But now the plumes of dust along the hills swayed and swelled as they approached him; he was at last a general with an army.
28
The Kibbutz Embattled
In the annals of that winter and spring of bitter fighting — the birth-pangs of the new state — the siege and defence of Ras Shamir does not bulk very large: many a kibbutz suffered the same hardships and endured the fierce onslaught of regular Arab troops with the same bitter obstinacy of purpose. Today, the only visible reminders of that pitiless struggle are an odd statue or a memorial plaque, or the withered garlands hanging from the turrets of the “home-made tanks” which line the long winding road which leads to Jerusalem. As for Ras Shamir, the single armoured car which managed to breach the perimeter stands today a rusty burned-out wreck on the green grass by the schoolroom. As the action opened, the two leading cars lumbered like elephants into the pits which had been cleared for such an eventuality; but the third, by a swerve, managed to find solid ground and burst through the perimeter with a roar. But here a swarm of youngsters clung to it like limpets and petrol-bombed it. It swung on like a crazy animal in pain, burst through a thicket of saplings and ground to a halt below the tower. Here it was systematically finished off like an iron bull; it gushed yellow smoke and flame and hissed like a great kettle. But it had unluckily revealed by its mad charge across the wire that the minefield was a fake.
The subsequent fighting was fierce, and in many places hand-to-hand. Time existed for them not like a continuous thing, but in a series of vivid impressionistic actions — of alerts and alarms — of deafening gunfire and slaughter. They saw it, the survivors, like so many highly coloured pieces of glass from a smashed kaleidoscope; the shrill powder-monkeys feeding the gunners, the stretcher-bearers moving about purposefully, the water rushing from the pierced towers. The noise and the confusion also had their own shape, their formal proportions. Lines broken were reformed. Little incidents stuck out and were swallowed again in the general pattern. The charge of the six Herculean Poles armed with scythes and hay-forks? Would the relief never arrive...?
So the long hours wore on; drenched in their own sweat, the defenders held on. Relief, when it did come, seemed to come from nowhere. The Arab infantry suddenly sagged at one corner like a curtain bellying out in the wind, faltered and then reformed with a new orientation. Afar off, now, the kibbutzniks caught sight of the little blue dots moving across their field of vision like a sea: the relief from their mountain comrades had arrived.
Aaron had been delayed by an encounter with the three diverted armoured cars at the eastern cross-roads; but his new army was not disposed to be trifled with by mere steel and rubber. It included veterans from many campaigns who knew all that is to be known about the blind side of tanks; they stalked the cars and captured them, turning them back upon their tracks. They formed a welcome and effective addition to the rescuing force, as it swept down the dusty roads. But Aaron was anxious now, for there had been a long delay: already evening was casting its first shadows under the rosy cliffs and escarpments. Nor was there time for any fine tactical manoeuvring. He could do little more than order a general engagement. It was, indeed, hardly an army but a ragged mob of angry and unshaven men which rushed down on Towers’ flank with a shock that echoed like thunder. But Towers himself was dead, as was Donner; in fact, few of the British officers remained to rally and reform Daud’s forces. Under the impact of the Jews, the lines sagged, wavered and began to give ground slowly but surely.
The defenders watched them as if in a dream — a strange incoherent dream of a retreat and a victory; in the hubbub their hoarse cheers, coming from throats so parched, could hardly be heard.
As the shadows of darkness began to fall, they saw the clouds of battle move inexorably towards the pass, towards the border which Aaron had made it his intention to seal fast. Ras Shamir was safe now, but its defenders could hardly form a coherent thought, so dazed were they with fatigue. An enormous emptiness beset them and hunger was all they were capable of registering.
•
The defence of Ras Shamir was only one of the defensive actions to take place during those tragic and heroic days when the existence of the new Israel hung in the balance. Nor in the official history will it ever figure among so many other glorious stories of the time. But if Ras Shamir was held, it was symbolic of the way in which the whole country, with its scattered and defenceless network of kibbutzim, turned each and all of them into strong points to stem the Arab advance. From Tiberius to Gaza the same story was enacted, though in each case the original nationality of the defenders might vary from British to Indian, from American to Greek. Beside such epoch-making names as Jerusalem, Haifa, Gaza, Beersheba, Ras Shamir will certainly find its small and modest place. The laconic official communiqué issued after the battle read as follows:
At dusk a massive assault was mounted from the perimeter of the kibbutz by Arab forces using cavalry and infantry in the first instance. These assaults were beaten off and very heavy losses were inflicted. The enemy must have got wind of the reinforcements converging upon Ras Shamir from the hills, for a very determined assault involving three I-tanks was thrown against a weak point in the perimeter. Fortunately, it was the only point where a shallow minefield had been laid which accounted for two of the tanks. The remaining one managed to break into the centre of the kibbutz where it set fire to some of the buildings with their tractors and inflicted serious damage and many casualties before it was put out of action, by some of the children. At 10 P.M. help arrived and the Arab forces were successfully engaged on the water-meadows by the river. They proved to be less well equipped than had been feared and they were completely routed and driven back through the ravine into their own territory by 1.30 A.M.
•
If Grete did not follow the fighting of that desperate night with her own eyes, entombed as she was below ground in the cellars of the ancient fortress, she nevertheless heard enough of it to deduce the ebb and flow of its fortunes even down there, in the dark ground. They heard, but as if muted, the infernal racket of the mortars and the dull concussion of the shells that landed; they heard the hoarse cheers and shouts of their own fighting men and women in the occasional pauses between actions. It was like the faint sound-track of a disaster — complete with shouts and groans and the bark of weapons, but with nothing visual to illustrate it. Their fragile oil lamps and candles flickered in the gloom. A thin dust was shaken down by the mortar bombs hitting the fort; cockroaches were shaken from their hideouts among the packing cases.
The small children were at first disposed to show fright and whimper at this strange new departure from their daily lives — by now it was long past their usual bedtime; but Grete read to them in her firm melodious voice; read to them until they dropped asleep around her like drowsy insects. And when the last pair of eyes had closed softly, she sat staring unwinkingly into the light of a candle, feeling the dull weight of her premonitions lying heavy within her — the foreknowledge of David’s certain death somewhere out there among the tangled lines of wire and the shallow trenches.
That the battle ebbed and flowed she knew from the changes in the sound of it — but in whose favour she could not guess. She looked at her watch. Then once more she stared at the yellow flame, feeling herself completely engulfed by it, swallowed up in the dumb fear of a new day through which she might have to live without a living David.
At long last the door opened — though she hardly noticed it — and Anna stood in the dark panel, gazing at her with a yellow weary face. Her cheeks were stained with mud and powder markings. She walked very slowly, like a drunkard. Grete cried out her name and Anna walked slowly into the cellar, blinking with fatigue.
“They’ve been driven off,” she said and, giving a great sob, threw her arms around Grete; they clutched each other. “I’m taking over for an hour,” added Anna. “You must go and have something to eat. Orders.”
As she entered the half darkness of the camp and
picked her way slowly towards the canteen, Grete became aware that she was ravenously hungry. The darkness concealed most of the damage done by the attack, but here and there were some heaps of rubble, and outside the schoolroom, like a relic from some Pleistocene age, stood a large tank, still burning. Yellow flames lapped the interior, and the metal monster hummed like a giant kettle on the hob.
The long refectory was like a scene from a medieval master’s canvas: pale candlelight marked the tables and threw the faces of their occupants into relief — exhausted men and women with eyes enlarged by fear and fatigue, wolfing bread and draining great draughts of warm tea and cocoa. All around them lay items of equipment, bandoliers, gun tripods, machine-gun belts, and swathes of blood-stained bandages.
They hardly noticed as she took her place among them. They talked in low murmuring tones. Someone had a small radio on the table, at which he was working, scratching his way along the dial until at last he found a familiar call-signal and an anonymous voice which told them that, like Ras Shamir, Jerusalem was holding, Gaza was holding, Haifa was holding. A babble of voices broke out at this piece of news. Then, into the midst of the dappled darkness, walked the gaunt martinet they all recognized as Peterson.
“I want a fatigue,” she said.
Nobody spoke.
“Anybody who is not dead beat,” she added harshly, looking at them under drawn brows. “We must collect our wounded. The Arabs have been driven off; but there are many wounded of both sides out there on the battlefield. You can hear their cries from the wire. Who will volunteer?”
Weary as they were, there was something about her that was irresistible, and they rose groaning and yawning, picking up lamps and torches as they did so. Grete followed them, but at the door Peterson stopped her. The doctor stood in the darkness outside the tall doors of the refectory. Her gesture was rough, almost brutal, throwing out her strong arm across Grete’s body. Her voice was harsh and grim.
“Grete,” she said, “I have bad news for you. David...
But Grete, unable to bear the sound of the message which she knew must follow, put her hand over Peterson’s mouth.
“Please,” she cried. “Don’t say it.”
Then she turned and leaned against the door, sick and faint; she felt as if her body had shrunk to half its size. Peterson stood, breathing heavily and staring at her with a kind of grim compassion. Then she put a hand on her shoulder; Grete turned her dry eyes upon her and said in a whisper:
“Where is he?”
Peterson cleared her throat and, turning to the darkness, shouted, “Tonio, are you there?”
A huge shambling figure moved slowly into the radius of the light. The two women stared at this great sloth of a man, one of the Baltic contingent.
“You know where David is?”
The man nodded with an air of shyness, of confusion.
“Take me,” said Grete suddenly, sharply, and the huge man nodded and bobbed, touching his forelock. Peterson laid a restraining hand upon her wrist but she put it aside, saying:
“I must go to him, don’t you see?”
Neither of them saw the small figure of David’s son materialize from the darkness and come towards them, his face deathly white. He had overheard their conversation. They stood staring at each other, their white faces registering a strange doll-like surprise.
“I will come with you,” said the boy.
“No,” said Peterson.
“Yes, I must,” he said gravely, looking from one to the other.
“No,” said Grete. “Wait here.”
But the child shook his head gravely and, advancing, held out his hand to the shy blonde giant, Tonio. There was no gainsaying authority. Tonio took the small hand in his and turned; and Grete now followed them, drawing her shawl across her face, like a peasant woman in mourning.
They crossed the smashed and tangled workings with their shattered wire and found themselves out on the dark floor of the battlefield among the trampled and bloodstained water lilies where the river flew silently, swift as a dart. Everywhere there were huddles of bodies, from every side the darkness rang with voices — the low moans and whispers of the wounded and the clear voices of those who had come to succour them. Back and forth, across the dark floor of meadowland, the lamps moved like glow-worms, making little puddles of light, pausing here or there, moving, criss-crossing.
In these small pools of light they saw scenes enacted, as if from the panels of some Byzantine fresco: miniatures of a horse being cut from its traces and shot, a naked man receiving an injection, a moaning camel being pegged down on the grass. And everywhere the wounded were being selected from among the dead. Stretcher-bearers made what haste they could with their burdens across the meadows. The sky was full of stars, glimmering like precious stones. It was cold. Grete found herself shivering as much from chill as from fear. Dawn was already coming up, to judge by the swift lightening of the mountain ranges to the east.
At last they came to a fold in the banks of the river — a green strip covered with wild orchids and meadow flowers. Here Tonio quested about for a moment like a greyhound. Then he gave a grunt and pointed.
David’s sturdy form lay coiled up and very still at the bottom of a hollow of deep grass; one arm was doubled under him in an attitude which suggested some severe dislocation of shoulder and spine. The other, fully extended, was buried in the earth. The flickering light wavered and jumped upon the tremendous stillness of him as he lay there.
Tonio halted, uncertain what to do. He still held the child’s hand. But now Grete was kneeling beside her lover, turning the dark head and cradling it in her arms as she bent over him. Suddenly she looked up and, almost beside herself with astonishment, called out, but in tones so unbelieving that they carried no conviction:
“He’s breathing. He’s alive.”
They stood like figures turned to salt, Grete staring blindly up into the light of the torch, repeating “He’s alive. He’s alive.”
Then, as if the sum total of the knowledge had suddenly gone home like a bayonet thrust, the huge shaggy Balt turned and shouted across the darkness to where the stretcher-bearers moved among the dead, seeking the living. A party moved towards them and Grete saw the lights advance and brim the hollow with whiteness. Strange voices crowded about them.
An orderly knelt for a minute and listened to the feeble heartbeat in the chest wall of the fallen man — as one might listen in a cave for the voice of an oracle.
“Yes,” he said at last. “Yes.”
Grete thought she had never heard a sweeter word. “Yes,” she repeated with a sob. “Yes. Yes.”
The small boy was looking at her. They had moved David onto a rough stretcher made of blankets. The party set off in the gathering light of the dawn along the river. And now it seemed as if some new power stirred within her as she walked beside them. David’s muddy hand hung over the side of the stretcher, jogging with the movement. His son seized hold of it, softly, proudly. And as they walked they heard — with the delectation of people hearing the opening bars of some great piece of music — the groans of David. Grete put her arm about the small boy’s shoulders.
“I was wrong,” she said to herself, “and he was right.”
29
After the Battle
Now that the pressure of the attack had been relieved, it was once more possible to organize, to improvise. And aid materialized from various quarters. Unsolicited lorries rolled in to help with the wounded who had overflowed the medical bays. The most serious cases were sent off by three-tonner or ambulance (whenever possible) to hospitals offering greater facilities than were available in the little dispensary of the settlement. Judith watched the hefty arms of the young Poles lift the victims softly into the lorries, and turned back in bitter resolution to the settlement. By now someone had restored the electric light unit, and the work was easier; but there was much to do. She was glad of it, and worked all night until she was practically asleep on her feet. She had not see
n Aaron all evening, but knew he was alive and unhurt. Nothing could have given her more strength and determination. Relief she could not call it.
But the attack on Ras Shamir was only the most personal part of something which loomed much larger on the horizon, and which engaged their anxieties for months to come; it was strange that, all of a sudden, the concerns and pressures of war should make her feel the reality of Israel as an idea. But it was so. In April the stranglehold on Jerusalem was broken. Haifa was liberated, then Jaffa. All through that spring and summer the war flared up and subsided, changing aspect and design, changing sector. Stubbornly, bitterly, Israel was contending for her very existence, forging her national spirit in the brutal fire of war.
All this news, the source of so much pride and relief to the kibbutz, was sheer exhilaration for Aaron. He was truly part of it, a fighting part. He wanted to be on all fronts at once, and almost succeeded. He scanned the papers and listened to the radio; and some of his impatient excitement seeped into the letters he wrote to Judith from every part of the country. They were a curious mixture of ardour and reserve — almost as if he was unsure as yet how far he could commit himself or how much depend on the durability of her own feelings and emotions. Then one day she got the opportunity of a lift to visit him in Jerusalem. It was a surprise; to their astonishment and chagrin they found themselves almost tongue-tied, like adolescents. Judith’s heart beat so fast that she felt almost suffocated. “By God,” he said, “you are a good-looking girl!” She took his hand and held it to her breast. “Aaron,” she said, “how lucky I am. Darling I’ve been... She was almost overcome by the nearness of it. She held up crossed fingers. Aaron had grown large martial whiskers. “And you look like an Albanian bandit,” she said. “I hardly recognized you.”
Judith Page 30
