by Alan Gold
When he’d finished his bread and olives, he decided it was time for him to move further on, but as he sat he wondered where he should go. To another stall selling pomegranate juice? To look at more mosques, minarets, churches, synagogues, shops, houses and schools of learning? Or should he just sit here in the heat of the day, revelling in the freedom in which his mind had been given to think.
His cascading thoughts were broken when a shadow was cast over the table. Zakki looked up and saw a man about to walk underneath the canopy of the café. He was a tall man, dressed in fine clothes, and Zakki saw that standing in the roadway were a dozen of the Caliph’s guards as escort.
But instead of sitting at one of the other three benches that were unoccupied, the man sat instead on the remaining wooden stool at Zakki’s table, much to the doctor’s surprise.
The man looked at Zakki and nodded without smiling. ‘Greetings to you, Zaccharius, son of Jacob, son of Abraham of the tribe of Levi. Welcome to Baghdad. I hope you like my city after your life in Jerusalem. How does the day greet you?’
‘It greets me well, thank you, sir. But you have the advantage, for I do not know you.’
The tall man waved his hand as if his identity was of no consequence. ‘Yet I know you. And why you’re here by request of our Caliph, Ja’far al-Ma’mun, at his pleasure and munificence.’
Zakki studied the face of the tall man. He was obviously wealthy and his skin had been softened with oils and unguents to protect him from the fierce heat of the desert. His clothes, unlike those of the scholars with whom Zakki worked, weren’t just colourful, but were richly endowed with jewels and made of the finest silks from distant Asia. The man’s body movements, even sitting at the table, showed that he was a person of position in the city, comfortable in himself and apparently used to the respect of others.
‘How do you know me, your Excellency?’
‘Ah, it is a strange tale. The world is indeed getting smaller . . .’
The man left an elongated pause, seemingly for dramatic effect, before continuing.
‘Many years ago, your great-grandfather of blessed memory cured my great-grandmother of a sickly yellow disease that caused her to faint all the while. Your grandfather called the disease “chlorosis” and she recovered when your grandfather forced her to eat the leaves of vegetables.’
Zakki nodded at the simple ‘cure’.
‘This is something that my family has done ever since and which I believe has kept us well and healthy. So when I heard that your reputation in Jerusalem had grown sufficiently, I suggested to my Caliph that he should send for you to join other scholars in our House of Wisdom.’
‘Then I owe you thanks. And I gather from what you’ve said that you’re a Jew.’
The tall man nodded. ‘But it seems that our paths have crossed before. In the distant past. Isn’t it told that your ancestors were priests in Solomon’s temple?’
Zakki smiled. ‘I’m told by my father, and his father before him, that our family line can be traced back to Zadok the Priest. That’s why I was given my name. But how does that relate us?’
‘I come from a long line of builders and traders. King Solomon’s temple came into existence and was fashioned by the money of my ancestors. So there is perhaps much, Doctor, that we have in common.’
‘Except that I still don’t know your name,’ retorted Zakki, his curiosity and suspicion growing.
‘I am Hadir ibn Yussuf ibn Gibreel. I am the Vizier to the Caliph of the Abbasid ruling family, the ineffable and all-powerful Ja’far al-Ma’mun, may Allah and Mohammed His Prophet, Moses and Jesus all smile upon him and bring him wisdom and great fortune.’
‘You say these words of blessings to Mohammed and to Jesus? Yet you are a Jew? And you’ve taken an Arabic name. Why is this?’
Hadir shrugged. ‘We are a practical people. We are flexible. We adapt. To survive we’ve had to; we’ve been exiled many times since Father Moses brought us out of the land of Egypt with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm. So we Jews prosper wherever we find ourselves.’
‘Perhaps, Hadir, but we have always retained our faith,’ said Zakki.
‘Indeed, my friend. I am as much a Jew as you, but to look and sound part of this great city, I dress like them, and speak like them. And I have prospered – greatly. Many Jews have risen to power and status in the reign of the Abbasids. We are recognised for our skills as merchants, our knowledge of the the laws which govern this and other lands, and our learning. And because of our lines of families and friendships scattered throughout the world since the Romans expelled our people from Israel, we have a great advantage over others in trade.’
‘True, but many of our people have returned to Israel.’
‘As did my ancestors. But the growth and spread of Islam has given us boundless opportunities. Where once Islam was warlike, today it is calm and peaceful, and men like my Caliph are striving to uncover all that this world has to offer. That’s why the House of Wisdom was built. It is the golden centre of Islamic learning and that’s why I wanted you to be part of it, Zakki ben Jacob.’
Zakki looked at the other man and saw beyond the smile, the visage. There was something more, something deeper that the man was hiding.
‘And is that the only reason you’ve invited me to Baghdad, Hadir ibn Yussuf?’
Hadir smiled and turned to the owner of the stall standing in the corner. The shopkeeper was at a loss to understand why such an important man as the Caliph’s Vizier would have visited and sat down at his stall.
‘Your finest juice, my friend, and I’ll also have some bread and olives.’
Bowing, he returned to his counter. Never had his stall been full of such eminent men. He couldn’t wait to regale his wife and children with the story later that night.
Hadir turned back to Zakki. ‘You have a suspicious mind, Doctor.’
Zakki shrugged. ‘I’m told many things, but I’m trained to see beyond the words, into the minds and thoughts of those who seek me out. There are many eminent scholars in our world. Many far more knowledgeable than I. Yet you selected me. I’d like to know why.’
The café owner reappeared and set down a glass of pomegranate juice before Hadir, as well as a plate of bread, olives, oil and a paste of pulverised lentils. He stood there, smiling at the important man, and waiting for a word of thanks.
Hadir looked up at him. ‘This looks delicious. Thank you, my friend.’ He took some coins out of his pocket, far more than the owner normally charged, and put them into the man’s palm. The shop owner backed away, bowing, thinking of the story he’d tell his friends that night in the baths.
The two men ate their food in silence until, at last, Hadir leaned forward to close the gap between himself and Zakki. He lowered his voice to a near whisper. ‘There is something you must do for me.’
‘Must?’ said Zakki incredulously. ‘Is there some debt I owe you for having me summoned here?’
Hadir smiled but it was insincere and cold. ‘There is no debt. But you may feel . . .’ He paused, as if looking for the right word. ‘ . . . Compelled.’
The word made Zakki’s muscles tense.
‘Be at ease, my friend. Let me explain. How much do you know about the great schism in the religion practised by my Caliph: the division between those who are calling themselves Sunni, who believe that Abu Bakr, Mohammed’s father-in-law and close companion, is the rightful heir and the first Caliph, and those who call themselves Shi’ite, and believe that Mohammed’s son-in-law and cousin, Ali, was his rightful heir?’
The scholar in Zakki pushed ahead of his more nervous self. ‘I know a little . . . I know that when their prophet Mohammed was nearing death, his followers were confused as to who he had named as his successor to be Caliph. As you say, some thought it was Abu Bakr, while others thought that it was Ali.’
Hadir leaned slightly closer before replying. ‘And this disputation has gone on now for nearly two hundred years. It gets worse as the years go by. Deaths,
murders, wars. I fear that even the great house of the Abbasids will be brought low by the internecine conflicts. Yes, my friend, there is going to be a war between those who are devotees of the Sunni tradition, and those who believe with all their hearts in the Shi’ite lineage of the Prophet Mohammed. My Caliph’s brother, Abu Ishaq al-Mu’tasim, is a devout Sunni, but he hasn’t the intellect or culture of my beloved employer and is driven by demons in his mind. He has sworn to murder a young boy, aged only nine, who claims to be the Ninth Imam of the Shi’ites, a boy called Muhammad al-Jawad. He declares that by killing the child he will put an end to the Shi’ite heresy.’
Zakki’s mind was intrigued by the politics but confused as to what this had to do with him, or why the strange Hadir was telling him this.
‘If the boy-imam dies then this city, and I fear much of the empire of the Abbasids, will be torn apart by civil warfare and all will be lost. This must be prevented.’
‘Then warn the boy and his family,’ said Zakki matter-of-factly. ‘Go to him, and tell him to leave. . . .’
Hadir sat back on his stool. ‘I cannot. Al-Mu’tasim has ears everywhere in the palace. I am too visible. Were I to warn the boy, then I and others will be killed and the boy will die regardless.’
Zakki thought for a moment. ‘Send another then . . .’
Hadir shook his head. ‘I cannot be seen to be sending a Muslim. The hatred between the factions is unfathomable. Somebody would betray us.’
‘Then send a Christian.’ Zakki half turned and looked at the café owner.
‘The Shi’ites would never listen to a Christian. Muslims accept Jesus as a prophet, but the Christians go much beyond that and teach that Jesus was the son of Adonai Elohim, and that’s a heresy in the eyes of Islam. No, I need a different messenger.’ Hadir looked intently into Zakki’s eyes.
The Jerusalem doctor now understood. ‘No,’ he said simply. Involuntarily he reached to his throat and touched the seal around his neck.
Hadir did not flinch or baulk at the flat refusal to his unspoken question. ‘It must be a Jew who delivers the warning. And that man must be credible and free of all connections. A man who is clean . . .’
Zakki was a man who lived inside of books and scrolls and his own thoughts, but he was not naïve. The House of Wisdom was the most wondrous place he had ever been and he felt more at home there than anywhere, but he was still a stranger in a strange land. Politics was a desert of shifting sands and deep rifts and Zakki knew nothing of those involved. To align himself, to become a part of intrigues he did not understand, could be disastrous.
‘I want no part of this,’ he said, even as he looked around the flanking bodyguards of the Vizier standing at watch around the square.
Hadir seemed to consider the response. His eyes remained fixed on Zakki’s. ‘You have so much to gain here, Doctor. So much this city, this land, can offer you. There is no centre of learning in the world to rival Baghdad. And yet, you also have very much to lose . . .’
Zaddik found himself leaning back on his stool and wishing he might stand and leave. But the eyes of Hadir held him rooted to the spot. All he could do was repeat his answer to the question Hadir never asked. ‘I want no part of this.’
‘But I’m afraid, Zaccharius, son of Jacob, of Jerusalem, that you are already a part of this.’
‘You have no power over me. I will not be compelled.’
Hadir smiled insincerely once more.
‘You have a family, yes? A beautiful family. Dorit and the children . . .’
Zakki’s eyes widened.
‘Anyone can be compelled, my dear doctor. And it is a simple thing I ask.’
Jerusalem
1947
Judit sat listening to Lehi leader Israel Eldad as he addressed the members of the larger and more moderate Jewish freedom-fighting force, the Irgun. The year before, Yitzhak Shamir had been captured by the British and was exiled in Africa. He had escaped and sought asylum in France. In his place Israel Eldad had become one of the major figures in Lehi. Where he had once been focused on ideological determination for the group, he was now actively leading the struggle.
As Judit listened, she was reminded of the old saying: ‘Two Jews, three opinions.’ Lehi was just one of a number of militant groups that had formed under the British mandate of Palestine and they were often far from united. While the ultimate goal might have been shared, the methods and opinions about how to achieve that goal were varied and, at times, even contradictory. Beria and Judit’s Soviet commanders had specifically selected Lehi as the best vehicle for Judit as the group of freedom fighters represented the most hard-line, the most determined, and the most willing to do what needed to be done. No doubt Beria had placed other agents in other groups but Judit would likely never know their names or who they were.
But as she listened to Eldad, she still tried to reconcile the dichotomy within her. On the one hand, Lehi as a militant Zionist organisation had moved towards Moscow as a way of ridding Palestine of the British and their mandate; yet at the same time, she was working secretly to rid Palestine of those militant Zionists and more mainstream politicians who would oppose such a union. Only knowing that her secret goals for Soviet Russia were both aligned and yet divergent from those around her was she able to reconcile the need for unity. And this was why the two groups, Lehi and Irgun, were now coming together.
The leader of the Irgun, Menachem Begin, kept looking at Judit, and she wondered whether he was more interested in her as a woman than in the discussion taking place about the two organisations working hand in hand to fight the British.
Menachem Begin reminded her strangely of the NKVD captain who’d come for her that day at the schoolhouse and she realised that he was neither looking at her nor through her, but working out where she fitted in his scheme of things. She could almost see the cogs of his mind working out whether she could be used as a seductress, or as a killer, or as a decoy.
Judit turned her eyes from him and looked intently at the wiry Eldad. He was talking about the importance of increasing their assaults against the British, and the atmosphere in the room lay heavily on the shoulders of the thirteen men and two women. None underestimated the importance of the decisions they would soon take. If they increased their violence against the British army, public hostility on the streets of London might either force their parliament to pull them out of the land, or could equally well oblige the British government to dramatically increase the numbers of soldiers stationed in Palestine. The imposition of martial law was a real possibility, which would have negative effects on their operations.
‘We’re at the turning point, my comrades,’ said Israel Eldad. ‘We always knew we would be surrounded by enemies, Arab and British. But it is the British who have the most to lose. Here they are occupiers, so their will is weak. The world’s media is on our side. There are stories in the American and European newspapers about British soldiers assaulting Jewish refugees. This we can leverage and from this the British can be broken and sent back to their homeland. And this is why now is the time to strike harder and not diminish our struggle.’
There were nods and murmurs of agreement around the table. Menachem Begin surveyed the faces of his Irgun colleagues and the young Lehi men and women. He was a shrewd politician who could smell the winds of change. He knew that if he didn’t agree to a joint assault, then Lehi would walk away from the Irgun, and both organisations would be diminished.
Judit cast her eyes across the room from Menachem to Eldad and back again. These two men were both very important to her goals. If a future Israel would be an effective communist client of Soviet Russia, then future political power may rest with these men; and if that was the case, then perhaps Begin would have to be dealt with.
A week after the meeting, late at night and well beyond the hour of curfew which the British army had imposed on the nation because of the killings, fifteen people, alone and in small groups, made their way through the streets to a designated point. T
here were thirteen men and two women. One of the women was Judit. The other was a Tunisian Jewish girl called Ashira, new to Lehi but so bristling with gritted determination that Judit could not help but wonder what events marred her past.
The group converged on the quiet and dark of the Alliance Girls’ School, a modest but well-constructed building, set back from the street. The caretaker of the school was a covert member of Lehi who had cleared the building and waited for the group in the dark.
The caretaker ushered them in quickly and led them to the school’s hall. With just a small oil lamp casting a dim orange glow, the group found a long table where British army uniforms were laid out ready.
The men put on the uniforms, while Judit and Ashira ensured that their weapons were loaded with ammunition.
When they were dressed and ready, Israel Eldad inspected each man as though he were on a parade ground. Then, satisfied that they would pass muster if an officer happened to demand an inspection, he nodded and ordered them to prepare to move out. He then turned to Judit and put a hand on her shoulder, drawing her away from the group and lowering his voice.
‘I know you, Judit. I know you would like to put on one of those uniforms and fire the first shot into the building.’
Judit raised a corner of her mouth in a wry smile.
‘But your task is more important. The British will respond quickly. They are prepared and they’re scared. The rear access is too narrow; when help comes it will come to the front door. And this is where you will be, machine gun at the ready. You understand? No one enters that building while our boys are inside.’
Judit gave a curt nod and Eldad squeezed her shoulder once more. ‘Good. Now go. And take care of Ashira.’
Judit often wondered about her Lehi comrades and whether they, like her, were agents for the Soviet Union. Was Eldad under the wing of the NKVD? Would he be part of the push for a great communist state in Palestine? Was this why he was pushing Lehi so strongly towards Comrade Stalin, or was it only because of his hatred of Britain?
