Cafe Nevo

by Barbara Rogan

  “‘Better-looking,’“ Sternholz sneered. “With your talent for words, you’ll go far in the newspaper business—delivering papers. Yael Blume wasn’t ‘better-looking’; she was breathtaking, heartbreaking—like Garbo, like, what’s-her-name, Hepburn.”

  “Audrey?” asked the reporter.

  “Katharine, you fool. And she had their immense spirit about her, so that when she was present, you felt filled with power and optimism, as if you were breathing richer air.... Why, there were so many men in love with Yael Blume—” He stopped to catch his breath, laughing and shaking his head. “They all were. Uri Eshel, young Arik’s father, was crazy about her; Muny was her lapdog; Minister Brenner”— he lowered his voice—”wanted to divorce his wife for her, and her without a civil word for him! And there were others who never even had the nerve to speak to her, but who used to hang out here because she sometimes came in.”

  “And there were some who often spoke to her,” Sarita said in her soft voice, “but never spoke their hearts.”

  When she smiled, Sternholz pulled back, blinking like a surprised turtle. Her smile was so like Yael’s that for a moment he seemed to see the mother’s face superimposed on the daughter’s.

  “What was she like?” Sarita asked. “Apart from how she looked—what was she like?”

  The waiter’s eyes grew hazy with remembrance, and he didn’t answer for some time. Then he cleared his throat, hawked once or twice, spat into a handkerchief, and began:

  “The first time I laid eyes on Yael was in 1947, after the war but before we kicked the British out. Illegal immigration was at its peak then; practically every night boats came in, to Haifa, Ashdod, Tel Aviv, or the desolate shores of Herzliya, full of refugees from the holding pens of Cyprus. The British knew what was going on, of course. Oh, they tried to stop it, and once in a while they got lucky, intercepted a boat and sent the poor wretches back; but the coastline is long, the captains were experienced, and most of the time the ships got through.

  “In fact, so many boats got through that people were beginning to believe that the English were purposely turning a blind eye, but it wasn’t true. The British commander of the Tel Aviv region at that time was a mean-hearted spit-and-polish type with the manners of a lord and the soul of a Nazi—Colonel Andrew Dinnis was his name. This Dinnis was an ambitious man who hated the way the ‘Jewish rabble’ were making fools of him and his men. He decided to set a trap for the Hagana, especially for the leader of the rescue operation, Yehuda Blume.

  “One night word went out through the usual channels (young boys and girls acting as runners, slips of paper inside synagogue prayer books, kiosk message centers, that sort of thing) that a boat would be coming in late at night to Gordon beach. It was risky coming right into the heart of Tel Aviv, but less so on that night than on most others, for it was New Year’s Eve, and the British would be celebrating in the barracks. By ten o’clock that night, you couldn’t see a single Hagana face on the streets....”

  Running blind, the refugee ship entered the shallows of Gordon beach and anchored. Silently, efficiently, a ragged assortment of small crafts—fishing boats, dinghies, rafts, anything that would float and hold weight—was launched from the beach to bring the refugees ashore. They reached the ship and filled up first with children, mothers with babes in arms, and old people. The small armada set out for shore.

  Suddenly, the beach was flooded with light! British trucks with searchlights mounted on the roofs lined the street, and tenders pulled up one after the other, discharging dozens of armed British soldiers. Colonel Andrew Dinnis himself stood on top of one of the trucks, dressed in full battle regalia, and spoke through a loudspeaker.

  “You in the small craft,” he shouted, “come ashore and surrender!”

  A terrible cry arose, as if from the sea: an elemental scream of anguish from the throats of those wretched, homeless survivors. It was a sound that would break the heart of anyone with ears to hear. Many of the soldiers faltered and looked to their leader, but he, untouched, stood firm and repeated: “You in the small craft, come in and surrender! You people on the ship, remain there! My men have orders to shoot the next man or woman who disembarks.”

  Like lemmings, men and women leapt from the ship into the icy water, heading for shore. Those who couldn’t swim were supported by others. Within moments the sea was full of floundering refugees.

  “Shoot!” screamed the Colonel.

  Some soldiers shot in the air; others pretended not to hear. The small craft milled about in the water, picking up as many non-swimmers as they could hold. A man on board one of the boats shouted through a megaphone. “Plan B!” he cried in Hebrew. “Plan B!”

  At once a deafening cacophony of sounds rang out from a dozen hiding places along the shore: whistles, drums, garbage can lids, shofars, and shouts of “Comrades! Comrades!” flew up and spread throughout the city. People in all stages of nightdress began to pour out of the houses along the beach, first singly, then in great streams as the noise and the news spread. Within minutes there were hundreds of men, women, and children massed on the shore, completely overwhelming the few dozen soldiers that the Colonel had deemed necessary to subdue the “Jewish rabble.” As each small boat pulled ashore, and each exhausted swimmer crawled onto the beach, aided by people who waded out to meet them, the newcomers were quickly stripped of their sodden rags and dressed in dry clothing that the local Jews kept handy for just such occasions. Refugees fell to the ground, kissing the wet sand and mingling tears with sea water, and all the time the crowd grew larger as more and more Tel Avivans poured onto the beach.

  Colonel Dinnis tore at his sparse blond hair and shouted contradictory orders. Soldiers ran about in circles, not daring to unsheathe their weapons or attempt an arrest, and who was there to arrest, anyway? Already it was impossible to tell the refugees from the natives, the Hagana people from the general populace. The Jews formed circles, linked arms, and broke into horas, singing with all their hearts. Some soldiers were pressed into the dance; a few threw down their weapons and joined in.

  When all the refugees and their rescuers were onshore (save two, a young brother and sister whose drowned bodies drifted in later, posthumous immigrants to the promised land), the word went out to disperse. Natives and refugees, now indistinguishable, streamed outward into the quiet streets and bright avenues of the city, leaving behind a refuse of drenched rags and bewildered boy-soldiers.

  At this point in his narrative, Sternholz was interrupted by raucous calls for service, which had reached a pitch that even he could not ignore. As soon as he had left the table, Simcha Noy turned to Sarita.

  “Let’s get out of here!”

  “Why?” she asked, drawing back.

  “Why! Because I didn’t come here for a history lecture. The old boy’s senile. Come on—I’ll buy you a drink somewhere else. Or we could go to your place,” he added, with an insinuating look.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Look, if it’s because of what Sternholz said before, it just so happens that I’m separated.”

  She gazed at him opaquely. “I don’t care about that. I just want to hear what Mr. Sternholz has to say.”

  “Could you do it on your own time, then? I have a deadline to make.”

  “He might not tell me another time,” Sarita said. “I have to hear the part about my mother.”

  Simcha Noy hesitated. It had occurred to him that if Sarita felt guilty about wasting his time, she might be more forthcoming later, in various ways. But as Sternholz bore down upon them, he made up his mind and stood abruptly.

  “Au revoir, then” he said, with a malicious gleam. “I’ll tell them at Ma’ariv that you were uncooperative. They’ll kill the story.”

  “They should do themselves a favor and kill you, you bum,” yelled the waiter. “Go on, get out.” He resumed his seat with a groan as Noy withdrew. “Did he tell you he’s separated?”

  “He did.”

  “He always does that. It w
ould be news to his wife. She thinks they’re very happy, poor fool.”

  Sarita shrugged. “You were telling me about my mother.”

  The old man wiped his hand across his mouth and resumed without preamble:

  “Colonel Dinnis regrouped his forces, called up more from the barracks, and started off in hot pursuit: not of the refugees, he knew he was too late for that, but of Yehuda Blume and his Hagana comrades. Dinnis had never laid eyes on Blume, but he knew his name and had a discription. In those times, there were few Jews over six feet tall. He ordered a cordon around Tel Aviv and sent squads of men to search the cafés and synagogues....”

  As soon as Yehuda Blume saw his order to disperse being carried out, he ran to Nevo. It was a cold night, and his clothes were soaking wet. Sternholz sent him up to his own room, above the café, to change.

  Just as he came down, dressed in a pair of Sternholz’s black trousers and a white shirt, the café was invaded by a squad of British soldiers, headed by Colonel Dinnis himself. Yehuda grabbed an apron and a tray and began to move among the patrons, clearing tables and taking orders.

  Dinnis ordered the people to produce identity cards. Sternholz complained so loudly about the intrusion that Dinnis ordered his arrest; but Yehuda Blume caught the officer’s eye and tapped his head significantly, and the waiter was released. A check of the customers’ cards produced nothing of interest, and the two waiters were overlooked. But as Dinnis turned to lead his men out, his eye was caught by Yehuda’s height, and he paused.

  Suddenly a young girl of sixteen or seventeen burst into the café, crying loudly and holding a torn dress together under her coat. Sternholz rushed to her side solicitously, while Yehuda Blume ducked behind the bar and poured out a brandy. They got the girl to sit down and sip the drink, but when Colonel Dinnis approached, she began to scream again. He backed off hastily.

  “Rape,” the girl gasped. “They tried... two of them... they tore my dress and tried to push me into their car....’’

  “Who?” demanded Yehuda Blume. The patrons of Nevo crowded ‘round, and so did the British; the girl was very beautiful and apparently had not yet recovered sufficiently from her fright to cover herself completely. “Who attacked you? An Arab?”

  “No!” she wailed. “Two soldiers.” Sternholz translated her reply for Dinnis.

  “British soldiers?” roared Dinnis. “Impossible!”

  “In a jeep,” the girl sobbed. “They chased me into an alley, and they ripped at my clothes, they tore my dress, and one of them...” The rest of her words were drowned in a flood of tears.

  As the crowd began to murmur dangerously, the soldiers withdrew to defensive positions along the walls of the café. Dinnis said, “If British soldiers attacked you, they will pay dearly. But if you’re lying, then by God I promise you’ll regret it. Come with me.” The girl shrieked, clutching at Sternholz for protection.

  “Ach, mein Gott,” Sternholz said with deep disgust, “she’s a child. Let her go home to her mother.”

  “Not until she’s made a statement.”

  “Then she’ll make it here,” Yehuda Blume said firmly.

  Sternholz translated the girl’s description of the two men, which included little more than the fact that they both spoke English and wore uniforms. She had not noticed the number of their jeep. Dinnis noted down the scanty description and ordered his men out. He paused at the door.

  “If anyone here has thoughts of retribution, forget them. We’ll deal with this matter ourselves. I’ll hang any man who lifts a finger against my troops.”

  In the wake of their departure, the girl demurely fastened her coat. Then she raised her glass exultantly and cried, “L’chaim. Long live the Hagana!”

  Stunned silence met her words, for the child had fooled not only the British, but also her own people. Even Sternholz, who’d thought himself beyond surprise, gawked stupidly. Yehuda Blume was the first to recover. Laughing heartily, he grabbed the girl and kissed her on both cheeks. Then he tossed his apron on the floor, shook hands with Sternholz, and disappeared into the night.

  “That was my mother,” Sarita breathed.

  “It was,” Sternholz said. “In her acting debut.”

  “What happened then? Did she begin going with my father?”

  “She didn’t lay eyes on Yehuda Blume for another two years, because shortly after that episode the Hagana sent him abroad. He organized boatloads of refugees and ammunition from the other side and came back only when the war broke out. Yael joined the Hagana and was sent to a kibbutz up north, so I didn’t see much of her until after the war, when she moved back to Tel Aviv to take up an acting career.

  “And the rest,” said Sternholz, pushing back his chair, “is history.”

  “Thank you,” said Sarita, pressing his gnarled hand between her palms. Then, to his astonishment, she ran out of Nevo.

  Sternholz was busy for the rest of the afternoon and on into the evening. His busboy, Mr. Jacobovitz, was a seventy-eight-year-old man with hemorrhoids, failing eyesight, and advanced arthritis. Since he also had problems with his bowels and his bladder, he spent most of his time in the toilet out back and altogether was of little use to Sternholz. “But what can I do?” the waiter groused to Muny. “I fire him, the old cocker will never work again. Besides, watching him hobble around the place makes me feel young again.”

  “You’re killing yourself,” the poet replied. “A man your age, look at the hours you work. Noon till one, two in the morning—you’ve got to be suicidal.”

  Sternholz laughed. “I got something to save myself for? I’m going to dance at a grandchild’s wedding?”

  “That’s your fault,” Muny said. “You could have remarried.”

  “Ach, leave me alone.”

  Late that night, just before closing, Arik Eshel entered Nevo.

  “Sternholz,” he said, “have a drink with me.”

  A sarcastic greeting formed itself on the old man’s lips, but he let it go after looking at Arik’s face. He brought two whiskeys to the table.

  “What’s the matter?” he said. “Where’ve you been? Did you go home?”

  “Yes.” Arik drained his whiskey and motioned toward Sternholz’s. The waiter drank, his face full of dread. “Rina’s sick,” Arik said.

  “Your mother’s sick? What with?”

  “Cancer.”

  “Oy. Where?”

  “Stomach, pancreas, liver.”

  “Oy Gottenyu.”

  “Sorry,” said Arik.

  “You’re sorry? He should be sorry!” He waved a fist at the ceiling, then let it fall. “How’s Uri?”

  “He wants to do something. He’s pacing the kibbutz like a caged tiger. He wanted them to operate, but the doctors say they won’t inflict needless suffering. They gave him no hope at all, and he doesn’t know how to handle that.”

  “Oh, my poor Uri.” A tear formed in the old man’s eye.

  “He says it’s my fault.”

  “Oh, mein Gott.”

  “Sternholz? Emmanuel?” A dark shadow approached from the dimness; Muny put a hand under the waiter’s arm. “What is it?”

  “Go away, I’m all right. Go, my friend.”

  Muny left, and they were all alone. Sternholz got up to turn off the exterior lights, then returned to the table with two more drinks.

  “Your father doesn’t know what he’s saying,” he said. “That’s the first thing you got to understand.”

  “Now that’s very reassuring,” Arik said. “What’s the second?”

  Sternholz was saved from replying by the sight of Sarita hurrying toward him, carrying something large wrapped in paper. She did not seem to see Arik at all, but came straight to Sternholz and thrust the package toward him.

  “Is it right?” she demanded.

  She sat beside Arik without glancing at him. He stared at her; wild-eyed, her hair awry, she was pulsing with energy and looked hot to the touch.

  Sternholz unwrapped the package and found a
picture inside, a pencil drawing, impressionistic, blurred and yet astonishingly detailed in parts, like a dream or a memory. The scene was Nevo, the year ‘46, the setting as Sternholz had described it: a young girl sitting in a chair, her clothing in disarray, surrounded by flustered men. In the background some British soldiers cluster around an angry-looking officer. The girl’s hands are raised and clenched in seeming distress, but her face is turned away from the soldiers, toward a tall man in a waiter’s apron seen only from the back.

  “Did I get it right?” Sarita asked anxiously.

  “Perfect,” Sternholz replied slowly. “Perfect, right down to her dress.”

  “I have that dress,” Sarita said quickly. “She left it to me.”

  The waiter’s face was angry. “And how did you know what Dinnis looked like? And who was here that night?” His finger stabbed the drawing. “Those are real people; how did you do this, Sarita?”

  She gave Sternholz a hurt look and glanced sidelong at Arik. “I don’t know,” she mumbled.

  “Too many secrets are bad for the heart,” said Sternholz, who was in a position to know. “You’d better tell.”

  “I just saw it.” She tried a tentative laugh. “You described it so well.”

  He shook his head.

  “Shall I go?” Arik asked.

  “Don’t move! I’m not through with you. Do you two know each other? Sarita Blume, Arik Eshel. Your father, her mother were friends. Talk to each other, I’m going to the bathroom.”

  “You’re an artist,” Arik said, feeling absurdly tongue-tied and young. “I’ve seen you working here.”

  She looked him in the face for the first time. “I’ve seen you.”

  “May I have a look?”

  Reluctantly she handed over the drawing. She was so child-like in manner that he expected naïveté in her work-pretty pieces of fluff, kittens and children with big eyes—and so was unprepared for the combination of immense power and hard-edged skill her drawing revealed. The picture was clear, cold, accurate, and uncanny. Everything Arik thought of to say seemed too personal. In his struggle against an illusory feeling that they already knew each other, he was aided by her utter indifference to him. She looked at him without recognition. Finally he pointed at a figure in the drawing and said, “That looks like Muny, thirty years younger.”