by Judy Nunn
He hadn’t wanted to tell Ruth of Mannie’s death for fear she would lose her own will to live, but he’d known that she would find out eventually, and he’d needed to feed her a fresh purpose to survive.
‘You’ve tried to believe that Henkel is different, Ruth,’ he’d said after comforting her in her grief and shock. ‘But surely you must know that he’s not. Surely you must have felt the malevolence in the man.’
She had. Even when Henkel had wooed her, massaging her shoulders with caring expertise, singing along gently to ‘Barcarole’ as the music played on his gramophone, she’d had the feeling he could break her neck with equal expertise if she displeased him.
‘Klaus Henkel is different from the others in only one way,’ Ira had said. ‘He is more evil than all of them. Mengele himself fears Henkel, I can sense it. The man is so diabolical that even the Angel of Death fears him – imagine that!’
Then, as he’d planned, Ira had set out to fuel her hatred with all the reason and persuasion of which he was capable. ‘We must live to see Henkel brought to justice, Ruth – it is our duty to do so. The Germans are losing the war. I hear Mengele and Henkel talking freely about it in the Experimentation Block where there’s no-one but me to hear them. They’re worried.’
His mention of the Experimentation Block had been deliberate and he noted her reaction. She’d had no idea that Klaus Henkel was directly involved in Mengele’s experiments.
‘And when the Germans have been defeated, we must be alive to tell our stories and see Henkel and the rest of his kind hang,’ he’d urged. ‘Use him, Ruth. Use Klaus Henkel to survive. But hate him. It’s your hate that will feed you and keep you alive.’
Now as the car neared Jerusalem, Ruth could see the ancient fortifications of the Old City and the domes and spires of the mosques and churches that lay beyond, the great golden dome on Temple Mount glinting spectacularly in the afternoon sun. The Dome of the Rock, one of Islam’s most sacred sites, dominated the skyline of the old walled city from every possible viewpoint.
She recalled her hope that sacred Jerusalem might bring her some peace. How naive she’d been. Hatred and violence had abounded throughout the whole of Palestine.
The hate Ira Schoneberger had successfully fuelled in her had been rekindled in Jerusalem, and Ruth didn’t want to go back. She knew that seeing her cousin David would arouse memories she’d been trying to obliterate for the past six years, memories that rivalled even the horrors of Auschwitz. But most of all she dreaded the thought that Eli Mankowski might be at the funeral. It was quite probable he would attend, she thought. He and David were comrades in arms, after all, and Eli might well wish to pay his respects.
‘It will be hard for Sarah.’
Ruth had been so preoccupied with her thoughts that Moshe’s voice startled her.
‘Yes. Very hard. She’ll miss him.’
‘Hard for Rebekah and David too.’
‘Rebekah yes, but I don’t think David will grieve for long.’ Her tone was cold, as it so often was lately. ‘David will be too busy to bother with grief.’
She returned her attention to the old walled city, aware that she’d sounded rude and dismissive. She shouldn’t have – Moshe was only trying to make polite conversation – but she’d been brusque with him ever since he insisted she attend her uncle’s funeral.
‘You owe it to Sarah, Ruth,’ he’d said. ‘She and Walter took you into their home; David and Rebekah are your cousins, your blood. It is essential you attend as a mark of respect.’
He’d spoken to her as if she were a recalcitrant child, and she’d been annoyed. Of course she was aware of the debt she owed her aunt and uncle, but she owed no debt to her cousin David, or to his friend Eli Mankowski. Why must she be forced to suffer their company? She’d agreed to go, but was angry that Moshe appeared to have no idea what he was asking of her.
Moshe took his eyes from the road to glance at her as she gazed resolutely ahead, ignoring him. He knew what was occupying her thoughts, and it certainly wasn’t the death of her uncle. Nor was it her Aunt Sarah’s impending loneliness. She was wondering if Eli would be at the funeral. A stab of the old jealousy returned, but Moshe pushed it aside. She didn’t love Eli any more than she loved him, he thought. Ruth was incapable of love. She had told him so all those years ago, and it had been arrogant of him to presume he could change her. But Eli Mankowski had held a power over her, and Moshe had always envied the man for that. Any reaction, even the repulsion she now professed to feel for Mankowski, would be preferable, Moshe thought, to the remoteness he himself was forced to endure.
He wondered sometimes whether he still loved her. She was beautiful certainly, he thought, watching her now, the wind playing havoc with her sun-bleached hair; a tanned arm resting half out of the window; her body lean and healthy. But Ruth had a tortured mind, and little wonder. Moshe had hoped somehow that he might be her saviour. But he hadn’t been able to break through her coldness. He had the feeling she would leave him soon and, when she did, he wondered how much he would care.
Ruth felt his eyes upon her, but she continued to ignore him. His unhappiness was of his own making, she thought. She had warned him. But she couldn’t help feeling guilty. She had accepted his protection, she had even welcomed the father image he’d represented – twenty years her senior, Moshe was certainly old enough to be her father. Now that same paternal manner was a source of irritation. She would have to leave him soon, it wasn’t fair of her to stay.
Ruth’s hatred of Klaus Henkel and her obsession with Eli Mankowski had drained her of any capacity for love. And now there was Moshe. Poor Moshe who had been left with the dry husk of a woman, incapable of tenderness. She felt sorry for him.
She had known love once. Before the world had gone mad there had been Samuel; she’d been tender then. But that woman was dead. The person who had once been Ruth Lachmann had ceased to exist years ago.
‘Ruth Stein, Eli Mankowski.’
The young man sitting alone at the table in the far corner of the cafe looked up as if he’d only just noticed them, although he’d seen them as soon as they’d stepped through the door.
‘Eli, this is my cousin Ruth.’ David concluded the introduction with his usual easy charm, but Ruth registered the exchange of looks between the two men. David had obviously told Mankowski all about her, she thought, just as she had been told of the great Eli Mankowski, the Polish freedom fighter who, though not yet thirty, was one of the leaders of Lehi.
‘He fought in the Warsaw ghetto uprising, Ruth,’ David had said. ‘He’s a hero and one of our top unit commanders. He’s also one of my best friends,’ he’d added boastfully.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Mankowski.’
He made no attempt to rise, she noticed, but his nod was courteous and he offered his hand. They shook and she sat opposite him. ‘David has told me a great deal about you,’ she said.
Eli was impressed by the directness of her manner. Her eyes told him that she knew he was also aware of her past, and that she expected no sympathy. She spoke Hebrew fluently too, he noted; so many of the European newcomers spoke only Yiddish. He’d expected a broken woman – she had, after all, lost her husband and child to the Nazis – and he’d been prepared to offer his condolences and dismiss her as a possible recruit. But he changed his tack. David had been right, he thought, she was promising.
‘You have been attending meetings, David tells me.’
Mankowski was studying her keenly, but not in the way men usually did – there was none of the customary deference to beauty in his manner. He was appraising her as a potential fighter and, refreshing change as it was to Ruth, she found it daunting.
‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘I’ve been receiving instruction for two months now.’
‘Tell me about Lohamei Herut Israel.’
‘Lohamei Herut Israel was founded by Avraham Stern in 1940 as an offshoot from Irgun Tsvai-Leumi …’ Ruth recited what she had been taught of the Fighters
for the Freedom of Israel group into which she had been accepted on a trial basis. Her meeting with Eli Mankowski was the first step to her acceptance as a full active member of Lehi.
To a casual observer, the three sitting at the table in the corner could have been any of the university students that frequented the cafe. They were young, vital, good-looking, and deep in conversation as university students always were. The girl’s natural beauty, of which she appeared unaware, shone like a beacon, and the handsome young man with whom she’d arrived bore the easy air of one who had a way with women. The third member of the group, dark-haired, thickset and heavy-browed, was not handsome in the conventional sense, but the supreme confidence of his demeanour made him an arresting figure.
As Eli Mankowski tested Ruth’s knowledge of Lehi, the Jewish Nationalist group considered by many to be terrorist and radical, he lounged back in his chair, adopting the manner of an arrogant student, his guise for the day; it was why he’d chosen the cafe. Eli was always careful with his body language. He was a chameleon. If they’d been meeting in one of the training centres, his manner would have been that of the fanatic he was.
Fifteen minutes later, satisfied with her schooling in Lehi history and doctrine, his line of questioning became more personal. Where did she live? Were those with whom she lived sympathetic to their cause?
Before Ruth could answer, David interrupted. ‘She lives with me and my family, Eli, I told you, remember? My father’s apartment in Beit Yisrael.’
Ruth noticed the steely glint in Mankowski’s eyes, but David was oblivious to it as he gave a light laugh and continued.
‘Poor Ruth, she knows Father would be furious. She’s had to resort to the same subterfuge I’ve suffered for two years, but she’s managed very well …’
‘Let Ruth answer for herself, David.’ Eli’s tone was not unpleasant but patronising, that of a teacher to an over-talkative child.
‘Oh.’ David, unbothered by the reprimand, gave an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry.’
‘Do you feel guilty, deceiving your uncle, Ruth?’ Eli would have preferred to put him more firmly in his place. He didn’t particularly like David, but it was to his advantage to maintain the semblance of friendship. Despite his rather frivolous facade of ‘young man about town’, David was committed to the cause and extremely useful. Well-educated, from a good family, his father a respected goldsmith and a pillar of society, David Stein’s background and considerable charm were impressive to many, and he had proved an excellent recruiting scout.
‘Yes, I do feel guilty.’ Ruth wasn’t sure if it was a trick question. Was it wise to admit to her guilt? But she decided to answer in all honesty. She’d hated the lies over the past two months. Stealing off to the meetings with David each Shabbat when her uncle and aunt thought they were at the synagogue. Lying to fourteen-year-old Rebekah when her young cousin had asked why she wasn’t attending Rabbi Yeshen’s service with the family. ‘David and his university friends attend a different synagogue, darling,’ she’d said, ‘and I promised I’d go with them.’ It had been loathsome, but easy. Her aunt and uncle were trusting, and David, a highly accomplished liar, had been paving the way for the past two years.
‘Your uncle is not sympathetic to our cause, I take it?’
Eli cast a glance at David, warning him not to answer for his cousin, and David maintained an obedient silence, although he wondered why Eli should ask such a question – Eli Mankowski knew Walter Stein’s stance on the Zionist movement.
But Eli was testing Ruth’s loyalty, both to her uncle, and to the doctrines of Lehi. She didn’t disappoint on either count.
‘My uncle is a good man, and he has strong Zionist beliefs,’ she said, ‘but he is conventional. He disapproves of the tactics employed by Lehi and Irgun, particularly following the bombing of the King David Hotel last year. He believes we must follow the Haganah’s official policy of restraint.’
‘And you, Ruth?’
‘The Haganah have served the Yishuv well with their support of illegal immigration and the protection of new settlements,’ she said, referring to the underground military organisation the Jewish community had formed in the 1920s. ‘But they have become too complacent, too cooperative with the British and their non-aggression policies.’
‘And when the British leave …?’
Ruth realised she was being tested not only on her knowledge but on the depth of her commitment. ‘We will need a force more aggressive than the Haganah offers,’ she said. ‘We will need Irgun Tsvai-Leumi and Lohamei Herut Israel.’
She said what she knew Eli Mankowski wanted to hear, but as she looked into the intense black eyes, she felt a passionate desire to serve. She yearned to belong somewhere, to be useful. Lehi offered her a purpose for her life.
Eli smiled. She was quoting her instructor perfectly, but there was something far more important in Ruth Stein than her aptitude as a student. She was malleable. Perfect material, he thought. And he would enjoy moulding her, he decided, noticing all of a sudden how extraordinarily attractive she was.
‘Your training will begin one month from now,’ he said, ‘in late January at Kibbutz Tsafona.’
David’s jaw dropped in disbelief. He’d been a member of Lehi for two whole years. He’d scouted for recruits, distributed propaganda leaflets, pasted posters on public bulletin boards, all of which could have had him arrested by the British. He’d even attended light-weapon practice at Ra’anana’s orchards where a training base was established. Like every Lehi member it had been his dream to participate in military action, but whenever he’d begged to be sent to one of the kibbutzim that served as secret guerrilla training camps, Eli had told him he wasn’t ready. Why then was Ruth so instantly acceptable?
‘Just a minute, Eli, that’s not fair …’ he said petulantly, but he was cut short.
‘Don’t worry, you’ll be going too.’ There would be fewer questions asked in the Stein household if Ruth were to make the transition to the kibbutz with her cousin. Two committed young Israelis working the land together – Walter Stein would approve of that. The man would entrust the care of his niece to his son, although why, Eli couldn’t imagine. David was a spoilt child with no thought for anything but his own pleasures. But then, Eli reminded himself, children seeking pleasure made very good soldiers when their bloodlust was up.
‘David, my dear friend,’ he grinned, attractively boyish, the heavy-browed face transformed, ‘I wouldn’t send Ruth off to war without you beside her. Cousins fighting side by side, blood protecting blood like Spartan brothers.’ He turned his smile upon Ruth. ‘Poetic, don’t you agree?’
Eli Mankowski was right. Walter Stein was in favour of his son and niece working on the kibbutz, particularly his son. It might toughen David up a bit, Walter thought – the boy was spoilt. Sarah pandered to him too much.
‘For twelve months,’ he said, ‘it will do you good. Then I hope you will apply yourself to your work with a little more discipline.’
The previous year, David had completed the accountancy degree he’d reluctantly started at Mount Scopus Hebrew University, but Walter had found his son’s commitment to the family business – in proud anticipation of which he’d named Stein and Son – sadly lacklustre.
As for his niece, Walter considered the kibbutz would do Ruth the world of good. The hard physical labour of farming would distract her from her terrible preoccupation with the past.
Walter’s wife, Sarah, did not agree with her husband, particularly where Ruth was concerned.
‘But Moshe is going to propose any day now, I’m sure,’ she said. ‘Ruth will have a far better future with him than with any of the young men she’s likely to meet on a kibbutz. Moshe’s wealthy, he has his business in Haifa and he’s talking of retiring to his orchard soon. It would be the perfect life for her.’
‘She doesn’t love him.’
‘She can learn, Walter. Love takes time.’
Walter shook his head wryly. The remark was so typical of
Sarah. She had always been eminently practical and ruthlessly honest. She had said very much the same thing to him twenty-five years ago in Berlin when she’d agreed to become his wife.
‘I’m very fond of you, Walter,’ she’d said. ‘And I respect you; you’re a successful man. I shall be a good wife to you, and I shall come to love you in time.’
He’d had to be satisfied with that, despite having been desperately in love with her. There had been other eligible suitors – Sarah was of good family, intelligent and beautiful – and he’d found some comfort in the knowledge that she’d chosen him.
He smiled now as he looked at her, approaching fifty and still beautiful. She’d been true to her word in every way. She’d devoted herself to his comfort, his children and his business. And she loved him with a deep, unquestioning loyalty.
‘Why don’t you suggest to Moshe that he make his move within the month,’ he said, ‘and we’ll leave the decision in Ruth’s hands?’
Walter was of the personal opinion that his business associate and friend, Moshe Toledano, was far too old for Ruth, but Sarah had been dismissive of that argument too. Age was immaterial, she maintained, Moshe was an honourable man and would be a fine provider.
Life’s choices were clearly defined for Sarah, Walter thought. He had the feeling they were not quite so simple for his niece.
Ruth was aware of her aunt’s well-intentioned meddling. Subtlety had never been Sarah’s strong suit and she’d been singing the praises of her husband’s friend, Moshe, for months.
‘Such a successful man,’ she’d said from the outset, ‘so sad that his wife died five years ago. The sooner he marries again the better, in my opinion. Every man needs a good woman to help shoulder his burden in life, and he’d certainly make an ideal husband.’
