Stateless

by Alan Gold

  She smiled. ‘This is my first time in Moscow, comrade. I was born in the Ukraine, and left when I was but a child to join my father in America.’

  ‘But your Russian is excellent . . .’

  ‘Then thank Gogol, Tolstoy and Pushkin. I’ve a facility for languages.’

  They sat in the armchairs, and waited until Molotov’s secretary had laid out the tray of black tea and cakes before continuing.

  ‘I was somewhat surprised to receive your note, madam. When it arrived from Jerusalem, I was concerned about meeting with somebody, even someone as important as you, at a non-government level. As Foreign Minister, I have to be careful to meet with my counterparts, and not people who are, in effect, private citizens, albeit ones as important as –’

  ‘And I appreciate you giving me this time, Comrade Foreign Minister. But I think that as this meeting is top secret and nobody in Palestine knows of my visit other than my Prime Minister and the head of our secret service, this will not leak out. Unless, of course, the plumbing in the Kremlin has degraded since the time of the Revolution.’

  Molotov let out a small laugh but looked more closely at her. Her face was typically lined from living for so many years in a hot country, but the eyes were what held his attention. Golda Meir had the eyes of an ancient mother of Israel, burning with intensity and sharp intelligence. Molotov loved trying to analyse people through looking into their eyes.

  ‘You said in your note that this meeting was of great importance to the future of relationships between our two countries, when your Israel is established by the United Nations. Of course, that’s an assumption that may or may not be –’

  ‘It will come to pass, comrade. Believe me when I say that Israel will be the world’s youngest country in a handful of months. With a voice and a vote at the United Nations we will enjoy the same stature as the Soviet Union, and the United States of America.’

  Molotov suppressed a smile. ‘My dear lady, while what you say may be true, it doesn’t behove us to exaggerate our importance in the world. When Comrade Chairman Stalin was told how Russian Catholics could help us win the Vatican’s approval, he said, “The Pope! How many divisions has the Pope got?” You may have one voice among many, but Mother Russia has many army divisions, ships, aircraft and guns.’

  ‘I’m not exaggerating the importance of Israel, comrade,’ Golda said. ‘Merely pointing out to you that we live on a lump of rock floating on a sea of petroleum oil. And your tanks, planes, cars and factories need oil to turn.’

  Molotov raised an eyebrow. ‘But Palestine has no oil. Your Moses turned left towards the sea when he brought your people out of Egypt. He should have turned right and settled in Iraq or Persia, in Saudi Arabia or the Gulf. I can’t see what point you’re making, madam.’

  Like a grandmother dealing with an intransigent grandchild, Golda Meir spoke softly and patiently. ‘Comrade, who has the oil today may not have it tomorrow. You, more than I, know the geopolitics of the region. The Arabs sold themselves to the highest bidder in the First World War, vacillating between the Turks and the British. In the Second World War, they remained out of the fray, having learned their painful lesson, except for the Mufti of Jerusalem, who became Hitler’s best friend, but he’s in exile and no longer counts. But the Arabs are not nations, even though they have national borders. They are tribes and there is as much dispute between tribes within their country’s borders as there is between warring nations.’

  Molotov frowned. ‘And?’

  ‘And soon there will be war. Egypt, Iraq, Syria, Trans-Jordan and Lebanon. There are some Palestinians who will participate, but we anticipate no true opposition.’

  ‘This we already know, madam. But what army does Israel have to mount? Our estimates are that the Arab armies will number 60,000. They have planes, tanks, modern weaponry. How can a small nation without an army match this might?’ Molotov asked.

  Golda knew that this was a rhetorical question, and that he already knew what her answer would be. ‘Comrade, in the Yishuv, we have four experienced fighting forces, the Haganah, the Palmach, the Irgun and Lehi. Together, we can mount an initial repulse consisting of 30,000 men and women. And if the battle lasts longer than a month, we’ll call up more than 100,000 of our best and brightest. Remember, comrade, that the Arabs are fighting to push the Jews into the sea. When they get tired, or wounded, they’ll just turn around and go back to their homes. But we Jews are fighting for our lives, because we have nowhere else to go.’

  Molotov remained silent, and sipped his tea.

  Golda continued. ‘But you already know this. Your people in Jerusalem have informed you of everything I’ve told you. Tomorrow I travel from here to the United States to raise money to buy arms, ammunition, tanks and planes. I have speaking engagements in dozens of cities throughout America. I’m told that I might be lucky to raise a couple of million dollars because everybody is tired of wars and just wants peace. But I will return with fifty million dollars, or I will not return.’

  Molotov considered her words. ‘You are aware, of course, that Russia’s official stance is to oppose Zionism.’

  ‘And let us also never forget, my friend,’ said Golda, ‘that since Catherine the Great, Russia has been the most pragmatic diplomatist in the world. You may be officially anti-Zionist, but your reality is that you need influence in the Middle East, and not just to accelerate the decline of British influence, but also to ensure that America doesn’t become strong in our arena. You need us, Comrade Foreign Minister. You need Israel as a friend. Because you know who’s going to win this war and you know which nation will become the key player on your southern border.’

  There was nothing in what she had said that Molotov did not know nor which had long been the basis of manoeuvres by Beria, Stalin and himself. But Molotov found himself intrigued that Golda Meir’s thinking was so closely aligned with his. Molotov was nothing if not a pragmatist; flexible adaptation was always the key to survival, whether it be in evolution, politics or war. Might Golda Meir make some of his work with his agents on the ground, with people such as Judit and Anastasia, redundant?

  ‘You and I are frank people, madam. You asked for this meeting. It has been my pleasure to entertain you. But what is the real purpose of your being here?’

  ‘Two reasons. The first is to ask for a gift of $50 million dollars’ worth of gold so that we can buy more munitions and planes on the open market . . .’

  Molotov, as a practised diplomat, remained silent.

  ‘And the second is to ask for the names of the death squad you currently have in Palestine murdering our best and brightest Zionists.’

  His face was a mask of indifference, but Golda detected surprise in his eyes. She drove the point home, by saying, ‘I do hope, comrade, that we can come to some agreement before I leave here and begin my talks with the Americans. And it would really assist our future friendship if your assassins could stop killing my people.’

  The following morning, as Golda Meir was packing her bags to prepare for her trip to the United States, there was a knock on her door at the Metropol Hotel. She opened it and found a tall, gaunt young man standing there. Nobody other than a handful of people here in Moscow and in Jerusalem knew that Golda was in the Soviet Union and so she was immediately suspicious.

  The young man, dressed in a charcoal grey suit, nodded at her in greeting. ‘You left a document on the desk when you finished your meeting yesterday. The gentleman with whom you met has asked me to return it.’ He handed over a brown manila envelope, nodded and walked back to the stairs. Golda closed the door and ripped open the envelope. In it, she found a list of names. Many were Russian, such as Anastasia Bistrzhitska, and were listed along with their known aliases. Some were clearly Jewish and the name of Judit Etzion stood out. She’d heard of the girl’s bravery, but while Golda felt some distress the boil had to be cauterised.

  Asking for the list of Soviet agents in Palestine had been risky, but it was a carefully calculated risk.
Intelligence in Jerusalem had put together a disturbing pattern of the unexplained murders and deaths of leading Jewish intellectuals, journalists and opinion makers, all of them outspoken Zionists, and each of them linked by being unsolved crimes. At first it was assumed that they were being killed by the British MI6, but further work by the Irgun intercepting radio cables from Russian-owned houses to Moscow immediately before or after the deaths indicated a strong link with the Soviet Union.

  The gamble Golda had made was that the Kremlin might hand over their agents as a peace offering for future cooperation with Jerusalem if they believed it was a more secure bet. Having twenty minutes before her car took her to the airfield, Golda opened the lid of her suitcase and took a small code book from a hidden pocket in the lining. She sat with a pencil and piece of paper, cross-referencing the names on the list with the codes she had to use to transmit them to Jerusalem.

  Judit and Anastasia sat in deep armchairs in a luxurious safe house. It had been purchased by a Russian Jew who had managed to emigrate to America but was still covertly a communist. While he lived in America waiting for the State of Israel to be created, the Soviet intelligence agencies used the abode as a safe house for clandestine meetings.

  The windows were barred, the curtains closed and they’d entered the house by a side door. And for additional security, one had entered the house an hour after the other, and they’d leave at different times.

  The women appeared relaxed but in truth were pondering carefully the next steps they would need to take.

  Anastasia’s spies had confirmed what Judit had suspected since she had been picked up from the airport by Shalman. Immanuel Berin was suspicious, though neither of them knew how much he suspected or really knew. Judit had spent the past days wondering what had prompted that suspicion but it was Anastasia who worked out the source.

  ‘The truth is that you were careless, Judita.’

  The rebuke from her handler, a woman so much a mother figure to Judit, stung her almost physically.

  ‘You must have been careless and you were seen.’

  ‘By whom?’ demanded Judit, wanting so much to be able to deny the charge, yet knowing that Anastasia would not have made the statement had she been anything other than certain.

  ‘A young Irgun woman named Ashira. I assume you know her?’

  Judit remembered back to the Lehi raid on Goldschmidt House, the British officers’ club. The girl had been so young, naïve, but darkly determined. Ashira had also been there on the night of the vote, listening to the radio. That was the night Judit had killed the Jewish professor in front of his family. Anastasia vocalised the next thought in Judit’s mind.

  ‘That was the night she must have followed you. You were careless.’

  Anastasia leaned over and put a hand on Judit’s knee. ‘But I understand. I don’t expect perfection. I expect diligence.’

  ‘How dangerous is she to us?’ Judit asked.

  Anastasia took another sip of wine and reached over to the table to refill it. ‘I’m afraid she must be dealt with.’

  ‘Is that necessary? She’s just a kid. She has no influence. She can’t be sure what she saw. No one listens to her or takes her seriously.’

  ‘Berin might . . .’

  This simple answer brought the argument to a halt, but inside Judit was torn. She had killed many times over but the thought that she herself would be asked to remove the young girl filled her with self-loathing.

  Anastasia, as if reading her thoughts again, reassured her. ‘Don’t worry. It won’t be you. We must keep you clean and away from such things, focused on higher duties.’

  Judit simply nodded. Her path had been carefully constructed by Moscow. She would be a heroine of the coming war between Arabs and Jews, and from that public status be elevated to office. There she would orchestrate the special relationship between the new nation and the Soviet Union. The Americans would be apoplectic but only Anastasia, Molotov, Beria and perhaps even Stalin himself would know the truth about Judit.

  But now, because of one small error, a naïve girl called Ashira threatened to unbalance an entire geopolitical plan. To Judit, in that moment of thought, it all appeared so fragile.

  ‘And Berin?’ asked Judit.

  ‘You have your orders, your plan, your disguise . . .’

  Anastasia was referring to the simple dark Arab dress and head scarf that would cover Judit’s body and face when she made her move against Berin, the disguise that would ensure Arabs were blamed. Implicit in the plan was that Judit must be seen by onlookers to be the killer. When the police investigated, it would be a Jordanian Arab woman who would be blamed.

  ‘But, we still need time and so we remove Ashira from the equation. We have to plan this carefully so that no suspicion can fall on you. One way is for you to have a meeting with Berin when we put an end to Ashira. But knowing him, he’ll be suspicious of the coincidence. So I’m afraid that at the same time as Ashira goes to meet her god, Berin will have to suffer the same fate. You’ll have to be responsible. His death is too important to be left to an underling.’

  Anastasia swallowed the rest of the wine and returned her hand to Judit’s leg.

  ‘Then, when these dark clouds have departed, we can finish what we started . . .’

  It was darkly overcast and late in the day. In such light Ashira was very good at being invisible. She was nondescript in many ways, ordinary in height, gait and shape. As a young woman in Jerusalem, few saw her as a threat and her dark Tunisian features made her appear as much Arab as Jewish. The effect was that neither side immediately saw her as the ‘other’ and she dressed accordingly, wearing nothing that marked her as decidedly Jewish or observantly Arab. She blended in easily.

  Had she been trained as Judit had been, Ashira may well have been a master spy. But her only training had been a harsh life and a determination to survive. For now it was enough as she lay on her belly atop a low hillock, nestled behind a tall tuft of grass and rubble, with a small but powerful pair of binoculars pressed to her eyes.

  She kept a long distance between herself and Judit as she followed the woman she once revered. But she had stayed on high ground, rooftops and embankments, using her binoculars to follow Judit without being near enough to be seen. It had not been easy and she had lost her target several times, having to guess her trajectory and scan furiously to find her again. But now Ashira lay looking down at a house into which Judit had disappeared.

  Just weeks ago, when she had followed Judit into the streets, she had been enamoured with the woman who epitomised everything she wanted to be – strong, committed, defiant. But the assassination of the professor in front of his family had turned her reverence for Judit into rage.

  Through the twin lenses of the binoculars a lone figure appeared at the side of the house and slipped casually across the garden to the street. Ashira barely had to study the figure to know it was Judit. She had seen her enter the house an hour earlier and had been waiting patiently for her to emerge since. Ordinarily this would have been the cue to follow but Ashira’s intentions were different. It wasn’t Judit who was important this time; it was who Judit had been speaking to.

  Ashira had confided what she knew to Berin, his approval and acknowledgement important to her in ways she still didn’t fully understand. But he remained somewhat sceptical and seemingly unwilling to act. Shalman had revealed to him that his wife often went out to places and meetings he knew nothing about. Berin had wanted to know with whom Judit was meeting when she slipped away from her apartment and Ashira was hoping to find out now.

  Ashira didn’t follow Judit but waited and watched.

  A further hour passed with no sign of anyone leaving the house and the light dimmed as night fell. A car, silent and still, had sat in front of the home since before Ashira had arrived at her vantage point. The road the house was on ran only in two directions, away from Jerusalem and back towards Jerusalem, with nothing but small tracks and dusty dirt roads deviating from tha
t path. Ashira knew that whoever came out of that house would be unlikely to head away from the city, but instead return to it. Ashira also knew that not far down the road was a British checkpoint through which any car heading back towards the ancient city would need to pass. This was her plan. But she would need to be fast.

  Through the binoculars she saw a shadow of movement – not from the front door, but from the side of the house. The sky was getting dimmer and there were no exterior lights on the home nor street lights to illuminate the scene.

  The person moved slowly. Very slowly. Not creeping but with small steps. High heels on grass and stone, thought Ashira. A tall and lean woman. Ashira would have to be quick. She watched as the tall, slow-moving woman paused before turning her direction slightly towards the waiting car.

  This was the cue; Ashira could wait no more. She pushed herself to her feet and ran. She would have to sprint if she was to make it to a vantage point near the British army checkpoint before the car arrived there.

  Ashira carried no bag; she was light and ready to run. She left the binoculars on the dirt where she had been lying, choosing to have nothing to weigh her down except for a Leica camera securely slung over her shoulder in a leather holster.

  Her legs pumped as she sprang over the ground. The road swung a wide arc around the low hills and the car would have to pass around that arc while Ashira ran across country, a dirt path through shrubs and a small field. It was a straight line to the checkpoint and if she was fast she could beat the car there.

  As she ran she could hear the faint sound of a car engine behind her and in the near distance, but had no way of knowing if it was the car carrying the tall woman she had seen leaving the house. She ran on, holding the camera close to her body with one hand to stop it flapping about and slowing her down.

  Up ahead, in the fading light, she could see the checkpoint and the rumbling of a petrol generator. The British imposed a curfew after dark and this added another pressure to Ashira’s task. She needed to get to the checkpoint before the car did and be away and home again before curfew began or she was in danger of being dragged to a holding cell by British Tommies.