Stateless

by Alan Gold

  Judit couldn’t help but think Molotov was reciting some sort of pre-rehearsed speech. But she remained impassive. Surely she was not asked here to meet with Molotov himself simply to be told what she already knew.

  Judit could not help herself and spoke up. ‘Mother Russia is supplying both the Jews and the Arabs with guns and armaments. Aren’t we in danger of alienating both groups by playing one side off against the other?’

  Molotov smiled. He’d been told of her sharp tongue and her fierce intelligence. ‘It is in our interests for there to be war between Arabs and Jews, both before and after the British withdrawal. There are great advantages in this for us. Egypt and Syria, Jordan, Iraq and Lebanon will inevitably launch armed assaults against the Jews, though we’re assured by our man there that Lebanon will not participate other than to show their Arab brethren that she’s done something. Of course, this is all predicated on the United Nations voting to create Israel.’

  ‘But how does that benefit us?’ Judit was genuinely puzzled.

  ‘If there is full-scale war and Arab invasion after Israel is created, then the UN will be . . . how shall I put this? . . . encouraged . . . to ask us to place our troops in between the two forces. America may be asked, but they will refuse because they’ve seen the mess that Britain made of it.

  ‘By having our troops in Palestine, we’ll outflank the Americans in Greece, Iran, Turkey, and control the entire Eastern Mediterranean. It’s what the Americans fear most, even though neither their feeble President, nor their weary people, have the stomach for another war. But Russia is not so weak-willed. And of course, in the long term there is always the treasure beneath the sand.’

  Judit did not have to ask to know that Molotov was speaking about oil. There was no oil in Palestine but Russian influence there could shape the pipelines from the oil-rich nations of Arabia.

  ‘You may wonder, Judita, why I am telling you these things now – surely things you already know.’

  Judit nodded, barely able to say a word.

  The Foreign Minister leaned forward in his chair. ‘You will bring about the moment of triumph that we require . . .’ Molotov shifted in his chair, almost for dramatic pause. ‘The most capable army in the region that can set itself against Israel is that of Trans-Jordan. However, we know that various Jewish leaders have been in discussions with King Abdullah and there is the distinct possibility that the Jordanians may withhold from any invasion. This is not to our advantage. We need insurance that such an agreement cannot be accomplished by the Jews.’

  Judit was aware of how Molotov used the words ‘the Jews’ as if she was not one and she remembered what Anastasia had once said to her: ‘Leave the Jewish girl behind. Be what you must be: a daughter of Russia.’

  Molotov continued, well used to speaking at length without interruption.

  ‘King Abdullah must be put under intense pressure from his people to go to war. Blood will bring about that pressure.’

  ‘Who, then, is the target?’ asked Judit, her mind racing through her mental files as she thought of prominent Arab fighters who might be targeted. And quietly she found herself relieved by the idea that she would not be asked to kill another Jew or a civilian.

  ‘In this case it is as much about how the target is removed as who the target is,’ Molotov said. ‘We need you to kill a man in a particular way. And not to be invisible but to be seen to kill . . .’

  Judit’s confusion was clear on her face. ‘You want me to be exposed as the killer?’

  Molotov smiled, and shook his head. ‘No, you’ll arrange everything; we want the killers to be visible, and immediately known.’ He stood and paced the room as he spoke.

  ‘I assume you know Immanuel Berin? Regional commander of the Irgun?’

  Judit was stunned but finally found her voice. ‘A Jew? But I thought you wanted an Arab target to bring the Jordanians into the coming war.’

  Molotov shook his head. ‘No, we want Immanuel Berin to die and for the Jordanians to be blamed. We want the investigation of his death to show that it was a Jordanian army commander who did the killing. Then because Lehi and the Irgun are tinderboxes, it will be the spark that will make them retaliate. They will commit an atrocity across the border, and it is this retaliation that will leave King Abdullah with no room to manoeuvre. He will have to go to war.’

  A field outside Paris

  15 August 1096

  Thirty thousand foot soldiers, all wearing tunics with the Cross of Christ emblazoned on their breasts, as well as ten thousand noblemen and chevaliers on horseback, had gathered together in a vast army and now waited in fields outside the walls of Paris. They had walked there from all parts of northern France, from the lands of the Dutch, from Britain, Germany and the cantons of Switzerland. As each group arrived, it was directed into the fields of assembly south of the River Seine. The gathering grew and grew until the last cohort of soldiers, who came from a distant part of Bavaria, finally arrived.

  On the day of their departure for the great adventure, they were blessed by Pope Urban, sprinkled with holy water by dozens of priests, provisioned with food and drink. They gathered, and despite different languages, dress and foods, there was good nature and bonhomie in the fields. Their commanders, Raymond of Normandy, Godfrey of Bouillon, Raymond of Toulouse, Stephen of Blois, Baldwin of Boulogne, Robert of Flanders and many others, sat in their separate tents with their priests and confessors, their treasurers and advisers, and talked at length about the campaign ahead, what rewards they could expect from their participation.

  Pope Urban had originally determined that the Crusade would leave for Muslim lands on 15 August. It was to begin on the Feast of the Assumption, but holy madness had spread like a wildfire throughout the Christian lands, and the official Crusade of soldiers for Christ was pre-empted by a rag-tag collection of some forty thousand men and some women, and many lesser noblemen and third sons of barons, intent on making a fortune denied to them by their birth. Inflamed with the divine mission of freeing Jerusalem, this rustic crowd of peasants, armed with pitchforks and clubs, set off in April from the city of Cologne, completely unprepared for the rigours of the journey, or the reality of the armies they would face on the way. They were led by Peter the Hermit, who had whipped the mob into a hysterical religious frenzy. But anyone more experienced in war believed few, if any, would return alive. Sadly, it was the cause of much laughter and joking in the fields outside Paris.

  In the early morning, when their tents had been folded and packed alongside provisions and arms onto wagons, it took the entire army over three hours to file out of the fields and on to the road that led to the south-east. First to leave were the dukes, earls, barons and their attendant squires, who rode on wagons; then chavaliers on horseback followed by foot soldiers slipping and sliding through the increasingly muddy grass, walking two by two in a line stretching as far as the eye could see. Citizens from Paris had come out to stand beside the road and to cheer on the army of heroes of the Catholic Church. Girls dressed up in pretty dresses handed flowers to the soldiers as they marched.

  In the first days of the march, while they were still close to Paris, the men would burst spontaneously into song at night. But as the weeks wore on, singing was replaced with shouting and fighting and then bronchial coughs and, at times, debilitating silence. Paris and their homes became a distant memory.

  For their part, Nimrod and Jacob were well separated from the foot soldiers, but the stench the troops generated wafted on the wind.

  Both of the Jews slept together in a tent, erected by the duke’s squires, and had comfortable straw rolls on which to rest from the exhaustion of the day’s horse ride. The ancient seal, which Nimrod had always put under his pillow, now remained securely around his neck. Theft and assaults were commonplace. Being away from his chambers, he wouldn’t risk some stranger creeping into his tent in the blackness of the night and stealing it. And so he went to sleep, his hand grasping the replica of Matanyahu’s seal, made in the
time of the Romans by a young boy called Abram, Nimrod’s distant ancestor.

  The village of Ras Abu Yussuf

  Nine miles west of Jerusalem

  The steel wrench felt like it might snap in his hand before the bolt would loosen. Lying flat on his back in the dirt underneath the old truck, Mustafa pushed with all his might but the nut was rusted tight. Exasperated, Mustafa tossed the spanner aside and lay his head back down on the dirt. For too many years he’d been able to keep the truck running, knowing the village was too poor to buy another. But as he lay under the vehicle, in the shade cast by its rusted body, he resigned himself to the idea that her engine may never splutter again.

  ‘Are you working under there or just hiding from your mother?’

  Mustafa could just make out a pair of sandalled feet and slid himself out from under the truck.

  Shamil was short and pudgy with the scraggliest beard of any man in the village. He reached down with a hand and helped haul Mustafa to his feet.

  ‘I think the truck’s gone this time. Rusted through and we don’t have the parts.’

  ‘Allah will provide,’ said Shamil but both men laughed at the unlikely idea that God had even noticed.

  Shamil handed Mustafa a water bottle. ‘From your mother,’ he said grimly. Mustafa took the bottle and swigged deeply.

  ‘I’m surprised you’re around to try and fix the old truck,’ said Shamil.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘So often you are out digging in the dirt with your Jew-friend.’

  Mustafa shrugged. He had spent a lot of time with Shalman at the caves and had revelled in both the discovery and the learning that his friend shared with him. But he also knew that the people of his village were talking, and the one thing nobody wanted to be in an Arab village was the centre of gossip.

  ‘Where is he? The Jew? Not seen you with him for some time.’

  Mustafa shrugged again. ‘Who knows?’

  Shamil picked up the wrench from where it lay in the dirt under the truck and twirled it absently in the air. Mustafa sensed there was something unsaid and waited for Shamil to continue.

  Finally Shamil spoke. ‘Don’t think the Jew is your friend, Mustafa.’

  Mustafa caught the wrench mid-air as Shamil tossed it up, and lowered himself to crawl under the truck once more.

  ‘This is Palestine. I’m happy to call anyone a friend who isn’t aiming a gun at me.’

  Shamil caught Mustafa’s shoulder with his broad hand. ‘What about one who points bombs not bullets?’

  Mustafa pushed the man’s hand away in annoyance. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I was there, Mustafa . . .’ Shamil hesitated for a moment, but looked Mustafa dead in the eye. ‘I was there that night on the airfield. I stayed outside. The British don’t like Arab men but they like our children. That’s why I took little Munir with me. I sent him inside while I stayed outside on the edges of the airfield. I saw everything.

  ‘I wasn’t sure until he came to our village and spoke to us, telling us not to be full of anger when our land is carved up. But when I saw him, I knew. I knew it was him. I remembered his face.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ asked Mustafa.

  ‘Your friend, the Jew . . . He was the one at the airfield. I saw him with my own eyes. He was the one who drove the truck . . .’

  Mustafa brushed away the half formed accusation with a wave of his hand and pushed himself to the ground to continue his work. But Shamil stood over him, silhouetted against the sun.

  ‘He was the one who set off the bomb that burned my cousin alive!’

  ‘You’re mistaken. You must be,’ said Mustafa angrily.

  ‘Ask him. Ask your friend . . .’

  ‘I did!’

  ‘And what did he say, Mustafa?’

  Mustafa said nothing.

  ‘War is coming. Our Arab brothers will be arriving soon with guns and tanks and planes and your Jew-friend and all the others will be driven out. Friends tell the truth. And Jews are liars . . . And soon they will be gone!’

  Lydda RAF Base

  27 December 1948

  Shalman drove the borrowed car along the dusty road heading west, down the steep and winding road away from Jerusalem towards Tel Aviv and the sea.

  He drove towards the RAF air base outside of the Palestinian town of Lydda, where international aeroplanes had just begun to fly passengers into and out of the region. He was heading there to meet his family.

  Soon after arriving and parking the car on an open field, he was searched by British soldiers. They went over every inch of his car, made him remove his jacket and patted down his trousers. Finally, and almost begrudgingly, they moved him on. He and a dozen other people then waited in the Customs and Excise Hall, a disused aircraft hangar, for the transport plane from Turkey to land.

  Shalman watched as the plane drew closer, transforming from a distant smudge in the brilliant blue of the sky to a giant metallic bird, feet outstretched, landing with a bump and a bounce. The propellers roared and spluttered as the plane wheeled around in a wide arc before coming to a halt. Ground crew strode out to place large chocks under the wheels to hold the aircraft in place as the propellers slowed down.

  Judit was one of the first to appear at the top of the stairs, which had been wheeled up to the fuselage. Shalman watched as she walked from the dark interior and stepped into the sun. She raised one hand to shield her eyes while her other hand held baby Vered close to her body. Shalman walked out onto the grass and watched his family descend the stairs. His mind was fraught with mixed emotions. Love for his child, longing for his wife, yet fear, mystery, worry and questions, always questions.

  When Judit arrived at the bottom of the stairs, Shalman extended his arms and wrapped them around both her and Vered. They embraced without speaking. But it was a cold embrace and relinquished quickly. They hardly spoke to each other. Shalman’s attention shifted straight to his daughter and he scooped her out of her mother’s arms and kissed her warmly. He turned to face Judit but she had already turned away towards where the baggage was being removed from the plane.

  Shalman reversed the car out of the grass field and steered it towards the road that linked Tel Aviv with Jerusalem and which would return them home. Vered was in the back seat, resting in a cot. Judit sat next to Shalman in the front bench-seat, staring out the window; the landscape seeming so foreign because of where she’d been, and yet so familiar.

  They said nothing for some time, each alone in their thoughts, until Shalman finally broke the strained silence. ‘Did you see your family?’

  In truth he knew almost nothing about his wife’s family and had no idea what to expect in her answer. But he knew that family had been her pretext for travelling to Moscow and so it was an obvious question to ask.

  ‘Are they well?’ he continued when Judit did not answer straight away.

  ‘They’re dead,’ Judit said, and the cold obliqueness of the answer surprised him. ‘They passed away.’

  ‘I’m . . . I’m sorry . . .’ stammered Shalman. ‘I don’t know what to say . . .’ He reached out his hand to take hers.

  ‘I’m still here . . .’

  Judit was desperate to tell Shalman the truth. She wanted to tell him all she had done, all that had happened, all she must do. Of her meetings with Beria, with Molotov, her moment with Stalin when he’d walked into the room, smiled, shaken her hand and walked out again without speaking; of receiving Russia’s highest civilian award; that she was being groomed for high office in the new nation and with that came a past she must hide.

  Judit’s silence compelled Shalman to say something he’d been holding back until now.

  ‘Immanuel Berin asked about you.’

  The statement rattled Judit and surprised her, but she held her gaze out the window and when she spoke she fought to keep concern out of her voice. ‘I thought you were having nothing more to do with Lehi and the Irgun and the fight. I thought you wanted to put that be
hind you.’

  ‘I do. I have . . . It’s nothing.’

  At any other time, the mention of Berin’s name would have been ordinary but at this moment the name Immanuel Berin was more than ordinary – a senior leader of the Irgun and the final target for Judit under orders direct from Molotov himself.

  ‘What did he want?’ Judit asked.

  ‘He just . . . He just asked how you were, where you had been . . .’

  ‘And did you tell him?’

  ‘I said you had travelled to see your family. That was the truth . . .’ The final word hung in the air.

  Judit’s mind raced over the things that she had done and said before she had left for Moscow. Why the hell was Berin asking him about her?

  ‘That was the truth, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, but her response was delayed a fraction too long.

  ‘Why the hell are you lying to me, Judit? I’m your husband. Tell me the truth. Why were you in Moscow? What’s going on in your life that you have to lie to me?’

  He fell silent, praying that she’d answer him with the truth, and put an end to all his doubts. But after a long and painful moment of silence, she said softly, ‘I was visiting my family. Believe me, Shalman. Please believe me. But to find both my parents dead, without a word from my brother or sister . . . it was heartbreaking. I’m sorry if I don’t meet your expectations, Shalman, but . . .’

  They drove for ten or fifteen minutes up the hill towards Jerusalem in complete silence. But instead of thinking about how she was endangering the love between them, she only thought about what Shalman had said about Berin.