Thieves in the Night: Chronicle of an Experiment

by Arthur Koestler

  He puffed and finished the rest of his glass. ‘Christ,’ he thought, ‘if he doesn’t rise to that he’s a dead fish.’—The A.Ch.C. looked at him thoughtfully.

  “The impartial observer referred to is doubtless yourself, Mr. Matthews?” he asked quietly.

  “I guess I am,” Matthews said. “I am not a Jew, and back home I disliked them as much as anybody else did.”

  “But you seem to have undergone a conversion.”

  “Yea. You can call it that if you like.”

  “Doubtless our persuasive Mr. Glickstein had a strong influence on you.”

  “Glickstein be damned. He’s the same type as your Professor. They stink of ghetto.”

  “Then what made you change your mind in this rather-violent way, if I may ask without being unduly curious?”

  “You may. I’ve seen their settlements. I’ve been down the Jordan Valley and up in Galilee and in the Jezreel Valley and in the Huleh swamps. Those are some guys. They’re a new type. They’ve quit being Jews and become Hebrews.”

  “I share your admiration for them. But after all, don’t you think you are being a little romantic about it—just as some people whom you dislike are being romantic about the Arabs?”

  “Nope. I haven’t seen the Arabs producing anything worth showing off, except cabarets and filthy postcards, from Tangier to Teheran—not for the last thousand years.”

  The A.Ch.C. smiled.

  “Has it never occurred to you that a race may cherish and preserve certain values or a way of life, which are not expressed in spectacular achievements?”

  “Maybe,” said Matthews. “But that isn’t the point we were discussing. I am not so easy to side-track, Mr. Commissioner. It’s not the philosophy of life we are discussing, but the policy of your Government which is selling out on the Jews.”

  The A.Ch.C. gave a mock-distressed sigh.

  “No, you are not easily side-tracked, Mr. Matthews. I had the privilege to admire your singleness of mind in your book ‘Has Democracy Lost Its Punch?’”

  “Guts,” Matthews corrected. “Guts, guts, guts. But that too is beside the point.”

  “Not so much as it seems,” the A.Ch.C. said mildly. “Your book is, if I may say so, a brilliant and pungent attack on what is termed by a popular though nebulous catch-word our policy of appeasement in Europe. Well, Mr. Matthews, I must confess I am an inveterate sinner in your and your friends’ eyes. I am in favour of coming to terms with the Arabs—of appeasing them, if you like. In other words, I believe that all policy, past, present and future, has to be based on reasonable compromise.”

  “Yea,” said Matthews. “The question is what you call reasonable.”

  “Let’s see,” said the A.Ch.C. “I thought the term self-explanatory. But that may be a national prejudice. So we had better consult the dictionary….”

  He emerged from his armchair and crossed with his gentle flamingo-stoop to the bookshelf.

  “Now let’s see,” he said, visibly regaining the mood of quiet fun. “… Rear-arch, rear-vault, reason, reasonable. Here we are: “Sound of judgement, sensible, moderate, not expecting too much, ready to listen to reason; agreeable to reason, not absurd, not greatly less or more than might be expected; inexpensive, tolerable, fair…. That’s about all the Concise Oxford Dictionary has to say. If this doesn’t satisfy you, I’ve also got here the Shorter Oxford Dictionary in two volumes, and the Oxford Dictionary in twelve.”

  Leaning against the bookshelves, he politely smiled down at Matthews who once more filled his glass with soda, conscious of the poisoned absurdity of this dialogue. It may have been the khamsin—which gave him the sensation that the rubbing of his shirt drew sparks from his skin and raised the fluff on his chest in tingling irritation; or perhaps it was just the general atmospheric poison of the country. As his eyes met the A.Ch.C.’s double-coloured gaze, he asked himself from what source that guy derived his arrogantly modest self-assurance. What’s he got to be so modest about? he asked himself, his head slightly swimming. And suddenly he had an absurd vision of the A.Ch.C. as a boy walking along that narrow passage of the via dolorosa with its twelve stations from the Lower First to the Upper Sixth. At its beginning stood a trembling little boy in a cricket cap, thin-limbed, sensitive, and rather too imaginative, rather too keen on poetry and all that; past the fifth or sixth station stalked a completely transformed person with a jutting Adam’s apple and a breaking voice, in the painful process of having his sensitivity derided and his reflexes conditioned so that repression came before impulse and second thoughts preceded firsts; at the end emerged the striped-trousered finished product of that exclusive passion lane, that distinguished torture-chamber and soul-tannery— encased in a supple and resilient crust, a tanned hide impermeable both to outside influences and the sealed-off pressure from within; an adhesive armour the more impregnable as it was not something put on, but the crustification of formerly living tissue transformed into supple callousness….

  Matthews yawned and stretched his legs out. “Aw, Mr. Chief Commissioner, let’s come to the point.”

  “Help yourself to another drink,” the A.Ch.C. said, crossing back to his armchair. “The whole matter is simpler than it appears. From the beginning the Husseini clan had the strongest following among the Arabs; and among the Husseinis Hadj Amin, the later Mufti, commanded the greatest authority. Hence the smoothest way of dealing with the Arabs was to deal through him. We would naturally have preferred to deal with the Moderates; just as we preferred dealing with Dr. Brüning to dealing with Herr Hitler. In both cases we were accused of ‘backing’ the extreme wing whereas in fact our policy merely endorsed, and adjusted itself to, the regrettable but undeniable course of events. Arab Nationalism here is growing rapidly and inevitably as in Egypt, Iraq and Syria. There may be individual sympathisers with this trend in some of our Departments, just as we have individual admirers of Herr Hitler—though I may point out in parenthesis that I am not one of them; however, I can assure you that these personal inclinations have hardly any influence on our basic policy. Nationalistic movements necessarily follow an irrational trend: hence it is useless to argue with Arab nationalists, even of the more moderate brand, about the indubitable benefits they derive from Jewish immigration. They want to be masters in a country where they form the majority; and they are afraid of and opposed to Jewish domination, regardless of any material benefits….”

  “Then why do they sell their land to the Jews whenever they get a chance?”

  “My dear sir—individual greed and patriotic feeling are antagonists as old as the world. The desire to eat one’s cake and have it is a general human characteristic.”

  “And so you are going to make it your business to check this greed and foster patriotic feelings by prohibiting the sale of land to the Jews….

  “We may indeed have to enforce legislation to that effect,” the A.Ch.C. said casually, while wondering where this confounded American intruder got his inside information from.

  “You realise, Mr. Chief Commissioner, that such a law, prohibiting the free sale of property to Jews, would be unique in the world—except for National Socialist Germany?”

  “I know that if we bring in an Ordinance to that effect-though I wish to point out that nothing has been officially decided yet—the Zionists will raise their usual hue and cry, using precisely your arguments, Mr. Matthews. But the analogy in fact is purely extraneous. Germany has an old-established Jewish population, whereas here such a law would merely aim at protecting the native population against the foreign influx.”

  “I thought your Government was pledged to establish a National Home by means of a ‘close settlement of the Jews on the Land’? But I guess I have come to the wrong country.”

  The A.Ch.C. looked at his watch. It was the first sign of annoyance he had permitted himself, and he at once effaced this self-indulgence with a charming smile.

  “Well—we won’t start a legalistic argument, Mr. Matthews. The simple truth of the
matter is that we have to balance the conflicting interests of the two communities. We are extremely sorry for the Jews, and it may not be irrelevant to point out that in aiding Jewish refugees Great Britain has played a larger part than any other country in Europe—or outside Europe, if it comes to that. There is, for instance, good reason to believe that a considerable proportion of the Jewish children in Germany whose transfer to this country proved not feasible, will shortly be admitted to the United Kingdom itself. However, we cannot afford to antagonise the Arab world for the sake of the Jews, just as we could not afford to start a world war for the sake of the Czechs. You may say that we have sacrificed the Czechs, and I shall answer you that in order to avoid a world-conflagration this small sacrifice was justified. We have quietly faced the wrath of well-meaning but somewhat hot-blooded young men like yourself, and we were called names and had a very bad Press—but that was a small price to pay for ensuring Europe’s peace for our lifetime. You may say and write, Mr. Matthews, that we have no ‘guts’— personally I rather dislike the term—but you will have to admit that we never lacked the courage to incur momentary unpopularity in the interest of lasting good. Our task in this country may be ungrateful, but be assured that we shall carry it through. We have come to terms with Egypt and Iraq, and we have to come to terms with the Arab population in this country, on the basis of a reasonable compromise which will fully safeguard the rights of the Jewish minority. That is the whole issue in a nutshell—and everything else is propaganda and rhetorics….”

  There was a short pause; then Matthews heaved himself into an erect position.

  “Thank you, Mr. Chief Commissioner,” he said. “That’s all I wanted to know. Now we are fixed. I’ve listened to your reasonable reasoning which will bring the world greater disaster than the ravings of lunatics. So long.”

  He lumbered towards the door. The A.Ch.C. affably accompanied him. Then he went back to his armchair. He thought it would perhaps be better if he himself wrote to the organisers of the tournament to cancel Jimmy’s entry.

  —Well, old man, he thought, to have one leg cut off defending Jewish settlements doesn’t seem to satisfy Mr. Matthews. What about the second one? Otherwise he will keep on saying that you have lost your guts.

  6

  Answering Colonel Wedgwood’s question, the Colonial Secretary, Mr. Malcolm MacDonald, said that 1220 illegat immigrants have been prevented from landing in Palestine between February 15 and April 15, 1939.

  On March 21, 269 Jews from the steamer Assandu had been ordered to return on March 25 to Constanza, their port of departure. 710 Jews, of whom 698 were from Germany, were prevented from landing from s.s. Astir on April 2, and ordered to return. 250 Jews were prevented from landing from the ship Assimi on April 11, and the vessel was detained with its passengers at Haifa port and ordered to return.

  The Colonial Secretary was then asked by Mr. Noel-Baker whether, since the Jewish refugees had suffered appallingly, they had been returned when refused permission to land.

  Mr. MacDonald said that they had been returned to their ports of embarkation.

  Mr. Noel-Baker: “Does that mean to concentration camps?”

  Mr. MacDonald: “The responsibility rests on those responsible for organising illegal immigration.”

  The Minister added that the Government had the fullest sympathy with Jewish refugees, but if they allowed one shipload more would follow.

  (From the debate in the House of Commons, April 26 and 27, 1939)

  Any commanding officer whose ship or boat has hoisted and is carrying the proper ensign or appropriate flag may pursue any vessel within the territorial waters of Palestine which he believes to be carrying intending immigrants and which does not bring-to when signalled or required to do so. He may also, after having fired a gun as a signal, fire at or into such vessel to compel her to bring-to.

  (Amendment to the Immigration Ordinance, Gazette Extraordinary, Jerusalem, April 27, 1939)

  7

  According to his new routine of life, Joseph had spent the week-end—that is, Friday afternoon and the Shabbath—at home in Ezra’s Tower, and had set out on Sunday morning to his customary round of duties.

  He got up at half-past three, jumped noiselessly over Ellen’s sleeping body with his child inside it, ran the hundred yards past tower, dining-hut and children’s house to the shower-bath, ran back, got dressed, took the imposing dispatch-case which went with his office (it had once belonged to the Dr. Phil.), and was just in time to catch the milk-truck to Haifa. David the driver was surly and unshaven as usual—he suffered from the national disease, duodenal ulcers—so Joseph settled down to sleep in the seat next to him and only woke from time to time when a jolt sent his head bumping against the side frame of the driver’s cabin. But the jolts ceased as they reached the metal road, and for a couple of hours there was nothing to disturb his sleep.

  He woke, however, as he had intended to, at a particular curve a few minutes past Nazareth, where the road emerging from the lower Galilean hills opened on a sudden, breath-takingly lovely view over the Valley of Jezreel. To the south the valley broadened into a plain about twelve miles wide and flat, glistening in the new-born sun—a brilliant chess-board with squares of cultivation in dark and lighter green, lemon yellow and sienna. The main Afuleh-Jerusalem road cut sharp and straight across the plain, a white arrow in flight, pointing at the silvery chalk hills of Samaria which embraced the valley in a sweeping semicircle like the walls of an amphitheatre. To the west, this distant and hazy wall ended in the darker pine slopes of Carmel, falling into the pallid sea; to the east, in the aggressive bulk of Mount Gilboa.

  But the distant hills were merely the frame of the picture; the feast for Joseph’s eyes was the green Valley of Jezreel itself, the cradle of the Communes. Twenty years ago a desolate marsh cursed with all the Egyptian plagues, it had now become a continuous chain of settlements which stretched like a string of green pearls across the country’s neck from Haifa to the Jordan. It was the proudest achievement of the Return, the nucleus of the Hebrew State, the valley of valleys. A battlefield throughout the ages, it was grandiose even in its geological features, for its eastern part sloped down into the deepest inland depression of the earth, four hundred feet under sea level. This eastern part was a broiling tropical underworld with temperatures surpassing a hundred degrees in the shade, and it seemed perverse that the oldest of the large Communes—Herod’s Well, House Alpha and Josef’s Hill—had been set up just in this infernal, swampy, disease-ridden and robber-haunted spot. But twenty years ago land in those savage marshes had been cheap and each square yard of the country had to be bought for hard cash; and the National Fund’s only sources of income were charitable donations and the blue collecting-boxes which the jet-eyed, curly-haired children of the race jingled in the East-Ends from Warsaw to New York;—begging-bowls for the purchase of a kingdom. The race proverbial for its financial genius had to buy its national home by acres on the instalment plan, and native speculation soon drove the price of an acre of desert marsh up to the level of a building plot in an industrial town. If this was Jehovah’s punishment of the money-changers, the old desert god had once more proved his vindictive ingenuity. But this time the Colonial Office had outwitted even old Jehovah. No more waste land was to be sold to the homeless. The wooden plough had to be protected against the noisy tractor, the thirsty earth against the artifice of irrigation, the stones on the fields against impious removal and the helpless mosquitoes against the cruel draining of their breeding marshes. For behold, there was still justice in the world which looked after the feeble.

  —A jerk of the lorry woke Joseph from his brooding and sent his head straight against the roof of the driver’s cabin. He was grateful for the pain which cut the bitter stream of his thoughts and his cramp of impotent hatred. During the last few days it had become almost an obsession. At night, when he tried to settle down to sleep, the stream began its turgid flow. At first it was only a trickle of phrases, of argume
nts to convince an invisible, impersonal, dumb and almighty opponent. Sometimes this opponent appeared as the copper-faced Police Major who had visited them on the first day; sometimes it was the whole House of Commons whose stilted antics had once enchanted him from the Visitors’ Gallery; sometimes the bear-skinned automaton banging his stiff legs down on the gravel in front of Buckingham Palace. But he could never catch the Speaker’s eye nor stop the leg-throwing six-footer marching past; and as his plea remained choked in his throat, its pressure increased and the trickle swelled to a torrent, which expanded through his whole body until his stomach contracted in a spasm and he spat green bile into his handkerchief. I shall either get a stomach ulcer, he thought, or join Bauman’s terror gang. This is the real alternative. One can reach a point of humiliation where violence is the only outlet. If I can’t bite, my wrath will bite into my own bowels. That’s why our whole race is ulcerated in the bloodiest literal sense. Fifteen hundred years of impotent anger has gnawed our intestines, sharpened our features and twisted down the corners of our lips.

  When at last he fell asleep he had no real dreams, only half-conscious images of torment. He was sitting in the Visitors’ Gallery and shouting down to the Speaker with his white wig, but nobody heard his voice and he could never catch that beautiful and dignified figure’s eye. He tried to bar the bear-skinned Guard’s way, but the six-footer marched through him with his banging legs as if Joseph were transparent air. And once he seemed to hear a suave, cultured voice with the accents of his own University: “In the interest of peace and order, the honourable Members are invited to sit on the drowning men’s heads.”

  —The nights were bad. But in the morning, instead of trying to get in touch with Bauman or Simeon, he would get on with his complicated duties as a roving Treasurer of the Commune of Ezra’s Tower. The Commune was growing rapidly; a third graft had arrived and Joseph knew that for the time being he was indispensable. He longed to have a talk with Simeon but both he and Bauman had gone underground, and though Joseph knew one end of the chain through which he could get in touch with them, he was instructed only to do it in case of urgency. He envied them for having burnt their bridges, and admired them as a little clerk admires the gambler who plays for all or nothing. Oh, for the supreme gift of irresponsibility, the gift to translate feeling into direct action! Oh, for the relief of having one’s wrath exploded with a good, home-made bomb! The act of killing already appeared to him divested of its flesh-tearing, physical aspect, free from the angle of death and pain, as an almost platonic act. It was no longer the tactile sensation of the mush which had replaced Naphtali’s eye, but the clean, impersonal act of aiming at a spark in the night. What a luxury to press one’s finger on a hard metal trigger and get hanged singing the anthem and have done with it—done with the Things to Forget which refused to be forgotten and were being repeated on an ever-increasing scale with ever more lurid details; growing on one, growing into one, clawing at one’s brain and bowels, while the waving hands of the drowned failed to catch the Speaker’s eye. There was only one hope of arousing his attention: by the report of the bombs which Bauman’s people threw. But that was not his, Joseph’s, job. He had to wangle a loan from the Settlement Department for a pump to irrigate two hundred more dunums; and two hundred more irrigated dunums meant a haven for fifty more families.