by Judy Nunn
‘Tumbala, tumbala, tum balalaika …’
The members of his unit sang the chorus with gusto.
The partying around the finjun bore all the appearance of young kibbutz workers bonding after a hard day’s labour, and it pleased Eli. But these two breeds of Israeli, the fighter and the farmer, were worlds apart, he mused. Both shared a passion for their homeland, but one was trained to kill for it.
Soon they would be put to the test, Eli thought, and they would not be found wanting. He looked approvingly at the fit young bodies, proud in the certain knowledge that their minds were equally attuned to the challenge ahead. The new recruits had been in training for six weeks, and for the past fortnight teams had successfully carried out minor sabotage missions. An Arab village had been raided for supplies, a bridge detonated, and two Arab wells poisoned; nothing of any particular military significance, but as training exercises and morale boosters, immensely successful.
He’d had a little trouble with the first mission, he recalled, the poisoning of a well, but even that had proved to his advantage. A new recruit assigned to the team had questioned the directive. The young man had argued that, before the recent outbreaks of Arab–Jewish hostilities, his family had drawn water from the same well. He was sure that some Jews still did.
‘The Arab and the Jew cannot drink from the same well,’ Eli had told him. He’d said it for the benefit of the assembled unit. The man had already signed his own death warrant.
‘But if we poison the well, we may kill Jews,’ the man had argued.
‘There are martyrs to every cause,’ Eli had replied, ‘and all ends justify the means.’
The next morning, when the man had disappeared, no queries had been made, even by the youngest and newest recruits. They had passed another test, one which Eli had not yet placed before them. They had accepted, unquestioningly, that there was no place in Lehi for non-collective thinkers. Eli had been grateful to the man.
The piano accordionist upped the tempo as a guitar joined in. It was David Stein, an accomplished guitarist, and the crowd applauded as the two performed their duet.
David Stein had proved a surprise. A confirmed womaniser, Eli had expected that he’d have to get rid of young David. But, despite the number of female settlers who found him attractive, David’s prime target had ceased to be the conquest of women; he hadn’t even found them a distraction. David Stein couldn’t wait to do battle, Eli thought with satisfaction. Sabotage was not enough for him – he longed to kill.
Tum balalaika, play balalaika, tum balalaika, it will be joyful.
The voices of the gathering swelled as the song came to its conclusion and, despite the raucousness, or perhaps because of it, Eli could hear, quite clearly, the one true voice among them all. Ruth Stein. She had a pretty voice, he thought, watching her as she sang.
The fact that he continued to find Ruth Stein desirable had proved another surprise to Eli. There were several good-looking women among the eight female members of the unit, but he barely noticed them. To Eli, a fighter was a fighter, regardless of gender, and now that the recruits had completed their training, the women were barely distinguishable from the men. But he remembered how impressed he’d been upon first meeting Ruth Stein. He’d noticed her looks then, hadn’t he? He’d relished the prospect of moulding her. He’d thought at the time that it was her mind that had interested him, but perhaps it had been her body after all. It was difficult to separate the two now, he thought. The power he had over her mind was teasingly erotic when he applied it to her body. But he shrugged off the notion as a fleeting fancy; there could be no double standards in his unit. Sex was not an option.
He continued to study her, however, waiting for her to turn and meet his eyes, as he knew she would.
There was a burst of applause, the song had finished.
Ruth turned and caught the full force of his gaze. She was unable to look away. But then no-one was able to look away when Eli Mankowski’s concentration was focussed upon them. They weren’t meant to. They would remain transfixed, like a working dog awaiting the signal of its master, seeking approval, dreading disapproval. And Eli always sent a sign to the subject of his attention.
For Ruth, the sign was one of approval. Eli clapped his hands softly several times, as if joining in the general applause, but she knew he was applauding her alone. Then he nodded, just the once. She returned the nod, and he looked away.
The exchange meant everything to Ruth. It was a reward; he was pleased with her. She didn’t know why, perhaps he’d enjoyed her singing, although how he’d heard her above the others was a mystery. But most of all, she recognised the intention of his signal. The nod had been one of camaraderie, encouragement for the part she would play in the mission tomorrow night, and she felt honoured to have been so specially singled out. The thought of the mission excited her, and she couldn’t wait to prove herself worthy of her commander’s approval.
Eli was satisfied that she had received his message. Tomorrow she would be tested to the full, and encouragement had indeed been his intention – Ruth Lachmann was of paramount importance to the operation. Her non-Jewish appearance and her multilingual skills made her an invaluable member of the ten-man team assigned to the theft of British ammunition and explosives.
As David and the accordionist started up again, Eli no longer heard the music. His mind was on the significance of tomorrow’s operation. This was to be no training exercise or unit morale booster. Irgun and Lehi had joined forces, and additional ammunition was imperative for the raid to be staged five days from now. A raid which both groups considered would change the face of the Arab– Israeli war.
Eli and Shlomo Rubens had seen fit to communicate their orders, received from the joint Irgun and Lehi headquarters, to no-one but their fellow officers. The unit had no need for advance information; politics and strategy were for those in command. Blind obedience was the order of the day. The members of Unit 6 would address each directive as it was issued and, for the moment, it was the theft of British ammunition and explosives from the Haifa docks, with the aid of a team of Irgun fighters.
The military supplies had been delivered to the docks the previous morning and had been due for collection and shipment to Britain later that same day. Irgun Intelligence, however, had intercepted a message from the British vessel that it was undergoing emergency engine repairs at sea, and that its arrival would be delayed for three days. With the raid looming, and a severe shortage of ammunition, the situation was most opportune. Eli had assigned a surveillance team to keep watch throughout the preceding night, and, just two hours before, during a briefing session at the training camp, the officer in command of the team had made his report.
The shipment of arms and ammunition was stacked on the northern side of the main wharf, he’d stated. There was no barrier on the seaward side where the cargo would be loaded aboard the vessel, but on the other three sides the shipment was surrounded by coiled barbed wire approximately five feet high. There was a wooden-framed gate set in the barbed wire and, inside the compound, a prefabricated military hut. Five British soldiers had remained on guard duty throughout the night, a sergeant and four privates. Their commanding officer, a captain in rank, had left them on duty at around 21:00 hours and had not returned until after midnight.
‘Let us hope he’s a creature of habit,’ Eli had remarked, ‘one less to take care of. But no matter if not,’ he’d shrugged, ‘we will be prepared,’ and he’d assigned an assault force of six men. But his orders were explicit: there was to be no killing; they could not afford any reprisals from the British. And, to be on the safe side, those assigned to attack would be dressed as Arabs.
Not that it really mattered, Eli told himself as the next campfire song finished to another round of applause. The British cared nothing about the theft of arms and supplies, by either Arab or Jew, and so long as there were no killings there would be no reprisals. The only reason he had chosen to disguise his assault force was in case one of hi
s hot-blooded young fighters got carried away and slit a British throat in his excitement. And who could blame him?
Eli detested the British, he always had. These days, more so than ever. Since their Mandate was coming to an end, the British had ceased to care what the Arab did to the Jew. A raiding party of Arab villagers had ambushed a Haganah convoy and killed thirty-six Jewish fighters only the week before, and the British had done nothing. Some of the fighters had been executed, their heads and sexual organs mutilated, but the British hadn’t cared. The British cared about nothing but their own imperial superiority. And now that they were no longer to govern Palestine, they couldn’t wait to get out. Well, good riddance, Eli thought, the sooner they were gone the better. When the last of the British had left the country, the path would be clear for him. Through his proven commitment to Lehi, he would pave his way to a position of power within the new State of Israel. Eli Mankowski was a man of ambition.
The evening was winding down. The music had ceased, some were chatting quietly, others retiring for the night.
As she was about to leave, Ruth glanced at her commander, perhaps in the hope of another special sign of encouragement, but none was forthcoming. As David said goodnight to the others, he, too, glanced at Eli; most members of the unit did. But the commander remained squatting by the dying campfire, deep in thought as the party dispersed about him.
Eli was aware of the glances, but he was not in the mood to communicate. From the corner of his eye he watched Ruth and David as they walked off together to their respective quarters, and he wondered if they were talking of tomorrow’s mission. David, he knew, had been aching to be assigned to the assault force. But Eli could not afford to risk David Stein’s lust for blood. Not yet. The killing of a British guard would invite investigation, which could well jeopardise the forthcoming raid. Five days from now, David Stein would have ample opportunity to kill, Eli thought. For tomorrow’s mission, he must be content in his relegated position as driver.
‘Tomorrow is just the beginning, Eli.’
It was several minutes later that Shlomo Rubens broke into his thoughts. Shlomo was the one member of the unit not in awe of him, but then Shlomo was in awe of no-one.
Only the two of them were left beside the glowing embers of the campfire, and Eli looked up at Shlomo where he stood. He was a big man, strong and implacable, and his implacability served him well as a fighter – Eli had seen him in action. Shlomo Rubens was a perfect killing machine, a good man to have by one’s side in battle.
‘Yes,’ Eli agreed. ‘Tomorrow is the first step in a new war for us.’
They remained silent for a moment, both contemplating his statement. It was a new war indeed. No longer a war of Haganah defence against Arab brutality, but a war of aggression by the fighters of Irgun and Lehi.
Shlomo turned to go. Tomorrow would be a big day at the training camp. There would be a further report from the surveillance team, and then the assault would be repeatedly rehearsed before the evening’s mission. Shlomo Rubens believed in an adequate quota of sleep.
‘Goodnight,’ he called abruptly over his shoulder. Eli would probably sit by the fire for the next several hours, he thought, then he’d be up before dawn. The man seemed to survive on no sleep at all.
‘Goodnight, Shlomo,’ Eli automatically called back. His eyes were trained on the campfire’s embers, but he wasn’t seeing them. He was envisaging the next day’s mission, as he would repeatedly throughout the night and the following day.
A ten-man team. Six to attack from beneath the wharf, one lookout on the top floor of the vacant warehouse, one driver and team mate in the Jimmy parked at the fishermen’s wharf a mile away, and a decoy, the final member of the team.
Stealth and speed were of the essence. There would be no radio communication; the lookout would signal the Irgun boat by torchlight. There would be no use of firearms except as cudgels, and no use of knives except by way of threat. The British must be overcome swiftly and silently, and they must be left incapacitated but alive. The success of the plan depended a great deal on the decoy. And the decoy was to be Ruth Stein.
Moonlight shone silver on the black harbour waters as Ruth walked along the darkened dockside. To her right, she could see the vacant warehouse where the lookout would be waiting, signal torch at the ready, and ahead, to the left, the main wharf jutted out into the harbour. In the gloom she could not make out the shipment and enclosure, but halfway along the wharf she could see the glow of a lamp.
After weeks of training in sturdy trousers and men’s shirts, she was conscious of the unfamiliar feel of her skirt and blouse – the skirt a little too tight, the blouse exposing her skin to the gentle spring breeze off the water. Her feet seemed slightly unsteady, too, in the strangeness of high-heeled shoes. Or perhaps it was nerves, she thought. But she didn’t feel nervous. She felt energised and focussed, and more alive than she’d been in years.
She turned left onto the main wharf and walked towards the glow of the lamp, aware of the tapping of her heels, wondering if the assault force could hear her. They might well be beneath her very feet right now, and she pictured them, climbing among the beams and pylons, making their way under the wharf to take up their positions in preparation for the attack.
She could see the compound clearly now. Coils of barbed wire, silhouetted in the light of the lamp that hung from a pole beside the gate, and, beyond the wire, the huge shadowy shapes of crates and boxes piled high. She didn’t alter her pace, but walked on.
‘Halt! Who goes there?’
The voice came out of the darkness. She guessed the accent to be that of a Londoner, but she couldn’t see the soldier. She couldn’t see any of the guards.
‘I am sorry …’ she said in the heavily French-accented English she’d been practising all afternoon. ‘I mean no harm …’
‘Step into the light.’
She walked the twenty yards to the gate and stepped into the pool of light.
‘Identify yourself,’ the Cockney voice barked.
‘Simone Renet,’ she said. ‘Please … I mean no harm.’
Tom Baker lowered the .303 he’d had trained upon the shadowy figure of the intruder and, through the barbed wire, he eyed the woman up and down. She was a looker, he thought, she had to be a pro. He walked the several yards from the guard hut, where he’d been standing, to the gate and the spillage of light.
‘You’re a bit off the beaten path, aren’t you, love?’ he said.
Ruth gave the nervous laugh of a frightened woman relieved to see a friendly face.
‘Bonsoir,’ she said. It was the sergeant, she noted. The lookout had reported that the captain, a creature of habit as Eli had hoped, had left at nine o’clock as he’d done the preceding two nights. But where were the other four guards? In the glare of the light, she couldn’t see them.
‘You French then?’ the sergeant asked.
‘Oui,’ she smiled, ‘I am French.’
‘Long way from home, aren’t you? What can I do you for?’ He gave her a wink and laughed at his joke, but the innuendo was plain.
Ruth played ignorant. ‘Oui,’ she said, ‘I am very long way from home. That is why I come here. You can help me? Please?’ As she looked appealingly at him, she could hear movement further along the enclosure. Like moths to a flame, the other guards were coming in for a closer look.
‘I’ll do whatever I can, love, that’s for sure,’ Tom said, aware of Cliff and Bill sidling up behind him. ‘What you after then?’
‘A ship, it will leave from here soon, yes?’
‘Yeah, that’s right.’
‘I wish for passage to Europe.’ She could see the figures of two of the guards standing behind the sergeant, just out of the spill of light. ‘You can help me?’ she implored.
‘Well, now …’ Tom cast a lascivious glance at Cliff and Bill. ‘That depends on our Captain, doesn’t it? He’s the chap you’d need to see, but he’s not here right now. Would you care to wait?’
/> She appeared to hesitate. ‘How long he will be?’
‘Oh, I shouldn’t say more than ten minutes or so, what do you reckon?’ Tom looked a query at the two soldiers. They were standing either side of him now, plainly visible and openly gawking at the French woman’s breasts.
‘Oh yeah,’ one of them said, ‘the Captain’ll be back any minute now.’
Bill had got the message loud and clear. The Captain wouldn’t be back for a good hour yet, he’d be dining out with his mates who were stationed in the nearby barracks. Plenty of time for them to have some fun. He turned and gave a nod to Stan and Godfrey, who were in the shadows behind him, their eyes glued on the French woman.
‘You want to come in then?’ Tom asked.
Again, she hesitated, looking from man to man, uncertain, and Tom thought that perhaps she wasn’t a prostitute at all. The swell of her breasts beneath the open-necked blouse and the shapely legs beneath the short skirt had distracted him. She was French, he told himself, and French women dressed different from English women. There was a real touch of class about her, he thought.
Behind the three soldiers, Ruth could make out the shapes of two other figures.
‘Oh I do not know I can wait,’ she said, looking about nervous and uncertain, a vulnerable woman.
‘’Course you can, love,’ Tom said reassuringly, ‘come on in and we’ll make you a cup of tea.’ He nodded to Bill who opened the gate.
‘A cup of tea,’ she said, ‘that would be nice.’
As she was ushered through the gate, Tom made the introductions.
‘I’m Tom,’ he said, ‘and this is Bill and Cliff.’ The men nodded and ogled and she nodded in return. ‘And this is Godfrey and Stan,’ Tom said as the other two soldiers joined them.
‘Hello,’ she smiled. Five guards, the full complement, excellent, she thought.
‘Put the lamp on, Stan,’ Tom said, as he took her arm. French women always liked you to take their arm, he thought. Well, they did in the pictures – he’d never actually met a French woman before.
