by Alan Gold
When Judit arrived at the house she knocked on the door. It was opened by Anastasia. Dressed in a tight sweater, pencil-slim skirt, sheer stockings and high heels, she looked as though she was going to the theatre.
Anastasia quickly closed the door after Judit, and reached for her hand as she led her down the hallway into the living-room, where the curtains were tightly closed.
The two women sat down on opposite chairs, a table full of coffee and cakes between them.
‘A celebration?’ said Judit.
‘Judit, my dearest, the first part of your mission is at an end. It has been conducted faultlessly. We couldn’t have asked for more. Many potential obstacles eliminated. And all without raising any eyebrows.’ Anastasia gave Judit a sly and flirtatious wink.
‘You and your comrades are to be congratulated, my dear. Your leadership, your inspiration of the agents under your command, your control of their activities, has been extraordinary for a woman so young. And it has been noted at the very highest levels of the Kremlin.’
There was a time when such praise would have made Judit proud; they were words she had lived for and silently dedicated every action to achieving. But now, as Anastasia looked at her and sat so close, Judit felt empty. The image of the professor through the window, his head in her gun sight, was seared into her mind.
All Judit did was nod.
‘Darling! Is something wrong?’
Judit shook her head.
‘I’ve known you since you were little more than a child. In many ways I made you. And so you cannot pretend with me.’ Anastasia leaned across and put a gentle hand on Judit’s knee.
‘I’m fine. I’m just tired.’
‘Of course you are, my dear. You are leading many lives at once.’
‘I’m one person for my husband and daughter, one for the fighters in Lehi and the Irgun and another for you. Sometimes I can’t remember which face I’m wearing.’
Anastasia smiled. ‘Your true face is here. With me. A Russian face. Loyal. Strong. Resolute. This is who you are. Who you have always been . . .’ Anastasia leaned back again and sipped her coffee. ‘I remember the day I took you to meet Comrade Beria. I’ve seen grown men faint at the thought of meeting him. But not you. No, no. You squared your shoulders, stood up straight and faced him. It was at that moment, my little dove, that I knew you would go to great heights. And it’s those heights that I’ve asked you here to discuss.’
Anastasia took another sip of coffee while observing Judit carefully. Her years of training in the manipulation of people told her that something had happened in the past few weeks since they’d last met, and her protégée was at a turning point. Handled poorly, Anastasia knew she might lose this valuable woman.
‘But there’s more, isn’t there? Tell me, darling Judita, what’s the matter?’
Judit was no longer staring at her Russian controller, but at the table; then at the window, looking through the curtains and beyond at an unseen vista of bloodied bodies and hatred in the streets. ‘Just tired,’ she repeated.
But Anastasia was not so easily dissuaded and, putting down her coffee, she leaned closer, elbows on her knees and her hands taking one of Judit’s.
‘Is it the killing? Or the lies you have to tell?’
As she heard the words, Judit knew they were the words of someone who had once felt as she did, someone who knew and understood, someone who had also looked down the barrel of a rifle to kill a man she never knew.
Judit’s body deflated, as though all the life had suddenly drained out of her. ‘I don’t know. I truly don’t. I know what I’m doing is for the good of our future, but the cost is so great. I wasn’t born a killer; that’s what I had to become. And I wasn’t born a liar, but I no longer know when I’m telling the truth.’
And then the dam broke. It started softly, with a catch of breath. Then a gasp of air, and then the tears began to flow, and suddenly Judit was sobbing, burying her face in her hands, crying like a baby. Anastasia held her tightly, like her mother used to hold her when her father came home in one of his drunken rages.
Through her sobs, Judit said, ‘I miss my baby. I hardly know Vered . . .’
‘You are not alone,’ Anastasia whispered. ‘And you are not weak. It happens to all of us.’ And then she hit on a brilliant idea. ‘Darling little dove, we’re going to take a trip; you, me and Vered. We’re going to get out of here.’
‘A trip? Where?’
‘To Moscow.’
‘It is time your little one saw the motherland. It’s time your parents saw their granddaughter. In this way, you’ll feel like the mother you deserve to be.’
Anastasia paused, letting the idea settle in. Then she said softly, ‘And when you’re there, my dove, when you’re removed from the fighting and the murder, when you walk in Gorky Park and along the Moskva River and look at the domes of St Basil’s, and when we’re sitting in a café sipping coffee and there’s no gunfire, just happy Russians enjoying life, then you’ll begin to feel like the old Judita, the young woman who is going to run for the Knesset, and who, one day, will become Prime Minister of Israel. Yes?’
Judit looked at her in amazement. ‘Prime Minister?’ Judit burst out laughing, but Anastasia’s face was serious.
‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’
Anastasia smiled slyly. ‘I’m Russian. I have no sense of humour. You’re destined to be Prime Minister of Israel. It’s part of our long-term planning. And Comrade Stalin himself is looking forward to meeting you and discussing your political path.’
PART THREE
Cathedral of Clermont, Auvergne region of central France
27 November 1095
His knees ached from three hours of prayer on a freezing stone floor. As Otho de Lagery, revered by much of the Catholic world as Pope Urban II, rose to his feet, his sacristan and his confessor both rushed over to grasp him under his arms and aid his standing.
Pope Urban was successor to Pope Victor III. His predecessor, who had spent most of his time running away from the papacy and hiding in a Benedictine monastery in Monte Cassino, had been faced with many of the same problems that now beset Urban. Troublesome monarchs such as Henry IV and their contesting of Rome’s control, wars with Germany and France, and even rival false, self-declared popes.
Yet, had his thoughts been confined to these problems, Urban might have been more composed. But recently his worries had been compounded by a letter from the Byzantine emperor in Constantinople, Alexios the First Komnenos.
Komnenos was the successor to the caesars of the Eastern Roman Empire and in his correspondence had begged Urban to send help in repelling the invading Seljuk Muslim Turks.
As Pope it was his role to hear the will of God. And when no voice was forthcoming from the heavens, it was his role to decide the will of God. But divine directives could have practical and political outcomes and in the letter from Constantinople, Urban saw an opportunity to galvanise the warring and fractious children of Europe into something more coherent.
What was required was a common cause. The defence of Constantinople would be the beginning but Urban saw a larger prize that could empower the Church to levels it had never known. Once their mission had been successfully completed in Constantinople, the armies motivated by the Church would march on to Jerusalem and free the holy city from the contemptible grasp of the Muslim heathen.
For two months past, Urban had let it be known through the complex but highly effective communication system that was the Church hierarchy, that when the Great Council met in session, he would make a pronouncement that would change the course of the world.
And people had come, in their hundreds and thousands, to hear his words. Knights and barons, ladies in their finery and peasants from the fields. So vast was the crowd that had assembled in Clermont, fitting them into the cathedral would be impossible. Instead, Urban ordered the construction of a huge platform in the fields behind the church from which he would make the proclamation that he had
spent so many hours on his knees formulating.
As the sun began to climb to its zenith above the wintery horizon, Pope Urban II left the home of Bishop Guillaume de Baffie, where he’d been staying, and walked the short distance towards the field and the platform through the massive crowd that had formed.
Urban was surrounded by his ecclesiastical servants, carrying his shepherd’s crook, with his chaplain carrying before him an open illuminated manuscript of the Gospel according to St John. Surrounded by the trappings of his station, Urban knew that he was an impressive figure. His vestments were of the very finest of silk from China, gold thread made by Italian craftsmen and sewn into the chasuble by the sisters of the Nunnery of the Virgin of Madrid, a mitre in the form of a triple crown. To all who saw him, he was, on earth, the representative of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.
Urban climbed the steps of the platform, his gown dragging on the wood in soft folds hiding his feet so that he appeared to almost float upwards. Spread before him were representatives of the greatest of all the kings and rulers of Europe and their retinues, surrounded by swathes of loyal peasant Christians. The crowd slipped into a hush and people fell to their knees and crossed themselves.
A huge illustrated Bible had been placed on a lectern upon the platform, open at the page of the Prophet Micah, which Urban would take as his text. Elevated far above even the tallest peasant, Urban could see how huge the crowd was, and hoped that his voice would carry to the back.
He’d made notes about his speech, but instead trusted to God and his memory that he wouldn’t need to read what he was about to say. As a man who sought out the pleasant company of actors when he was appointed the Papal Legate in Germany a decade ago, he’d learned how to hold the attention of an audience, how to pause to make them concentrate and how to stress his words.
And so he began, reading from the great book before him.
‘For behold, the Lord comes forth from His place, and He shall descend and tread upon the high places of the earth. And the mountains shall melt under Him, and the valleys shall split, as wax before fire, as water poured down a steep place. All this is because of the transgressions of the Jews and the Arabs, and because of the sins of those who do not worship Jesus as the Son of God.’
He looked up from the text and shouted, ‘Brothers in Christ, I speak to you today of a grave matter. Not a matter of the flesh, of kings or of governance of our Holy Roman Congregation. But today I must address you all, even the most lowly among you, the congregation of the faithful, concerning the very survival of our mother Church itself.’
When his words settled on the multitude he heard gasps and even some cries from deep within the audience. It was a good reaction. The weather was freezing cold, yet there were no murmurs of dissent. All had come from far and wide to hear his voice and, like an actor delivering rehearsed lines from a morality play at Easter, he waited for a reaction.
‘The Muslim is now at our door; the very Saracen himself, with his vicious scimitar and his leering countenance, killing and maiming in the name of a false god, spreading like the very plague through the lands of the East. And how long, brothers and sisters, will it be before he is here – in Rome or Paris, Hungary or Bavaria, even Clermont itself, raping and killing and forcing your children to bow to his Prophet in his mosque? To turn aside from the true cross of Christ and instead worship the evil crescent of Islam, a pointed thing like the horns of a devilish goat.’
There were screams of fear. Had he gone too far? He looked at the three hundred clericals who had accompanied him and saw that they were looking at him in horror. Good. He had their attention. He looked beyond them, into the crowd of thousands, and was pleased to see that they were terrified.
‘The Muslim is knocking on our door in his wild and unruly haste and he desires to take our house, our chattels, our very God and Almighty Jesus Himself. So now, today, you must apply the strength of your righteousness to issues that involve both yourselves and Almighty God directly. For your brethren who live in the East are in urgent need of your help, and you must hasten to give them the aid that has often been promised them. For the Turks and Arabs, the Saracens and the Seljuks, have attacked them and have conquered much Christian land. They have killed and captured many, and have destroyed the churches and devastated the empire. If you permit them to continue in their pagan brutishness with impunity, then they will take this as a sign of our weakness, and they will be heartened and so will attack even more of the faithful of God.
‘Because of this, the Lord beseeches you as Christ’s heralds to publish this everywhere and to persuade all people of Christ to raise up their arms, sharpen their swords, carry aid promptly to those Christians living under the threat of the Muslim invaders, and to destroy that vile race who has stolen the lands of our Lord.’
The air seemed to be heating up before him as the fanatics that inhabit every group of sane men began to whip up their brothers. Urban saw before him the beginnings of a frenzy. This was good, but to be victorious he would need the dukes and the earls, the kings and their knights, to galvanise the forces of the Church.
‘We must raise an army and create a new pilgrimage to go to Constantinople and then on to Jerusalem, and rid our lands, our holy lands, of this plague among mankind. I will call this pilgrimage a Crusade, named after the very cross on which our Christ suffered for our sins.’
Ever the strategist, Urban knew that war needed to make promises to those who partook in it; war needed to speak to both greed and aspiration.
‘Let those who have been accustomed unjustly to wage private warfare against the faithful now go against the infidels and end with victory this war that should have been started long ago. Let those who for a long time have been robbers now become knights. Let those who have been fighting against their brothers now fight in a proper way against the barbarians. Let those who have been serving as mercenaries for pay now obtain the eternal reward. Let those who have been wearing themselves out in both body and soul now work for a double honour. For all who join in my Crusade and wear the cross of a fighting pilgrim, for those who take up sword and lance, bow and arrow and fight against the heathen, you will be absolved of all of your sins, and when you die, you will pass through the golden gates of heaven and live an eternal life.’
And now the crowd was his. The ruling class saw in the Crusade power and profit; the masses saw advancement and absolution.
‘Some of you may ask by what authority I call you and your congregants to arms. To those who dare to question me, I say that it is I, Urban, by the Grace of God Almighty, Pope and Pontiff and Vicar of Christ, who commands this. For in my prayers I heard the voice of God demanding the cleansing of His house in Jerusalem. And so I say to you Deus Vult! God wills it.’
As one, the three hundred clerics, scores of dukes and kings’ envoys, and thousands of laymen and women, fell to their knees on the frozen ground of the field, their voices reaching to heaven, and shouted aloud, ‘Deus Vult!’
Deep in the crowd were two white-haired men, bent from a lifetime of service They fell to their knees with the crowd but they were not Christians. Jacob and Nimrod were Jews in the service of the Duke of Champagne, Meaux and Blois. They were listening to the Pope at the duke’s request and were to report back to him.
As they knelt on the ground with the echoes of ‘Deus Vult’ around them, they looked at each other, fear for the future clear on each of their faces.
Moscow, USSR
1947
When she was dragged out of her class of students in the basement Hebrew school years earlier, she was Judita Ludmilla Magidovich, daughter of Abel Abramovich Magidovich and his wife Ekaterina Davidovna Magidovich. Six months of training in Moscow and Leningrad transformed her into another person altogether, one called Judita Magid, daughter of Muscovites who had escaped the Stalin regime and who was making her way out of Russia, south to Palestine and a new life.
It had been no direct route. To ensure that her travel docume
nts held up to scrutiny, Judita travelled from Leningrad to Moscow so that her passport and other papers were properly stamped, then by train to the Ukraine before a boat from Odessa, through the Black Sea, to Istanbul. From there, she’d travelled by train north through Bulgaria to the most northerly part of the Adriatic Sea, and the international port of Trieste, where she presented herself as a Jew fleeing the aggressions of totalitarianism and the privations of a Russia bruised and battered by a murderous war against the Nazis.
In Trieste, she had joined hundreds of German, Austrian, Polish Jews and a menagerie of other nationalities trying to board a boat bound for Palestine. It took her three weeks of queuing, negotiating, demanding and begging, but eventually she managed to find passage with dozens of other refugees fleeing the remnants of war-ravaged Europe.
During that journey, Judit’s intense training as a spy transformed her. She metamorphosed slowly and cautiously from an angry young Jewish girl, demeaned by a society that hated her, to a woman of stature, potent and commanding.
But since then, her identity had changed yet again. Today she was Judit Etzion, a married woman, a mother and a citizen of a Palestine that would soon become Israel.
As she pondered her reconstructions, Judit was struck that even her mode of transport had changed and seemed to embody the heights of her renovation. From cattle cars and leaky ships, and waiting in long and interminable lines of people, to how she was travelling today, returning to Russia not by train or boat or car but in an aeroplane. The Russian Lisunov Li-2 was once fitted out as a light bomber with explosives and machine guns. But the one Anastasia and Judit travelled in was made for passengers and felt like futuristic luxury to Judit. Nor was she concerned at leaving Shalman. When she’d told him of her decision to visit her parents and take Vered to see them, he’d welcomed the idea. Having no parents of his own, he wanted Vered’s only grandparents to enjoy the delights of the little girl. And silently, Shalman prayed that when she was in Russia, Judit would think back on her relationship with him, and the joys which being in a family could bring her. He kissed her tenderly at the airport, and wished her a wonderful visit to Moscow.
