles across his eyes; on the balconies were women and girls, and even behind the harem grilles of Arab houses, one glimpsed the faces of women.

  They marched to the great synagogue built like a Moorish mosque, and were blessed in Sephardic Hebrew by the chief rabbi who had a beard almost as long as his tallis. The next morning Araleh came running, he could not after all endure to stay behind. A whole flood of dandy young Nissims also appeared, with their red-sashed servants carrying their boxes of luggage, and one of them, after he had received his uniform, even placed his foot on his box for his servant to lace his boots. The Irishman watched, with that British smile of amusement; he let it be, and even solemnly dropped a wink to Gidon.

  To the new recruits, Gidon explained their weapon. It was each time a thing of wonder to watch the look that came over the face of a man as he took his rifle like his own fate into his hands. The first feel of a weapon, declared Herscheleh the Newspaper, was like the first time with a woman—for some it was a joyous union of love, and for some it was a simple need of which they were half-ashamed. At times Herscheleh would produce such remarks, as from a wisdom-book of his own making.

  For Gidon the matter of womankind was still a half-hated need. Even in Jaffa he had known which was the lane of the houses of shame, and many times had wandered through it, half-decided to enter and once and for all rid himself of the need. What had kept him back was a kind of fear of what it would be one day to lie with his loved one and have such memories intervening. All might be spoiled. And also there were diseases. Long ago Reuven had told him that most of the blindness one saw among the Arabs was caused by syphilis. Children were born with it, from the disease of their fathers.