The Settlers

by Meyer Levin

  Perhaps Gidon wanted to send a message home? He was going back soon, Avshalom said.

  —Going back? How could that be?

  Avshalom laughed his excited, knowing laugh. Not a letter, he couldn’t take anything written, naturally, in case he were caught, but a message, even a few gifts. Though there would hardly be time for Gidon to buy anything—this was why he was waiting to see Josef Trumpeldor, it was urgent that he see him before he left. Already Gidon was pulling all his money from his pockets for gifts for the girls; Avshalom would know better than he what to buy—and for his mother and Schmulik—suddenly he began ripping off his Shield of David insignia—the Mule Corps was finished, anyway, this would be for his little brother, for Mati—

  —What was to become of the Zion men? Avshalom asked. This was exactly why he was here. And he plunged into his own plans, talking rapidly, intimately, as to a pledged comrade. Didn’t they have the same ideas, the same aim, to fight for Eretz? With the failure of the Gallipoli campaign there was not a day to lose, the British must act more swiftly than the Turks, and the way was closer. Ships they had. He had smuggled himself to Egypt for one purpose, to urge them to organize an expedition. He and his men would prepare a landing place. In Palestine he was not alone. For months he and Aaron Aaronson had planned this, they had organized a group of Jewish fighters—

  —Their Sons of Nimrod, Gidon thought, but held back from making a remark.

  —What did Gidon think? Would the Zion men join?

  —If there really was to be such an attack, if the British would only take us—naturally … Gidon still did not know quite how to respond.

  And Trumpeldor? Would Trumpeldor send back word with Avshalom to his friends in Eretz? “He has such influence. After all, Gidon, I’ll be honest with you, I know you people don’t like us. The Shomer, the Poal Hatzaïr, the Poale Zion—but all these things are in the past. They’re nothing. We all have the same aims. If Josef Trumpeldor would send back word, if we could all join together and seize the beach and the British would come, with your fighters of Zion—can’t you see it! We’ll raise our flag at Athlit!”

  Gidon could see it as though it were happening. Hadn’t it been for a year his own vision, the vision of the whole unit? Except they had not thought of the flag already there, of fighters from inside the land already waiting for them. But wasn’t that too a clever idea? He knew the area—the ruins of Athlit—deserted—why shouldn’t it even be possible? Yet something within him held him back. It was too clever, too daring a vision, the vision of a poet, and this Avshalom was a poet, he had heard. Besides, it came to Gidon, it was hardly for him to decide such things, it was for the leaders, the Dovidls, the Galils. They had all been sent into exile, he had heard. Who was left to decide? What would Josef say?

  Yet the vision drew him. What was he doing here but rotting, no longer even needed for the mules—gyppos were being brought in to feed and clean them. And it was even said that the Russian consul had a list of all the men in the Jewish unit, and they might all be sent back to Russia; indeed Trumpeldor’s Russian army pension had been restored. Instead of rotting here or being sent to Russia, imagine if he could smuggle his way back to Eretz itself, he and a whole band of the chevreh. And he could see them actually leading the capture of the ancient seashore fortress, climbing the jagged high wall to raise the flag atop the ruins …

  “A whole shipload of you! You could be the vanguard!” Avshalom’s eyes were drawing in his very thoughts. “A secret landing —I have good contacts with the British—an advance force—yes!” How many of them were left? A thousand? No? Even a few hundred could do it—And he had the right connections, here!

  Perhaps he did have important connections. They had sent him in a military car. Besides, how had he got out of Eretz? And how was he going back?

  New revelations poured from Avshalom. All year he had been planning how to contact the British. First he had hired two boatmen from Jaffa, but along the coast they had become frightened and had turned back. Then the American relief ship had appeared in Haifa, and he had smuggled himself aboard with false papers as a Spaniard, and when the ship stopped in Alexandria—here he was! At first the British command would not listen to him, but luckily he had run into a young Arab friend from Haifa who had taken him to the Intelligence Division, and there he had found an officer who understood. A Captain Walters. Walters desperately needed information from Palestine. He had seized on Avshalom and talked to him for a whole day. The disposition of the Turkish forces. Their armaments. Everything! The British had a few Bedouin bringing them information, a port-worker in Sidon, but what good were they? As Captain Walters had himself noticed, whatever an Arab believed you wanted to hear, he told you—while Aaron Aaronson, with his entry to Djemal Pasha himself, could secure for them every deployment, every plan, the location of every military installation … With his burbling laugh, Avshalom told of Aaronson’s clever stroke: as head of the war against the locusts, he had free entry everywhere. The poet dropped his voice. “Captain Walters understands the value of what we can do.” The tone had become lower, conspiratorial, and yet with a strange candor. The Captain was sending him back on a secret intelligence vessel, disguised as a small freight ship. Every week this ship would pass Athlit, and he had a code for making contact. A smoke signal. —In another moment, Gidon thought, Avshalom would even reveal the code to him, but Feinberg rushed on: thus, from both sides, from inside the Yishuv and from here, the landing would be made ready, and at the proper moment, a month at most— His eyes were triumphant.

  Gidon nodded. He still was not sure what to think; his uneasiness had returned.

  At last Josef appeared. Avshalom sat with him in his office and it didn’t take long. The military car had returned and was waiting for the visitor. “I won’t forget your gifts, you can be sure,” Avshalom called out to Gidon, as he hurried off.

  “Adventurism,” Josef muttered. He had heard Feinberg out and now he asked a few questions of Gidon. “You know him? And the Aaronsons?”

  “I went once with my brother Reuven to Aaronson’s experimental farm. And he came to us to see Reuven’s potatoes. He didn’t go to Reuven’s kvutsa because he was unwelcome there.”

  Trumpeldor grunted. What the workers thought of those Jewish effendi he knew. Yet if he could believe there was a serious chance in Feinberg’s plan he would work even with them. Only what did it all amount to? Some captain in the British Intelligence wanted to make use of Avshalom for spying. Very well. Josef had nothing against such work behind the enemy lines. After all, was it different in moral essence from sending out a scouting party? It was a tactic of war. Let them gather intelligence. But anything of greater scope—a landing, an uprising—would certainly not be set in motion by a minor captain in the Intelligence Bureau. No. The English were simply leading this boy on. Josef was convinced by now that from this band of British high officers in Egypt nothing was to be obtained. They would use the Jews as mule-drivers, as spies, but not as fighting soldiers. His final discouragement had come this morning, and he was not in a good mood.

  Even the last remnant here in this camp was to be discharged. The only promise he had been able to obtain was that if a nucleus of his men wished to enlist in a proper British regiment, they would be kept together. And if he eventually succeeded in the plan for a Jewish fighting force, these men would be transferred into it. This much he had obtained from General Butler himself, a friend of the Irishman’s, but the promise had been given with the air of a man who humors you because he is certain there can be no such eventuality.

  To obtain the right to such a fighting force, nothing more could be done here in Egypt; he must go to London. Meanwhile would the men stay together? The last of his men. What did Gidon think?

  What else could they do? Should each man cast himself adrift in Alexandria? And yet to enroll in an army, to be subject to orders to go wherever he was sent, even if there was some general’s promise of their being kept together, was a hard thing for
each man to decide.

  21

  WHOSE STORY does not become entwined with history? With some, as with the Aaronsons and Avshalom Feinberg and all their tragic band, it becomes history itself. And then all who were at one time or another touched by the fated ones feel even more insistently the mystery of a chance connection, a decision made, that led to some seemingly fated end.

  And so the Aaronson band entered history, and scarcely a family of the Yishuv but was to be touched, and some even destroyed, by the dilemma invoked by their choice. For who in the Yishuv, shrinking and becoming more interdependent each day, did not know someone who knew someone, who had not at some given moment had to decide whether to reveal or to be silent, whether to give shelter to the hunted and abhorred, or to keep the door closed? So ridden was the Yishuv to become, so profound was the moral shock of betrayals and counter-betrayals, that for half a century afterward these questions would be shrouded in avoidance.

  To the Chaimovitches as well, virtually to each in a separate way, to Leah, to Reuven, to Gidon again, to Yankel, even to the boys, the question had to come.

  As he had announced to Gidon, Avshalom Feinberg was brought back by Captain Walters’ patrol boat, and in the moonless night rowed to the rocky cove of the Crusader ruins at Athlit; with all his baggage of gifts from men of the Mule Corps and from others in Alexandria, he clambered ashore, carrying also—in his head—a code of smoke signals that would be given by the vessel each time it passed, so that information that had meanwhile been gathered might be brought down and transmitted when the ship circled back at night.

  All this in elation Avshalom Feinberg related to Aaron Aaronson, in the upstairs laboratory of the agricultural station. And then began their adventure, with its hiding places under the floor, its secret repositories in the walls, both here and in Aaronson’s cottage in Zichron, across the courtyard from the family house. There came the growing chain of informants, first, two cousins of Avshalom’s in Chedera, romantic boys as he was, who worshiped the young poet, and then another cousin in a settlement below Rehovot, also in awe of Avshalom, and then a few trusted Sons of Nimrod; and from Aaron Aaronson’s side, a Jewish doctor in the Turkish army, and through this one, another, and so the chain grew. It was to have its name, later, at the height of its activities: the Nili, the group called themselves, putting together the first letters of each word of a Biblical line, Netzach Yisroel Lo Yishakareh, that is, literally, “The Lord of Israel Will Not Lie”; but “lie” is not the real sense of the phrase; perhaps it should be “misuse” or “betray” or “fail” us. And so they believed.

  With the gifts and messages from Egypt, Avshalom was so reckless that he would seem to have been straining any promise of protection from the Lord of Israel. On the wrapping paper of the elegant box of loukhoums which he brought as a gift from Gidon to Shulamith, Nahum found printed the name of a noted Alexandria sweetshop, Groppi.

  Yet who could find fault with such a messenger, one who had seen and spoken with Gidon and could describe to Mama how well and strong her son looked, and assure her that he had come out of the long battle unscathed and would now be safe! Feigel fingered and stroked the French-made crocheted shawl brought as his gift, and even longer she caressed the insignia with the Shield of David that Gidon had taken from his uniform and sent for Mati. From hand to hand this went, with Mati nearly bursting before it came at last to him, and only Menahem, in the family assembled to hear news of Gidon, was quick enough to stop the boy from rushing out to show the emblem to the whole village.

  “Idiot!” Schmulik scolded him; Schmulik would have wanted the badge himself, though to him Gidon had sent an actual photograph of the whole group, his squad in the Zion muleteers, standing side by side with Josef Trumpeldor.

  Only later was Avshalom able to manage a serious talk with Menahem. Now that he had made the contact in Alexandria, things would develop. What was needed first and urgently was information, to show the British Intelligence officer what Jews could accomplish. Most essential was information about troop movements, and Avshalom had already thought out a plan. Every rail movement into Palestine passed through Fuleh. Someone selling refreshments at the station could easily keep track. And Gilboa was close by. One of their women? Menahem was already shaking his head. The whole matter had been decided the first time Avshalom approached them, and the decision would not change; it was not even wise to bring up the question again, since secrecy was essential.

  And what about Menahem himself? He agreed with that policy?

  “Our task is to defend the Yishuv, as best we can. Not to place it in further danger. With that I agree, completely.”

  But Avshalom was not done. Something unsaid passed between the two men. Somewhere, at some point, Menahem must feel in agreement with the purpose and the plan. Menahem himself moved about a great deal, he might come upon useful information …

  In the end there was this much: If ever there was something that, for the safety of the Yishuv, it was urgent for England to know, Menahem would make a personal decision. No, he wanted no codes, no encounters, no secret connections. “If anything of this sort should happen, I’ll find a way to get it to you.”

  Already the information they had collected seemed urgent and vital. From one of the Herzlia Gymnasia graduates who had been made a Turkish lieutenant and was stationed as an interpreter in Damascus, Aaron Aaronson learned of a violent disagreement between Djemal Pasha and the German commander, Kress von Kressenstein. Fearing intrigues and revolt among Arab tribes, Djemal wanted to reinforce the outposts of the Ottoman Empire in Mecca. The German insisted on using all their forces in a massive second assault on the Suez Canal, with all possible speed. New squadrons of German fliers had appeared and were stationed in Dagania. Gaza was being fortified with heavier artillery—Avshalom had even obtained the details of the emplacements, the size of the guns. All this was coded and the papers wrapped in a package sealed in oilcloth, ready to hand over; day after day they watched the sea, but no smoke signal came. The time for two sailings went by. Surely something had gone wrong. The information would not keep. Suddenly Avshalom rode off and was gone.

  On a smugglers’ track south of Beersheba, the rider was stopped by a Turkish patrol. The local commander was unconvinced by the tale of a renewed locust invasion, and sent Avshalom under guard to Beersheba, presently to be turned over to the Germans; he might have been summarily hanged had not Zev the Hotblood, now a watchman in the area, heard of the arrest, galloped with the news to Aaron Aaronson in Athlit, and returned with gold, so that matters were at least delayed.

  In this time, as long afterward became known, the contact ship’s smoke signal had been changed. The British captain sent word of the change to his Arab agent in the port of Sidon who was to bring word of the change to the Jews in Athlit. But the message had not been delivered; perhaps the Arab had not wanted a rival among the Jews. In Alexandria, receiving no response from the eager Jewish lad who had seemed so bright and promising and who had even scorned the offer of money for his undertaking, Capt. Walters decided to make one more attempt at the contact. There was a growing urgency. It was becoming clear that a campaign would have to be undertaken into the Sinai to forestall further attacks on the canal. Specific intelligence was needed.

  Among the Palestine refugees in Alexandria, or perhaps better, among the veterans of the Zion Mule Corps, someone must be found who was a good swimmer and who was familiar with Athlit.

  Soon the proposal came to Gidon. Josef was not against it; it was Josef himself who had indicated Gidon, among a few others, to the British captain.

  The Zion men were now completely demobilized, most of them housed again as refugees in the Mafrousi Barracks where their stay had begun. Herscheleh had found a dwelling of sorts, a large room over a cafe owned by a Greek Jew, and with Tuvia they all moved in, still using some of their back pay; Josef did not want to leave for England until his men were settled together in a British army unit, but many were holding back. Discussions we
re endless. To join up they had time. At least as long as the Russians let them alone here. Who knew whether there would ever be a Jewish unit?

  “You join an army, it’s like a marriage,” Herscheleh said. “Jacob was promised Rachel for his bride and he woke up in the arms of Leah.”

  “Don’t forget he got Rachel, too,” said Tuvia.

  The proposed mission was at least a chance to break away from their endless, repetitive ruminations, from the sense of uselessness. One thought troubled Gidon, however. Once he touched the land, would he have the courage to leave it and come back here? Or suppose he should make his way inland across the Emek, home, to disappear, simply to stay there and go back to his work on the farm, keeping out of sight of the Turks?

  Like so many of the lieutenants and captains to whom Gidon had carried supplies in Gallipoli, this Captain Walters seemed surprised that a man understood his instructions the first time; the captain repeated them with many mind you’s. At once Gidon saw there was no question of the dreamed-of landing of troops. It was information about the Turkish offensive with which the British were concerned. From Bedouin in the Negev had come tales of masses of Turks arriving, numerous as the sands in the desert. “Mind you, your Bedouin seem to imagine the larger the number he tells us, the more gold he can demand for his information.”

  “We have a saying, he tells you what he thinks you want to hear.”

  “Right you are.” But accurate and dependable information was urgently required. No point in keeping masses of troops sitting here waiting for a Turkish attack when they were needed right now on other fronts.

  The captain had his nose in a dossier. A chap had appeared over a month ago, “One of yours”—meaning a Jew. They had arranged for him to go back to Palestine to send on information, but the signal had been altered, apparently he had not received the new code which was to have been brought to him by some bloody camel-driver. Gidon, then, was to deliver this new code to this Avshalom Feinberg, or Aaron Aaronson, whichever he could find, and bring back whatever information they had meanwhile collected. The new code was simple. A prolonged trail of smoke. That meant the boat would circle back and rendezvous the same night.