No Time for Tears

by Cynthia Freeman

  She started slowly toward the door. He called out, “Wait.” She held her breath. Had the pretense worked?

  “Yes… ?”

  “If I give you the flour, can I see you again?”

  “Oh, yes … yes … I will be grateful to you for the rest of my life—”

  “Can we meet tonight?”

  The world was in a state of chaos, hundreds were starving, and he wanted … it was total insanity … still, “Yes …”

  “Where do you live?”

  “In Tel Aviv.”

  “Where?”

  “You can’t come there … I have children, but on my life I promise to meet you in the park at eight o’clock tonight.”

  He looked at her suspiciously. On the other hand if she wanted more flour she would be a fool not to keep their rendezvous. “All right… tonight, and be there.”

  “I will, believe me I will.”

  After he had loaded the sack into the wagon he held her close. At this moment nothing mattered, except that her family would have something to eat.

  As she stepped into the wagon he squeezed her hand firmly, “You won’t forget?”

  She shook her head.

  As she faded into the distance it occurred to him he hadn’t even asked her name.

  Chavala traveled the long, narrow road up to the hills toward Jerusalem, which bordered on the army encampments. It was dusk, and the Turkish soldiers were lying about on the ground. She felt their eyes on her. With her head held high, she whipped the horse to go faster until, thank God, she’d passed the trenches.

  She had just passed beyond the gorge at Bab el Wad when she abruptly brought the wagon to a halt.

  She waited. Silhouetted against the sky, a black-clad Bedouin blocked the road with his white Arabian stallion.

  For a moment Chavala stayed motionless in panic, her mind darted to the body that lay buried under the cherry tree … But this time she had no weapon. And how could she overcome this giant of a man?

  She watched as he dismounted, slowly came toward her. She grabbed the whip and lashed out as he came to one side.

  He only laughed, then grabbed her by the hair and brutally dragged her from the wagon, down the slight incline, and threw her to the ground.

  In the nightmare that followed, he lifted her dress and spread his legs over her. She struggled, kicked, scratched his face.

  As he undid the sash around his waist, she inched her fingers along the ground until she found a rock.

  When he was ready to enter her, she found all the strength left in her and struck him between the eyes.

  The blow was sudden, violent. He rolled to one side as the blood rushed from his head.

  Fighting for breath, she got to her feet, climbed up the slight incline. How she got back to the wagon she would never know … As she was about to climb into the seat she felt something beneath her foot. She looked down, and there in the dirt lay a small red-and-gold tooled Moroccan pouch. Picking it up quickly she got into the wagon, took up the reins and drove the horse with the whip until she reached Jerusalem.

  When she arrived in Mea Shearim, she somehow managed to climb the stairs to Raizel’s apartment.

  “Thank God you’re home safe and …”

  Chavala was too tired and distraught at this moment to tell her anything. “Where is your husband?”

  “Resting.”

  “Get him up, if it won’t disturb him too much … I have a heavy sack of flour in the wagon. Maybe he can manage to lift it.”

  While they waited for the man of the house to bestir himself, she hugged Reuven, who, after telling her how glad he was to see her, asked if now they were going home.

  “Tomorrow, darling.”

  The little boy was disappointed, but didn’t protest.

  When Raizel’s pious husband finally appeared to lift off the sack from the wagon, Chavala ripped it open, angrily, and scooped out three ladles for herself and her family.

  Raizel said, “But you’re leaving us almost the whole—”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll get more … just take care of yourself and the children, I’ll be back in the morning.”

  Barely able to climb the stairs, she could hardly believe she’d reached the door to her apartment.

  When she crossed the threshold, Dovid was waiting, and all that had happened to her in that incredible day came crashing down on her. She collapsed in his arms, stayed motionless as he carried her to bed. She hadn’t even enough strength to talk. Dovid lay down beside her and held her, gently, lovingly.

  Finally she could ask, “How did you happen to be here tonight?”

  “When I got back to Athlit from Lebanon I found the note you’d sent by Guri and I came as fast as I could. I’ve been here most of the day. Now … tell me … what happened … ?”

  This time she couldn’t control her tears, and as she told him what had happened to her Dovid thought bitterly to himself that he hadn’t really protected her at all by sending her away. A woman like Chavala one never protected.

  When she’d finished he knew, whether Aaron approved or not, where they belonged. “We’ll go back to Zichron. We need each other, and the children need us. Whatever the future, at least we’ll face it together.”

  “Yes, Dovid… thank you… will you stay the night?”

  “Yes.”

  Chavala got out of bed and went to prepare her bath water. As her garments fell to the floor the small leather pouch lay beside them. Picking it up, she brought it to Dovid. “In all the excitement I forgot about this,” she said, handing it to him.

  He drew the strings apart and emptied the contents on the bed. Both gasped. Even in the dimly lit room the stones shone. It was unbelievable. A handful of small emeralds, rubies, diamonds, sapphires and opals lay clustered together. Most likely the Bedouin had waylaid a traveler and stolen them.

  Chavala said, “You know what this means, Dovid … after the war we will have more than enough money to go to America…”

  He said nothing. He would not, could not hurt her at this moment by telling her he could never leave. Later he would try to tell her why … When he looked at the stones, what he felt most was guilt, thinking about the circumstances under which she’d gotten them … “For now, darling, let’s only think of being together again …”

  In the morning they stopped at Mea Shearim to pick up the children and to tell Raizel that they were leaving but that Raizel need not worry, Chavala would make sure that there was sufficient food. The sisters said their good-byes and held one another for a long, lingering moment.

  When Chavala stepped over the threshold of her own house, with her family, she wanted to get down on her hands and knees and give thanks that they had, miraculously, all survived…

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ROBERT SILVERSTEIN’S LIMOUSINE STOPPED in front of his jewelry establishment on Fifth Avenue. The liveried chauffeur opened the door as Mr. Silverstein stepped out. “Call for me at four. Mrs. Silverstein and I are going to the opera this evening.”

  In all the years since he had inherited the business from his father this was the first morning he did not pause to look up at the sign, “Silverstein and Sons, Est. 1887.” Instead he bought the newspapers from the boy who was shouting, “UNITED STATES DECLARES WAR ON GERMANY!”

  In disbelief he read the date, April 6, 1917, in the bold black print. This evening he would not be going to the opera. His only thoughts at the moment were of his three fine sons.

  On the trolley, Mary Kelly was going to work for the Silverstein family, for whom she had worked as a cook for the past seven years. She sat trembling, holding the paper to her chest. Her only thoughts were for Sean and Patrick, one eighteen, the other twenty. She was very frightened.

  In London at the manor house of Sir Walter Collingsworth, the household staff sat around the table in their quarters downstairs.

  “What’ll it mean, Mr. Dalton … with the Yanks on our side?” the scullery maid asked the butler. “You reckon the war wi
ll be over sooner?” Mr. Dalton shrugged, said how the bloody hell would he know.

  In Berlin, Frieda Hockstein said to her husband Fritz, “Mein Gott, what will happen now?”

  “Calm yourself, Frieda, we will win the war. Remember, Deutschland uber Alles. The Americans are run by Jews. Everybody knows that.”

  In Damascus, Jamal Pasha paced the floor. “Those stupid Germans. As though we weren’t having enough trouble with the British … they had to get involved with the crazy Americans, with their money, all those men …”

  In Alexandria, Aaron read about the event very carefully. The United States’ involvement obviously would allow more British troops to be deployed to the Middle East. America would fight on the western front, trying to save the French.

  Although Aaron had no political ambitions for himself, he realized this was an opportunity to strengthen NILI’s position. He saw this as a catalyst in bringing the problem of Eretz Yisroel to the world’s attention.

  Since the exile of the Jews from Jaffa and Tel Aviv, the situation in the country had become desperate. The year had been one of hunger and disease. The locusts had destroyed the crops to such an extent that much of the land lay fallow, and those meager crops that were produced the army confiscated. Commerce was paralyzed and the Turks forbade any financial help for the Jews. All of which strengthened NILI’s determination to try and save the Yishuv.

  Toward the end of April Aaron met with Sir Marc Sykes, who happened to be in Egypt, and through him sent a cable to the World Zionist Organization in London to spread the news around the world of the Jews’ deportation. The next day Aaron telegraphed the chief representative of American Jewry, whose support he was trying to gain. Along with such activities, Aaron founded a special committee for collection of funds for Eretz Yisroel. In a few days cables were sent to all the communities of the Diaspora, and Aaron’s actions started to get results. In early May, Reuters published his report on the evacuation of Jaffa, and the other press agencies copied the item and spread it around the world. Protest gatherings were held. Jews feared what happened to the Jews under the Ottomans would be the same as what had happened to the Armenians. The American Zionist Organization appealed to Holland, Spain and Switzerland to intervene at Constantinople in favor of the Jews in Eretz Yisroel. Even in Germany, Turkey’s ally, protest gatherings were held. In the face of all this, Jamal Pasha decided to ease up a little on the Jews in return for denial of the previous articles in the press. The Yishuv’s Jews, the conservative ones, were pleased.

  Although the Yishuv was still unaware of NILI’s military espionage, still its social and national activities brought NILI’s whispered name to many other people who were grateful for its daring. Gradually NILI’s influence upon the Yishuv and its institutions spread, including a new wave of enthusiasm among the activists in the Yishuv. The number of NILI members grew. The Hashomer, who knew about NILI’s espionage activities, were still divided. Half still saw themselves primarily as protectors of the Yishuv and refused to be involved otherwise. The other half was determined to fight with NILI to the end….

  Aaron slipped back into Zichron as he had in the past few years. His known absence from the country would have attracted attention and compromised the cause. In fact, he never failed to go to Damascus to see Jamal Pasha.

  As he now sat across the desk from Jamal Pasha he noticed the special, almost wild look in his eye. It was now 1918 and the war had escalated. The loss of his men was staggering. Arms being confiscated by the British or retrieved by the Jews was a crushing blow. More and more Turks were being taken prisoners of war by the advancing British, or defecting from the army. And there was the lack of food production.

  “Well,” he said as he paced the floor, “what is your excuse this time, Aaronson? This time you can’t say it’s because I have jailed your men … why has the production slowed down?”

  Aaron answered without hesitation, “Because you can’t squeeze blood from a turnip … we’re still affected by the locust invasion. It will be at least another year before the crop that has been planted will be ready for harvest. The strain in the country has been devastating, and it shows at the experimental stations too—”

  “Excuses… I’m sick of them. Now you’re such a damned smart Jew … forgive me, I mean scientist … I want some answers. For example, how do we feed the army?”

  “There is only one way. By buying from the neutral countries.”

  “Then what are you waiting for?”

  “Your permission to travel abroad.”

  “And with you gone, who is to take over at Athlit for us? That traitor, Absalom Feinberg, went over to the British … that’s why we’re not getting the yield from Hadera … I should have hanged him.”

  Aaron would have liked to have ended Jamal Pasha’s ugly life with his bare hands. Very unscientific. He fought not to change his expression, to stay in control…. “Nobody is indispensable. I have a very capable man who replaced him. This situation is a little different than before when I said it took brains to provide yields…. That still holds true, but you can’t fight nature.”

  Jamal sank down in his chair, “So we have to buy from foreign markets …” He sighed deeply. “All right, you have my permission, but do it fast.”

  Aaron would never tell Jamal Pasha that a shipment was already on its way from Switzerland, that the contacts had been made weeks ago, and that there were men in Greece, Spain and Italy with instructions about at what intervals to deliver the goods.

  At Zichron Aaron found that Sarah had cooked the best Roumanian dinner he had eaten since his mother had died. God rest her soul, he could scarcely believe a year had passed since then. But tonight Aaron was at peace for the first time in so long he wanted to remember the joys she had brought to their lives and not to mourn her loss.

  As he sat around the table looking at his brothers, Zvi and Shmuel, who had come back into the fold, then at Alex and his father, his heart was filled. And how thoughtful of Sarah to have included Chavala, Dovid and the children. For the moment, his eyes were on Reuven. Where had the years gone? He remembered the day he witnessed the child’s bris, and now he was ten … it seemed impossible. “Well, Reuven, you’re almost ready to become a scientist like your father.”

  “I just hope I’ll be as good,” Reuven said, looking at his father.

  “I’ve no doubt … and you, Chia? What would you like to be?” She was almost thirteen.

  “A teacher, I think.”

  “Good, that’s what we need … teachers and scientists. Well, now that we’ve taken care of the future, I think we should all go into the living room and listen to a little Chopin. Would you do us the honor, Sarah?”

  “If I can still remember how to play.”

  “You’ll still remember. And that’s also what we need, the sound of Chopin …”

  After the recital Chavala and Sarah walked the children home. It was long past their bedtime. Sarah listened to Chavala say, “Sleep well, my Reuven …” Somehow in Hebrew it sounded so different than in Yiddish. Her mother had always put them to bed with the words, “Schlaf mit gesund’heit, mein tayere kind.”

  Chia kissed Sarah on the cheek and thanked her for the lovely evening. “I had such a wonderful time … would you teach me to play the piano?”

  Such poignant innocence in the little girl’s face. Sarah had to hold back the tears. When would there be time? she wondered … “I would love to, Chia.”

  “When can we start?”

  “Soon, dear… soon.”

  Sitting in the front room, Sarah looked about. “It’s such a lovely little house, what you’ve done with it… But the children … Chavala, you’re so blessed … if only I had a child,” she said, more to herself than Chavala. At least she could speak as a woman to another woman … “I still mourn for Absalom. I think about him constantly … if only I had his son, the pain would not be so great…” Once she’d started she couldn’t stop. This was the first time she had spoken openly about hi
m. “But I have my memories. Lord, the things we did. We would ride like the wind, up into the hills of Zichron, and the love between us … I still hear the sound of his voice when he read his own poetry to me … He was a fine poet, you know. A wonderful man…”

  Chavala could scarcely answer. “Yes, I know …”

  Sarah sat there, not speaking, her thoughts on some unknown shallow grave in the Sinai. Getting up slowly, she said, “I am so happy you’ve come back to Zichron, Chavala.”

  And Chavala thought to herself, I never wanted to leave, but she answered, “So am I Sarah, so am I…”

  Back home, Sarah looked into the living room, saw the men gathered and said a quick goodnight. She wanted to be alone with only one man this night…

  “Abba,” Aaron continued after Sarah had gone off to bed, “I felt the time had come for you to know about NILI. I only hope you understand why I did not tell you more earlier.”

  The old man still sat in disbelief. “During all the years of this war I ignored the existence of espionage, and the suspicions of the Germans that there were spies among the Jews. I thought it was a despicable, anti-Semitic accusation, but how could I not have known when I worked in the fields of Athlit that my own sons were involved?”

  “Because none of them know … only the key men.”

  “I still find it incredible that such a secret should have been so closely kept.”

  “It was for the good of the Yishuv.”

  “But if, God forbid, any of you are caught the Yishuv will suffer—”

  “No, abba, we members of NILI took it on ourselves to do this and we alone will assume the blame, should the time ever come for it.”

  Ephraim Aaronson was almost mumbling. “I still can’t believe that I lived here in Zichron and knew nothing. Why did you wait until now to tell me?”

  “Because when I leave this time I won’t come back until the war is over. You must know … you may be questioned …”

  Ephraim nodded. “How could I have been so stupid, or am I merely growing senile … Absalom would never have left Sarah to become a pilot—”