by Bodie Thoene
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
KI
LO
YA’ASEH
ADONAI
ELOHIM
DAVAR
KI IM
GALAH
SODO
E L
ADADAV
HA-NEVI’IM
ZEH DEVAR
ADONAY
ELZERUBAVEL
LEMOR
LO VE-HAYIL
VE-LO
VEKOAH
VI KIM
BE-RUHI
AMAR
ADONAY
ZEVAOT
EPILOGUE
About the Authors
Other Books by Bodie and Brock Thoene
Jerusalem Vigil
Thunder from Jerusalem
Jerusalem’s Heart
The Jerusalem Scrolls
Stones of Jerusalem
Shiloh Autumn
The Twilight of Courage
The Zion Covenant Series
The Zion Chronicles Series
The Shiloh Legacy Series
The Saga of the Sierras
The Galway Chronicles
The Wayward Wind Series
VIKING
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:
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Copyright © Brock Thoene and Bodie Thoene, 2002
All rights reserved.
Map illustration by James Sinclair
Excerpts from The Holy Bible, New International Version. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of
the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, liv
ing or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Thoene, Bodie, 1951-
Jerusalem’s hope / Bodie and Brock Thoene.
p. cm.—(The Zion legacy ; bk. 6)
eISBN : 978-1-101-17685-6
1. Israel—History—1948-1967—Fiction. 2. Jews—History—20th century—
Fiction. 3. Israel-Arab War, 1948-1949—Fiction. 4. Jerusalem—Fiction.
I. Thoene, Brock, 1952- II. Title.
PS3570.H46 J496 2002
813’.54—dc21 2002022959
This book is printed on acid-free paper.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
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With love to our brother,
Rick Christian,
who has the heart of a shepherd
JUDEA
IN THE TIME
OF JESUS
PROLOGUE
Friday, May 28, 1948
The plume of smoke rising from the Jewish Quarter of the Old City of Jerusalem obscured the stars and moon as Rachel Sachar and her younger brother, Yacov, returned to Grandfather’s grave.
There were no tears left to cry. In silence the mourners stood in the garden of the Russian compound outside the ancient walls.
Rachel slid her arm around Yacov’s frail shoulders. Together they recited kaddish. Rachel raised her eyes as the bloodred moon broke through the fumes for an instant and then vanished. It was, she thought, like Warsaw had been during the last days in the Ghetto. Burials had been conducted clandestinely at night because it was against Nazi edicts for anyone to gather together openly.
The Third Reich had surrendered less than three years earlier, and yet Jews in the newly reborn nation of Israel were still burying their dead under cover of darkness.
Savage armies still surrounded the Jewish people, and Arab leaders vowed openly to the world, “We will finish what Hitler began. . . . We will drive the Jews into the sea!”
Would the hatred against the children of Israel never end?
Tonight the red-haired British major, Luke Thomas, warned Jewish civilian refugees in the compound, “Funerals after dark, please. No use risking more killed.”
From across the blacked-out buildings of No Man’s Land came the strident cry of a fighter for the Islamic Jihad, “Allah Ahkbar! There is no god but Allah, and Mohammed is his prophet!”
It was a strange irony, Rachel thought as she heard it, that this declaration, the foundation of Islam, mocked and taunted the ears of Jewish survivors. In the Arabic language Allah was the name of the god of Islam. But when spoken in Hebrew it meant something entirely different. In the writings of Torah the Hebrew word spelled, alef, lamed, heh was also pronounced allah, but it meant, “to curse, to lie, to lament!”
Indeed a terrible lament followed the rabbis, Yeshiva students, women, and children as they fled from their ancestral home in the shadow of the Western Wall.
Arab snipers bloomed thick and fierce on the Old City parapets now that the Jewish population had been driven out. There were no Haganah defenders left to prevent the Jihad Moquades from firing down at will upon civilians in Jewish-held West Jerusalem.
Though mere hours had passed since that tragic defeat, it had dawned upon the people that perhaps they would never again walk the streets of Jerusalem as their ancestors had done. The newest conquerors—men from Iraq, Syria, Egypt, and Jordan—declared to their people that Jewish exile from the holy place of El Kuds was permanent and irrevocable.
The grief at this realization was as tangible as death.
Ten-year-old Yacov shuddered and reached up to clasp Rachel’s hand.
Rachel’s blue eyes clouded as she thought of her father and mother in Poland. She remembered her father standing before his congregation on that last Passover before the fall of Warsaw. What words had he offered to give them courage and hope?
She cleared her throat and began haltingly. “I know what Grandfather would want me to say. Not about him only but for him . . . So many now . . . dying all around us for the sake of HaShem. For Eretz-Israel. For the promise and the hope our people have clung to for generations.” She bit her lip and thought of her husband, Moshe, far beneath the mount where the Great Temple of the Lord had once stood. When would she see Moshe again? When would the people of Israel once more stand before the Western Wall and offer their praise to the Almighty? “I won’t use my own words. But my father and grandfather—indeed, every Jew I knew as a child growing up—had a saying that gave us hope, even in the darkest time. They died with this hope on their lips.” She proclaimed in Hebrew, “‘Ha lahma anya. . . . This year we are slaves! Next year we will be free! This year we are here . . . next year, in Jerusalem!’ ”
What day was it? Moshe Sachar wondered as he replaced the scroll in its alabaster container. How long had he and Alfie Halder been beneath the Temple Mount, hidden away in the sacred archives of Israel?
Moshe’s watch had long since stopped. He and his companion slept and awakened, ate from the vast storehouse, bathed in the mikveh, sang, prayed, and remembered the world they had left behind at Grandfather Lebowitz’s urging. They studied beneath the arch of the glowing universe painted on the stones of the chamber.
All that and yet they could not tell if it was daylight or dark. And now Moshe was no longer sure of the day or the hour. Was Rachel well? Was Israel still in existence? Who ruled in Jerusalem?
When Rabbi Lebowitz had first showed Moshe the secret tunnels beneath the Temple Mount, he had commanded that Moshe, a former professor turned Haganah defender, must learn to tell the time if he was to survive as guardian of the precious archives. Moshe had failed as a timekeeper.
Alfie, childlike in his acceptance and contentment with the present, declared there was no time here.
Did he mean there was no time left?
Or that time was running out for mankind?
Or had they stepped into the eternal now, which had neither past nor future?
None of that was made clear in the sheaf of instructions the old rabbi had left for Moshe about this cavern.
Inscribed beside the next scroll listed in the order of Moshe’s reading was this comment from Grandfather Lebowitz:
Moshe, though you think you know Torah and Tanakh well enough, keep the sacred writings by you as reference so you will better comprehend what is to follow. From before the foundations of the world the order of all things was established. Stay on the path to wisdom. Remember, as you read, that everything means something. In all Scripture not one letter or number is without great significance. Take nothing for granted. Every phrase is a link between heaven and earth. Not one word is misplaced by the Ruach HaKodesh. Every secret is revealed within. Keep the five books of Moses and the writings of the prophets close at hand as you continue your study. Then pray you have years in which to read and delight in the wonder of revelation!
Years?
Moshe longed to see Rachel, to hold her once again. He vowed he would not think about life without her or their children growing up without him.
There was much to accomplish. The reference material was retrieved from the shelves and laid out as the old man suggested.
Alfie carried the large jug that contained the third scroll to Moshe at the long reading table. It was a simple clay jar, of the sort used to draw water from a well.
“I’m ready.” Alfie sat on the bench and clasped his hands eagerly like a schoolboy.
As was his custom, Moshe examined it carefully before opening the seal. On the neck were the Hebrew words THE LAMB OF MIGDAL EDER. Impressed in the clay was a symbol like a shepherd’s crook.
“All right, then,” Moshe said, making notes about the age of the jug and details of its label. “Scroll three. That will leave us with sixty-seven yet to read in the first course of study. And seven thousand more, give or take, after that.”
“Then hurry,” Alfie urged him.
“Well, well,” Moshe teased him. “Do I detect impatience in the man who says there is no time in this place?”
“That’s right. No time.” Alfie reached out to touch the container. “Read. There’s things I never knew. And I want to know . . . everything!”
“Well, then. Maybe so.” Moshe felt a rush of excitement as he carefully cut away the wax seal and removed the plug. Laying the jug on its side, he reached in and touched something soft wrapped around the tightly rolled scroll. He pulled it out. “Sheep fleece. Just a scrap.”
“Like a baby’s cap almost,” Alfie whispered. “Look here. Tied with leather laces.”
“An odd memento.”
Moshe passed it to Alfie, who rubbed it against his cheek. The big man closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. “No time at all. We better get it right.” And then, “Look there! Stars!”
Moshe involuntarily raised his eyes to the ceiling . . . to the sky painted on the dome. For an instant he thought he saw the glint of a shooting star. Imagination, he inwardly chided. And yet . . .
“Yes. Yes! We’d better get it right.” Moshe carefully unrolled the first leaf of the document and began to read. . . .
KI
The Sea of Galilee spread out beneath them that spring night late in the reign of the Roman emperor Tiberius.
The night was deep, the moon not yet risen. Yet the darkness had no power to frighten the three boys. At least not while they were in the presence of Yeshua of Nazareth.
It was a time of rapidly multiplying wonders, those moments just after Avel’s broken heart was mended, Ha-or Tov’s eyes were opened, and Emet’s ears unblocked.
Yeshua’s smile was quick and approving. The Master’s care had even extended to the creature who had been the boys’ mascot and boon companion. Yeshua had restored to life the feathered carcass of Yediyd . . . their Beloved Friend . . . though Yediyd was merely a common brown sparrow. The tiny bird, lifted on the warm wind of affection, had soared away into the freedom of his new life.
And Emet heard the beat of Yediyd’s wings!
The nearly five-year-old orphan had been deaf since birth, yet he heard the crackle of the thorny acacia branch Yeshua tossed into the campfire.
More . . .
Emet noted the rustle of a bat’s leathery wings and heard its high-pitched squeak, sounds so tenuous they weren’t even remarked by Avel or Ha-or Tov. Yet Emet heard them!
Yeshua caught his eye. The Rabbi nodded, understanding and commending Emet’s admiration of the whole startling world of sounds.
The Rabbi fed them broiled fish and fresh loaves of barley bread slathered thick with butter. It was a friendly gesture for which they, each cocooned in a different form of wonder, did not properly thank him.
Emet listened to the imperceptibly sighing wind as it stirred into rustling melody the recently budded leaves of a hilltop terebinth tree. And he observed that Yeshua, finished with his meal, studied his students by the light of the campfire.
Most particularly, Yeshua seemed to notice the matching clothes they wore. The material was cut from one cloak, striped red and green and tan. This was the uniform of the Company of the Sparrows. Eight-year-old Avel had lately been a link boy bearing torches in Jerusalem. Ten-year-old Ha-or Tov had lived as a blind beggar at a rich man’s gate in Bethany. Emet had been of no use to anyone. He had left Jerusalem with Avel because there was no place else to go.
The cloak they had divided among themselves was formerly the property of the martyred prophet Yochanan the Baptizer.
Yeshua’s cousin.
Though uttered on a sigh no louder than the faint breeze, Emet thought he heard Yeshua murmur, “Yochanan. Friend. You were the voice crying in the wilderness. Make straight the way of the Lord. You knew well the kingdom will be made up of little ones such as these. Hearts that trust completely. Yes.” The Master touched the corner of the fabric on the hem of Emet’s robe.
Yeshua’s eyes were so kind, and yet so sad. Had he spoken aloud or had Emet simply overheard his thoughts?
After a time of silence, Avel licked his fingers and finally spoke.
Emet knew Avel’s question wasn’t meant to challenge Yeshua. No. It was asked only out of curiosity.
Avel had been listening to what went on in the Galil before that night. The confrontations, the anger of learned men against Yeshua, Yeshua’s calm and deliberate replies.
And so Avel asked Yeshua: “You told the rabbis if they believed what Moses wrote, they would believe you because Moses wrote about you. Did you mean you, yourself, are written about in Torah? But how can that be? Since Moses lived very long ago? How could Moses have written about you?”
Yeshua smiled kindly at Avel. It was the sort of smile that told him he must be patient; the answer would take much unraveling. Then Ye
shua turned his face upward, as if to find a place to begin the explanation.
One night would not be long enough.
“It will take a lifetime to learn all that Moses and the prophets wrote about what was, what is, and what will be. The teachers of Israel were shepherds. The secret meaning of their words are hidden among the lambs of Israel’s flocks. But tonight we’ll let the heavens teach the first lesson. There . . . above our heads . . . is the first book.” He gestured toward the sky where streaks of gossamer clouds streamed to the east.
So Yeshua began at the Beginning. The right place for young boys who had never been taught anything.
That night the three were smooth wax tablets, which not even a childish alef-bet had yet marred.
The stylus of Yeshua’s words impressed itself on their souls. They became his talmidim, students at the academy of Creation of which he was Headmaster.
Emet, who had never before heard a human voice, nor a single word of speech, experienced the Living Word.
Avel, who had never felt joy or known tenderness, was embraced by he who is Love Incarnate.
Yet Avel and Emet were mere observers compared to the wonder that swept over Ha-or Tov, drawing him upward and out of himself. For Ha-or Tov, who was born sightless and had never known the stars, was given a guided tour of the heavens. The scroll of the universe was unrolled for him, its text of miracles read aloud to him by its Author.
The embers burned low on the campfire. The smoke cleared.
“What are those things?” Ha-or Tov inquired. “There and there and . . . look there!” He gestured toward each of the thousand pinpoints of light garlanding the Galilean sky, at first singly, and then in broad swathes as he tried to take it all in at once. His mop of curly red hair bobbed from vista to vista. “Where did they come from? Who made them?”
