by Alan Gold
‘Friends, comrades . . . or, as you say in this country, chaverim, in the next few weeks the United Nations commission will have completed its task, and will recommend that Britain hands back its mandate. The chance that any nation in the world will want to pick up the mess that the government in London has made of its relationships with Arabs and Jews is very doubtful.
‘That means, comrades, that when the last British soldier gets on to a troop transport ship and sails down the Mediterranean, there will be open warfare between the Arabs who live here, and those Jews who will soon call themselves Israelis. So we can anticipate war between the Arabs of six nations, and the Jews of one, and a divided one at that. And this presents the opportunity for us. All of you know that Mother Russia has clear need of a warm-water port for our glorious navy. It is this new land that must be open to us to create that port. It is this nation, when formed from the ashes of the war that is to come, that will be Mother Russia’s closest and most dependent ally.’
A tall, thin and handsome man named Mikhail then spoke up. ‘But that depends on who wins this coming war when the British leave? Are we, as they say, hedging our bets? Or are we to be more proactive?’
‘If we support the Arabs who live here in British Palestine but the Jews win, then we may find ourselves without influence or power because of the strength of Zionism,’ said another man. ‘If we support the Israelis but the Arab armies attack and allow the Palestinians to win, then Russia’s influence in the Middle East will be lost forever.’
A woman called Rebekah, who had been stationed for two years in Syria, spoke up with a shrill voice that cut across the murmur of her comrades.‘When two sides are at war, the only questions that concern them are those of dealing with supply and logistics. The moment the British withdraw, Arab armies will roll across the borders towards Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. I’m in Syria, and pushing the Jews into the sea is the topic of conversation in all the coffee shops. Israel will be one of the world’s smallest countries. A warplane, even those antiques flown by the Arabs, can cross from east to west in a matter of minutes. The Jews know this. The Jews have no standing army. They have at best a rag-tag group of armed militia. Six Arab nations can field an army of a hundred thousand men in tanks, troop carriers, artillery and infantry. The Jews cannot win. We must throw our support behind the Arabs.’
People in the room nodded and spoke in agreement. It was all so obvious. But Judit noticed that Anastasia was observing and watching. Anastasia had instructions from the Kremlin, and especially from Comrade Beria, on exactly how Russia should approach the coming war but she was clearly waiting for her operatives to draw their own conclusions, to test their understanding of the situation.
One of the men, a thirty-year-old Jew called Boris, whose family had been exiled to Siberia by Dzerzhinsky, the head of the revolution’s secret police, said, ‘Then it’s obvious! We’ll be supplying and supporting the Arabs . . .’
All the others nodded in agreement, some sadly because they were Jews. But Anastasia looked at Judit. ‘What do you think, Judita?’
Judit took a moment to consider her answer, though she knew full well what she would say.
‘When the Arabs attack, the Jews will win,’ she said coldly.
Anastasia was surprised by the way her young protégée had said ‘the Jews’ as if referring to another people than her own.
Every last person in the group smiled. Many shook their heads at the naïveté of her youth.
But Judit was unperturbed and she continued. ‘The Arabs don’t need our help. They’ve already had enough help from the British, and the Trans-Jordanian army is British trained anyway. So if we side with the Arabs, we’ll get almost nothing in return.’
‘Gaining little is better than supporting the losing army that has nothing,’ Boris said curtly.
‘No,’ Judit said firmly, more confident now she’d had time to reflect. ‘The Jews have nowhere to go. They’ll be fighting for their lives. The Palestinians are small in number and without resources. The Arab army will be foreigners fighting only for something they’ve been told by their leaders. Their cause will be the removal of the Jews from what they’ve been told is Islamic land. This is their weakness. Once they start suffering casualties, they’ll consider this to be a foreign battlefield; they won’t view it as Islamic or Jewish or Christian land, but as a place where they don’t want to die so far from their homes. Their hearts won’t be in it. The Jews are fighting for a homeland with no retreat available to them. The Arab armies come from Damascus and Cairo and Amman. When the bombs fall and their limbs are blown off, they’ll want to crawl home. For the Jews, this is their home. They can’t go back to Europe, so this is the land they’ll defend with their lives. When war comes, the Jews will win. This I believe.’
Judit looked at Anastasia to see whether her words had struck a chord. While all the others looked at her in surprise, bemusement and ridicule, only Anastasia was grinning from ear to ear.
The older woman nodded. ‘There is great wisdom in this young woman and you would all do well to take heed. Comrades, our consideration of the coming political situation and the advantage it will bring to Mother Russia is that we will be approaching the leadership of the Haganah and their fighting force, the Palmach, with an offer of tanks, vehicles, arms and supplies and any other weaponry they require. And with these gifts we shall be the muscle and the power of the world’s newest nation. And any resistance we meet from Zionists who distrust us will be dealt with by you.’
The Home of the Ninth Imam, Baghdad
820 CE
Unlike that of the Caliph, the home of Muhammad al-Jawad, the person identified by Hadir and known as the Ninth Imam in the Shi’ite faith, was unassuming and humble. As Zakki stood outside the house, his stomach in knots of hesitation, he reminded himself of what was at stake. There was no mistake in Hadir’s threat to Zakki’s family. Equally, Zakki was aware of how precarious it was to be a stranger in this city, even an invited one, if he was caught up in political in-fighting. It was an unwritten rule of the people that guests were welcomed and accorded respect, provided that they remained guests and didn’t interfere in the activities of the land.
Zakki had told himself that he was simply a messenger and that the purpose of preventing civil war was a noble one. The murder of the imam would be an assassination that might trigger untold deaths, deaths he might now prevent with a warning.
The imam he had come to visit had quite a reputation. Though only nine years of age, the young theologian’s brilliance at answering even the most searching questions demanded of him by other spiritual leaders had been impressive. He had been interrogated in an effort to disprove his claim to be the next imam and his reponses had shown his followers that he was worthy of the role placed on his young shoulders by the death of his predecessor, the imam Ali al-Reza.
It was these thoughts that overcame his fears as Zakki walked towards the porch of the home and knocked on the ornately carved latticed front door. Islamic architecture and carving were a wonder to behold, strong while being as light as a feather, and the scholar in Zakki had him examining the design with his fingertips as he waited.
The door was soon opened by a middle-aged woman who looked searchingly at Zakki, quickly asking him who he was and what he wanted.
‘I am a scholar of the House of Wisdom. I wish to speak with he who is called the imam, Muhammad al-Jawad. My name is Zakki, son of Jacob, a family of doctors from Jerusalem.’
‘I am Sabika, the imam’s mother. Why do you seek my son?’
‘I have things of great importance which I am compelled to discuss with him.’
‘My son is with the Caliph. You cannot speak to him. But you may speak to the imam’s uncle. His name is Da’oud.’
Zakki agreed. So long as he could talk to just one member of the family and give them the warning he was charged to deliver by Hadir, he might yet see his task complete and the threat to his family lifted.
Sabika invited h
im inside the home. It was comfortably furnished but far from ostentatious in its luxury. Yet he had been told by Hadir that the imam received the most important visitors from throughout the world who came to seek him out, seek guidance and hope to make treaties and agreements. To Zakki, this home did not seem suitable for such important meetings.
Seeing the Jewish doctor looking around her home, Sabika repeated to him what she had said to many important visitors who appeared surprised that the imam didn’t live in a palace. ‘My family lives modestly, in sympathy with the poor of our world as commanded by our Prophet Mohammed, peace be upon him. My son, the Holy Imam, spends most of his time in the palace of the Caliph, where they determine great things. Though others may look upon him as a child, he has the heart of a lion and mind of a man. He is touched by Allah the All Merciful.’
As she was speaking, a gaunt man entered the room. He bowed to Zakki, who returned the gesture. Sabika introduced Da’oud, the imam’s uncle, and retired to another part of the house, leaving the two men alone. They sat on divans and then, without warning or introduction, two young women, their faces completely covered except for slits in the cloth for their eyes, appeared and placed carafes of juices, sliced apples and oranges, as well as a plate of nuts, olives and seeds on the table between them. Bowing, they left the room as quickly as they had entered.
‘Why do you wish to see the Holy Imam? Important matters are normally discussed at the palace of the Caliph.’
‘The walls of the Caliph’s palace have many ears. The things which I have to say to the imam are for his ears only.’
‘I am his ears,’ said Da’oud. ‘You will speak with me. You are a stranger here and unknown to us.’
Zakki took a sip of juice, buying time as he pondered the dilemma. He was under strict instructions from Hadir not to talk to any other person about these matters, but if he could not see the imam, what choice did he have?
At last Zakki nodded. ‘There are people within the Caliph’s palace who would see the imam dead,’ he whispered. ‘Friends of mine, friends in very high places, have bid me to come here to warn him, and to advise him to leave Baghdad immediately for the sake of his life and the lives of those who serve him.’
Da’oud leaned back on his divan and stared at Zakki.
The silence impelled Zakki to continue. ‘This threat is real. Men very close to the Caliph’s throne, though not the Caliph himself, are bent on eliminating the imam so that those of you who are Shi’ites will become leaderless. They want to go to war against you. I am here to prevent this war.’
Da’oud nodded. He, too, took a sip of his drink, and slowly, deliberately, ate a sliver of fruit. He chewed it as though calculating his response, and then turned to Zakki. ‘Who are these friends of yours who have given you this information?’
‘I cannot say.’ And as the words left his lips, Zakki knew how vulnerable he was.
‘You are as nothing in my eyes. You say you’re a scholar yet you dress in the clothes of a street vendor.’ Da’oud looked Zakki up and down and the doctor was aware of how inferior and plain he looked by comparison with the immaculate silks in which Da’oud dressed.
‘What stock should I put in the worlds of a poor Jew far from home? How do we know that you’re not one of those who wants to get close to the imam and then do the deed yourself?’
Zakki had no answer. What could he offer that would satisfy the question?
He spoke anyway. ‘I am at your mercy and I have nothing to gain by being here. You are right, though: I am a stranger, one of the many unknown people of Baghdad. I know little of your politics and your struggles. But I have this message and am compelled to deliver it knowing that I am at your mercy. And having delivered it, I have done my duty. What you do with my information is your decision.’
It was all that he could say. It was the truth and Zakki hoped that it might just be enough to have Da’oud send him on his way, back to his family.
Da’oud considered Zakki’s words for a long moment before speaking. ‘And what makes you think, Doctor, that we did not know of the things you tell us?’
At this, Da’oud stood and left the room. The interview was over.
Once outside and on the busy street, Zakki found himself caught up in a stream of people funnelling toward the marketplace. Lost in the crowd, he pondered what Da’oud had said to him and he thought of the way in which Hadir ibn Yussuf ibn Gibreel, vizier to the Abbasid Caliph, had sought him out. There were many Jews in Baghdad. So why had he been given the task? Was it to stop a war and save the life of a holy boy, or was there something else behind Hadir ibn Yussuf’s words?
Two days passed before Hadir sought out Zakki again. He was walking from the House of Wisdom after another frenetic day of trying to understand the minds of Greek doctors long dead. Zakki was lost in thought when he felt a tap on his shoulder. Startled, he turned and saw Hadir behind him. But this time was different, this time the Vizier was alone and unaccompanied by his guard.
His voice came as a whisper. ‘Did you see the imam? Did you give him my words?’
Zakki swallowed hard. ‘No.’
Hadir’s eyes narrowed.
Zakki explained. ‘I saw the imam’s uncle. I spoke to him. I gave him the warning.’
Anger flared in Hadir’s face. ‘Da’oud? But you were to speak only to the boy! I gave you clear instruction that you were only to speak with the imam. Why did you disobey?’
Zakki cowered. He was many different people – a man of learning, of thought, of medicine – but he was not a man of conflict.
‘I did what I could,’ he stammered. ‘They would not let me see him.’
‘Fool of a man! You have no idea how much damage you’ve done.’
Zakki closed his eyes, almost as if expecting a blow. But Hadir had turned on his heels and paced away. On impulse, he reached to his throat and grasped the ancient seal at his neck to steady his nerves.
The following day, even though the hall at the House of Wisdom was full of scholarly shouts and groans and moans and the occasional sudden laughter of discovery, Zakki found time to sit with Hussain of Damascus, a scholar in the theology of the Koran.
Zakki’s mind had been swirling since the encounter with Hadir and the threat to his family drew his thoughts away from his work. Ultimately, Zakki found the words to ask Hussain what he knew about the Vizier to the Caliph of Baghdad.
Hussain shrugged his shoulders. ‘Little is known about him but he is not the sort of man who you should either befriend or whose enemy you should become. He’s the sort who will not see you as he walks past you, yet is your best friend when he is in need of your services. It’s said of him that he came here to Baghdad twenty or so years ago, as a merchant with trading connections deep into Asia, as far as China along the Silk Road. He sought out the Caliph’s father, Muhammad ibn Harun al-Amin, who was beset by problems. There was war with the Byzantines in Syria and Anatolia, and many of the governors of the provinces were breaking away and forming their own caliphates.
‘The Caliph’s coffers were being drained and so when Hadir came and told the Caliph’s Vizier how he could provide a stream of great wealth because of his connections with the caravanserai and the traders who he could persuade to pass through this city instead of Damascus, he was elevated to advise the Caliph. And that’s when the whispers began . . .’
Hussain looked around the hall as if to check no one was listening, but the act seemed superfluous given the din of debate all around them.
‘They say Hadir quickly undermined the Vizier and took his place within the year. Since then, he has sat at the left hand of the Caliph.’ Hussain shrugged and opened his hands, palms out. ‘And again we have become a wealthy and prosperous city. So it would seem Hadir knows what he’s doing, even if he had to destroy the wealth and happiness of some people along the way.’
Zakki listened carefully to what his friend told him, and asked his next question softly, so that he couldn’t be overheard. ‘You say the l
eft hand of the Caliph. Who sits at his right hand?’
‘The imam, leader of those who follow the way of the Shi’ites.’
‘And if the Vizier, Hadir ibn Yussuf, asked a favour of me, in order to do some good in the city, what would you think of that?’
The scholar looked at his Jewish friend and thought for a moment before speaking. ‘I would ponder his words. I would reflect on his request. I would look at the city of Baghdad and all that is within its walls. I would look at the wealth that the Vizier has acquired in just a few short years, and then I would wonder not what good it would do for the city, but what good the favour would do for Hadir . . .’
One hour west of Ras Abu Yussuf
1947
Although his head was no longer aching, he still didn’t have the strength to keep up with Mustafa. Yet his excitement threatened to overwhelm his common sense and he half ran, half walked down the steep gorges.
Shalman had intended to return home the previous day but then Mustafa decided to trust him sufficiently to tell him about the caves in a secluded valley, far away from roads or even tracks taken by goatherds or shepherds. He wasn’t well enough for an archaeological expedition, but Shalman had been so excited by the coins that Mustafa decided to take the risk. The caves were not far from where Shalman had fallen and were, according to Mustafa, where he had found the Roman coins.
As they made their way there, Mustafa told Shalman of the other things he had seen in the area – stones of ancient houses and shards of pottery – and these thoughts excited Shalman, and even made the headache recede a bit.
They had reached the remote and out-of-the-way gorge within an hour after setting off from the village, and from the top of the rise they could see the towering buildings of Jerusalem far in the distance. Yet because of the folds of the hills in between the gorge and the mountains on which Jerusalem was built, this valley was invisible unless one was standing on its very edge looking down. It was so narrow, little more than a deep scar on the landscape, that it was easy to miss.
