In the Peugeot, as he picked up the Post, he noticed he’d gotten some blood on his wrist, probably from the second woman. He licked his thumb and rubbed the spot off, wiping it on the paper, leaving a smudge among the headlines. He watched, rapt, as the rusty color soaked in, branching along the fibers of the newsprint—the blood of an old woman he’d never met. Was this his work?
It was too easy to blame Asher. Eva was right. He wanted the revolution—like the world—to be innocent, when it had never been.
“Out, out,” he said, a thin joke he’d save to tell her later, and turned the page. The top of it caught and he had to smack it with the back of his hand to fold it over. A flock of sparrows on the ledge of the portico spooked, shooting off, and as he smoothed the crease between his fingers, the same lightning that had rolled the bus struck right behind him, rocking the car, the shock wave blowing out his windows, dashing his face against the wheel.
It was bent, and he was bleeding, the taste thick and warm in his mouth. The paper was torn. On the hood of the car lay a sparrow. Asher. How had he ever doubted him?
The blast had knocked the doorman to the ground. He was just getting up, rubbing the side of his jaw as if he’d been sucker-punched. The drive was littered with birds and chunks of stone, chips still raining down, pattering in the trees. Somewhere a bobby’s whistle shrilled. Brand struggled to open the door and pushed himself out, used the body of the car to stand and spat darkly, just in time to see the face of the south wing swell and tremble, its skin splitting, cracks spewing white puffs of dust like a dam about to burst. The women on the balconies were screaming. Impossibly, the roofline was cocked. He reflexively took a step back.
The bomb had done its job. Groaning, the girders twisted and gave way. The balconies tipped and pitched forward, spilling their occupants, and with a roar the front of the building buckled, slumped, then plunged to the ground, a shuddering avalanche exposing, for a moment, like a dollhouse, the rooms beneath, sending a cloud of dust and smoke dense as a sandstorm billowing over the portico, blotting the sun, engulfing Brand like a hot, gritty wind.
Blindly, arms out like a sleepwalker, he found the curb and blundered across the walk, groping for the door. The doorman had abandoned his post—or no, he’d just ducked inside. He opened it a crack for Brand. As he dove through, a detective with a pistol almost ran him over coming out, followed by two Poppies with tommy guns. Too late, Brand thought.
The lobby was dark and filling with panicked guests. Though he didn’t see any damage, the power was out, the elevators dead. He made for the stairwell, aware there might be another bomb, and wondered if she’d known, if that’s what last night was all about. I love you, stupid. Everyone else was coming down, and he hugged the wall, shouldering past them, using the banister to haul himself along. He had no idea what room she was in, only that it had a view of the Old City. He hoped it was in the north wing. He’d start at the top and work his way down, checking everything facing the rear. The higher he climbed, the fewer people there were. He raced up the final flights, taking the steps two at a time. When he reached the sixth floor he was gasping. The hall was murky with dust, making him sneeze, and he had to feel his way from door to door.
Most were closed, only a few open, their guests’ possessions like clues. A room-service cart with a glass of red wine, a salad and a plate of bread sat untouched by a cracked window. There was no postcard view of the Citadel, only a brown haze like a dirty fishbowl. Farther down, he found a pipe sitting in an ashtray, a pair of leather slippers and a full bottle of gin. He didn’t know what he was looking for besides her, and went on, knocking and calling her name.
The north wing was empty. Still hopeful, he worked his way south along the main corridor. As he neared the elevators he noticed a mirror smashed on the carpet. A blade-like shard reflected his face—powdered a ghostly white and streaked with sweat. The clock on the wall had stopped, stuck at 12:37. The dust was settling, making it easier to see. At the far end of the hall, a smoky light shone. As he crept closer, he realized it was the sun.
Ahead, the floor ended, giving on empty space. Like a man on a ledge, he sidled along one wall and braced himself, craning to take in the sheer drop. Lifted by invisible currents, a flock of papers fluttered through the haze. What was left of the south wing gaped as if it had been shelled, the Mandate’s clockworks open to the sky like an ocean liner broken on the rocks, desks and filing cabinets and framed pictures strangely in place. Water poured into the void from ruptured pipes, tangles of wires drooping like vines. A floor lamp dangled headfirst by its cord like an anchor. Below, through the smoke, a dozen fires burned in the rubble. Rescuers were already climbing over the pile. He couldn’t imagine anyone had survived, and then he heard, attenuated by distance and the wind, the animal cries of the dying, mercifully drowned out, the next minute, by the air raid siren.
Asher had outsmarted them all. Brand thought he should see it as a great victory—Eva would—yet as he retreated to the stairwell, cupping his nose and mouth against the dust, instead of triumph he felt an overwhelming helplessness which only increased when he discovered the door to the roof was locked.
There was no other way up, and rather than waste time trying to bash the lock off with the nozzle of the fire hose, he checked the fifth floor, empty now, with the same stopped clock and dizzying view of the wreckage. A military ambulance and a speaker truck had arrived. The police were clearing the street. The blast had flipped the bus onto the sidewalk so it faced the other way. A body was caught on the Y’s iron fence, another stuck to the front of the building. Brand shook his head as if they couldn’t be real and kept going.
He had company now, soldiers and hotel detectives with passkeys doing a full sweep. He was afraid they’d think he was a looter, until one stopped him by the shoulders and persuaded him to take a drink from his canteen. He’d forgotten his face. They’d mistaken him for a survivor.
Even missing a wing, the King David was too big. It was taking too long, and he was tired. The air tasted of chalk, and every so often he had to stop and bend over to hawk up a dark clot of phlegm. With each floor he became more convinced she’d sneaked out before the bomb went off, slipped past him in the chaos. She’d be waiting for him in the lobby, or at his car, and then, when he skipped the mezzanine, she wasn’t either place.
His trunk was dented and covered with a gray film, the backseat full of broken glass. The sparrow, oddly, was gone, as were all the birds. Maybe they were just stunned, he thought, as if logic might explain anything today.
The doorman strode over as if he were pleased to see him. He’d washed his face, but his neck was caked with dust.
“Sir, I’m sorry, you have to move your car.”
“I’m looking for someone,” Brand said.
“I’m very sorry, sir. It’s curfew. You have to park somewhere else.”
Brand thought he could use the jeep to bolster his argument, but it was gone. Besides a pristine old Rolls idling by the front doors, the drive was empty. There was no telling, the valets might have spirited away the birds as well.
Brand slammed his door, sending broken glass tinkling. The Peugeot started up as if the bomb had no effect on it. The steering wheel was out of round, the arc beneath his left hand bent, making him pay attention as he curled down the drive, crunching over chunks of stone. The army had sealed off the street with barbed wire, and he had to wait for a Poppy to let him pass before turning onto Abraham Lincoln and jerking the car into an open spot, his front tire scraping the curb.
The soldier who let him out refused to let him back in.
“My wife is in there,” Brand said, brandishing his papers like a ticket. He should have never left. He should have checked the mezzanine. He should have searched the roof and the bar and the gardens and not stopped till they’d thrown him out.
“Wait here,” the soldier said, and after several more truckloads of Poppies had passed, returned with a female escort who ushered Brand around the dru
gstore, avoiding the bus, to the side entrance of the Y.
In a gymnasium full of wailing Arabs, the same officious clerks who booked him at the police station took his information. It was possible she was waiting for him back at her place, in which case he was condemning them both. He was tempted to lie about her address, but finally told the truth, though now she was his fiancée. He described her scar and the dress she was wearing and her pendant, and scourged himself for not remembering her shoes. The clerk gave him a card and asked him to have a seat. Right now they were just starting the identification process.
“I’d like to help with the digging out,” Brand said.
“I’m sure we have more than enough capable hands,” the man said.
“Can I at least see?”
He would have to wait. They were still policing the area. He could wash up, the man offered. There was food available in the canteen downstairs.
Brand didn’t want anything to eat, but couldn’t sit still, and used it as an excuse. His plan was to go up the stairs and find a window, but there were guards in the hall. Another escort asked if he wanted to use the washroom, as if that was what was wrong with him, and rather than argue with her, he did. In the mirror stood his ghost, his hair and clothes a dusty gray. He bent his head and slopped water over his neck, scrubbing with both hands. The knot on his forehead held the curved imprint of the steering wheel, a red dent. Looking into his eyes, he understood that being there was a waste of time. He thought of leaving and driving straight to Eva’s, and decided as a compromise to call Mrs. Sokolov.
It could be arranged, but, as with any function of the Mandate, he had to wait in line. Finally the escort in the hall led him to an office that overlooked a soccer field and discreetly closed the door. On the desk, in the center of the blotter, was a box of tissues. He dialed slowly, composing himself, half hoping no one picked up.
Mrs. Sokolov answered sharply, as if he’d called the wrong number.
“Is Eva there?”
“I thought she was with you.”
“She was.”
“I’m sorry, Jossi. Where are you?”
He said he’d let her know if he heard anything. She agreed to do the same.
“Long live Eretz Israel,” she said.
“Yes,” he said, though he was alone.
He went back to the gymnasium, even more crowded now. The identifications had begun, Red Cross nurses guiding huddled families along the edge of the basketball court and through a pair of doors at the far end of the room. As the minutes passed, he kept expecting the clerk to call his name, or his escort to bring him a message telling him she was safe. By now she could be in Nablus with Asher, celebrating their great success. Brand knew he was being irrational, and with a shake of his head cut the thought off.
It wasn’t until three thirty that they let the relatives outside. The bodies were gone, leaving smears of blood on the pavement. The bus was still there, the roof pocked as if with shrapnel. They weren’t allowed to cross the street. From the sidewalk, behind a rope, they watched the soldiers break up the smoldering rubble with picks and jackhammers. Masked welders burned through beams with hissing torches, and the air smelled of ozone and molten steel. From time to time a whistle blew and the drilling stopped so the rescuers could gather around a hole and listen. If they heard someone, they dropped their shovels and dug with their bare hands, the scrum tossing rocks over their shoulders till they unearthed the person, to be borne away on a stretcher to a waiting ambulance. Brand saw them rescue only two, both men.
The dead they covered with blankets. In their diligence to hide the victims’ faces, the feet stuck out. Most were women. Their shoes all looked familiar to Brand, the worn soles and heels and fashionable straps. In Crow Forest the Germans made everyone take theirs off so they couldn’t run. This was different, he thought, and though he didn’t want to believe it was Eva’s choice, he felt tricked. Forsaken Brand. He hated her for saying she loved him.
As the day waned and dusk came on, the army brought in arc lights and a pair of ratcheting steam shovels and a generator that vibrated the air. A heavy tow truck righted the bus and hauled it away. The bell tower tolled the hours, reminding them how long it had been. Some of the families left, receiving news of loved ones, but most stayed, waiting out the night with Brand, the women keening, holding perfumed handkerchiefs to their noses. The heat of the day dissipated, bats flapping in circles high above the site, and as he watched the rescuers clambering over the pile with their miners’ headlamps and electric torches, he thought of Katya and the starless darkness of his grandmother’s root cellar, and wondered if Eva had been afraid.
For three days he waited, eating his meals at the canteen as the Royal Engineers dug around the clock with bulldozers and cranes, though by now there were only bodies. He wanted proof—her pendant or a shred of her dress, her purse with her lipstick and her papers. They found no trace of her, and at sundown on Sabbath Eve, as if it were unholy, Brand gave up his vigil.
The Voice of Fighting Zion broadcast a running tally: fifteen Jews and twenty-six British. The Mandate radio said there were also forty-one Arabs, two Armenians and a Greek, not including the missing. The official response was a dance of propaganda. The Jewish Agency condemned the Irgun as terrorists. Begin blamed the British for not heeding their warnings and evacuating the hotel. The British claimed there were none. To Brand it didn’t matter. He was done with the war.
The next morning Eva’s name was plastered all over the Jaffa Road, along with an Avidor he’d never heard of, and he thought it was a cheat. It should have been him, just as he should have been with Katya in Crow Forest, the two of them inseparable even in death.
That afternoon he visited Eva’s flat a last time, borrowing the key from Mrs. Sokolov. He climbed the stairs, the treads squeaking under his feet. Nothing had been touched. There was the cognac bottle on her little table, the phonograph and the records he’d bought for her, in the sink their glasses from that night. He had the urge to clean the place or take something—the cognac, or her pillow, smelling of her perfume. Instead he locked the door behind him and wound his way back through the alleys.
He expected Asher to contact him, to explain. A phone call, a coded note setting up a meeting. All he wanted to do was talk. After waiting several days to make sure he wasn’t being followed, he loaded his pistol and drove out the Nablus Road to the safe house. The iron gate was chained, the windows dark, as if no one lived there. It was a kind of cowardice he would never understand, though he was guilty of it himself. How did you kill and still call yourself righteous? How did you live when you let the people you loved die? As desperately as he wanted to forget, he needed even more dearly to remember. Katya and Eva, his mother and father and Giggi, Lipschitz and Koppelman. He owed them a debt, and promised from now on to live as honestly as possible.
He ditched the gun in the desert, flinging the bullets to the wind like stones. Neither soldier nor prisoner, he was free. In his cigar box he had over three hundred pounds. That night while the city slept, he left an envelope for Mrs. Ohanesian and took the road to the coast, parked the car by the docks and shipped out on a freighter bound for Marseilles. His name was Brand, and he could fix anything.
Acknowledgments
The larger conflict that sets in motion and provides the frame for the action of this novel—the law that makes Brand an illegal—is the issue of Jewish immigration to Palestine. On the release of the White Paper of 1939, Zionists worldwide decried the new British quotas (75,000 Jews total over the next five years) as too low. As the Nazis’ systematic persecution of Jews grew into outright genocide, for many European Jews the impossibility of securing a visa to Palestine became a death sentence, yet the British refused to budge. The circumstances surrounding the British naval blockade of Palestine (as well as the refusal of the United States to accept large numbers of European Jews during the war, or survivors afterward) and the triumphs and tragedies of the Aliyah Bet ships that ran the block
ade are well documented in many contemporary and modern novels and histories, including Leon Uris’s famous Exodus and Tom Segev’s excellent One Palestine, Complete.
In researching the brief period of combined underground operations involving the Haganah, the Irgun and the Stern Gang against the British Mandate, I’m indebted to dozens of books, including, significantly, Menachem Begin’s The Revolt, Daniel Spicehandler’s Let My Right Hand Wither, Zipporah Porath’s Letters from Jerusalem, J. Bowyer Bell’s Terror Out of Zion, Larry Collins and Dominique LaPierre’s O Jerusalem!, Arthur Koestler’s Thieves in the Night, J. C. Hurewitz’s The Struggle for Palestine, R. Dare Wilson’s Cordon and Search: With the Sixth Airborne Division in Palestine, Eric Cline’s Jerusalem Besieged, Nicholas Bethell’s The Palestine Triangle and Samuel Katz’s Days of Fire.
Readers can find a more detailed account of the bombing of the King David Hotel and its immediate human and long-range political consequences in By Blood & Fire by Thurston Clarke.
For their rich bodies of work, especially their writing having to do with the Jerusalem of that era, I’d like to thank S. Y. Agnon, Yehuda Amichai, Aharon Appelfeld, Amos Oz and A. B. Yehoshua.
Deepest thanks to my early readers: Tom Bernardo, Paul Cody, Lamar Herrin, Stephen King, Michael Koryta, Dennis Lehane, Trudy O’Nan, Lowry Pei, Mason Radkoff, Susan Straight, Luis and Cindy Urrea, and Sung J. Woo. Special thanks to Diana Scheide for vintage images of Jerusalem, and to Debby Waldman for her help with the last draft stages of the manuscript. And, as always, grateful thanks to David Gernert and Paul Slovak.
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