Israel (81 page)

In addition to supervising his armament research staff, Herschel had traveled to many cities across the United States, using his Institute-supplied guise of a scrap-metal dealer to buy up drill presses, lathes, grinders and so on. The Second World War was over and machines that had been worth millions when they were running full tilt to supply the war effort were now lying idle and being sold as scrap.

Even more valuable to Herschel were machines specifically designed to manufacture munitions. American law prohibited their sale, but they could be broken down by their owners and their parts sold as junk. Herschel as well as other Zionist agents, both American and Palestinian, visited junkyards nationwide. Thanks to the research of the Upper West Side staff, they knew what parts they wanted, and they bought them with funds from overseas and from the Institute.

Herschel regained his sense of direction once he found
Jackson Street. The old man in the store was correct; the street sign had fallen down. Herschel would never have found his way if he hadn't asked for directions.

The old man—there was something familiar about him that was still gnawing at Herschel, but he put it out of his mind as he entered the Palestine Relief Agency office, nodded to Leo and looked over the potential new recruit.

The boy, for that's what he was, didn't look like much. He was very short and thin to the point of undernourishment, if such a thing was possible in America. He was wearing pleated slacks, a turtleneck sweater and a battered leather jacket. He had a hatchet face with a high, bony forehead emphasized by his dark, wavy hair worn slicked back. He was smoking a cigarette. His eyes were narrow and he adopted a leering, sneering expression at Herschel's entrance.

Herschel ignored the pose. It was irrelevant; such swagger told one nothing about a man except that he'd never been tested.

“Hi. I'm Danny—”

“Hill,” Leo put in.

Herschel shrugged. “I'm Herschel Kol.” He thought about what Leo had told him. The boy was bright, trained as a machinist. He was a military pilot but had never seen action. He expected to be paid for his services. Well, that was no problem. The Institute allowed him a personnel budget, which he supplemented with his own funds.

Once his criminal record was expunged there was nothing to stop Herschel from making contact with the American representatives of his investment firm. He was pleasantly surprised to find that his trust had grown to half a million U.S. dollars. Arrangements were made with his mother's approval for Herschel to draw on the income as need be. He had already done so on behalf of his staff of student researchers. They were not being paid, but Herschel knew of their money problems: tuition, rent, elderly
parents and so on. Herschel gave them money from his own pocket as they needed it, and not one of his staff had abused his generosity. He insisted that his older operatives submit detailed expense accounts. He himself took no Institute money beyond what he spent on machinery. He was also paying the rent on the Upper West Side apartment.

No, the fact that Danny wanted a salary was no problem. Institute funds were available, and Herschel could always sweeten the pot. He remembered what Leo had told him: more than anything young Danny wanted to fly. Herschel guessed that the chance to be an aviator was the best bait for this useful American.

“Leo,” Herschel said, “would you mind awfully if Danny and I went for a walk?”

“It's cold out there,” Danny complained.

“So after we've talked I'll buy you a cup of coffee.”

Once they were outside, Danny asked, “Where do you want to walk?”

“Take me around Green-witch Village—why are you laughing?

“It's Grennitch, like in England, you know?”

“All right, but I don't know England.”

Danny glanced at him. “You sound English.”

“Let's walk.”

Danny led him along Grand Street to the Bowery and then up to Spring Street, which they walked all the way to West Broadway. As they strolled Danny told Herschel about the history of the area, bringing to life the cast-iron factory buildings with tales of the countless Jewish men and women—including Danny's own father—who had slaved in the sweatshops.

“My pop was a big deal in the 1910 strike,” Danny boasted.

“Oh, yes?” Herschel replied politely, not at all certain what they were talking about. “Is he still in the union?”

“No, he's—” Danny hesitated, rehashing Leo's cautions about involving his family in this mysterious business. “Look, Herschel, I don't know what you want from me, but whatever I decide to do, maybe we'd better keep my family out of it.”

“Sure. I won't ask again about your family.”

They had reached the corners of Bleecker and MacDougal streets, the heart of the village. Herschel pointed out a basement-level coffeehouse. They went inside and took a corner table in the nearly empty cafe but did not get down to brass tacks until the waitress had brought them their order and gone.

“How come you didn't want to talk in front of Leo?” Danny asked.

Herschel sipped at his coffee. It was called espresso and came in a familiar tiny cup, but despite his expectations the brew was far weaker than the Turkish coffee of his homeland. “There is such a thing as ‘need to know,' Danny. What Leo doesn't hear he can't repeat.”

“Come off it, pal. Leo's been devoted to Zionism for—”

“Danny, right now you should understand the dangers. Leo runs a relief office, and it's been planned that he sit there, vulnerable to the authorities, to divert attention from the important part of the operation. The less Leo knows, the less likely it is that he'll go to jail, or for that matter, that I'll go to jail . . .”

“Wow.”

Herschel sipped his espresso, satisfied with Danny's reaction. Leo had suggested that he play up the melodramatic aspects of their operation, and it seemed to be working.

“Are you saying I might end up in prison if I go along with you?”

Careful—entice him, but don't scare him off. “I'm
saying that it is a possibility if you aren't careful.” Herschel eyed his quarry. “Does that frighten you?”

Danny licked his lips. “I can play any hand I'm dealt.”

“Listen to me. This will require you to be very clever if we are to succeed. Slang from your gangster cinema will not do.”

Herschel quickly, quietly filled him in, first on the strife-torn history of the Zionist paramilitary organizations and then on how they'd come to band together to begin preparations for the day when the British withdrew from Palestine and the Jews would have to defend themselves against the Arab onslaught. “Others like me are gathering weapons and ammunition, but the best we can hope for is a bare trickle. We must set up within Palestine's borders a munitions industry.” He then went on to detail his own part in the mission and what he wanted from Danny.

Danny's enthralled look was a scowl by the time Herschel was finished. “Sounds like you expect me to babysit a bunch of college kids whenever they aren't researching at the library—”

“Danny, it's an important job—”

“Bullshit. An old lady could do it if she happened to be a machinist.” Danny's eyes widened. “That's it, isn't it, Kol? You and Leo were just making the flying stuff up, weren't you? It's my machinist's background that interests you.”

“Flying comes later,” Herschel said weakly.

“Bullshit.”

“And there is much more to do. What we have so far purchased is in temporary storage all over the country. We must consolidate our purchases here in New York and figure out a way to get them to Palestine without alerting the authorities. There is much more to be bought, but some of it is so clearly designed for making munitions that I, as a foreigner, don't dare approach the owners. I need somebody
who is American and has the technical ability to judge the merchandise. That's you. In New York I can fit in, but in most of your country I would attract too much attention. It is I who will be the babysitter, waiting here for your telephone calls.”

Danny toyed with his coffee cup. “You know, I think I got an angle on that warehouse problem.”

“Wonderful.”

“I'm not saying I'll do it.”

“There is so much you could take care of for me.” Herschel paused. “I'm going to tell you a great secret. You must tell no one, even if you don't wish to help. What we've so far purchased will help make Palestine secure in the future, but what is needed is an innovative approach to a light automatic weapon, one that can be manufactured in existing factories. We need a gun every man can keep with him in his home so that when the alarm goes out he can take it from beneath the bed and stand ready to defend his homeland.”

“Sure,” Danny nodded. “Like the Bren and Sten guns and the MA31 submachine gun.”

“Yes, but how did you know?”

“Hey, I was in the army, remember? I got some training with the MA31—we called it the grease gun because that's what it looked like. It was really cruddy—cast and stamped out with a minimum of machined parts. It worked, though. I think they got the inspiration from the Sten.”

“That's what I always thought,” Herschel replied. “You see, Danny, we are almost like brothers. We share the same thoughts and have the same interests.”

Danny did not reply for a moment, and then he said, “All this talk about sneaking around, smuggling guns, and prison. I guess we really would be breaking the law?”

Herschel had been waiting for this last hurdle. “Danny, technically we are breaking the law. Morally I think we
are justified, but you know the arguments for Zionism as well as I. You will never be asked to do your country harm. You must decide if it is worth the risk.”

Danny thought about his options, joining the machinists' union and shuffling papers for his big siser. He shook hands with Herschel and said, “Okay, I'll get started on our warehousing problem.”

Within two weeks Danny had a clear picture of their storage needs. He telephoned Benny Talkin. As a kid Danny had suffered a case of hero worship for the popular, brawny young gang leader. Benny had always been cordial to Danny, but the great difference in their ages kept them from making friends. During his teens, Danny hoped that his sister and Danny would resume their romance so he might someday work for the trucking king with his glamorous rumored connections to the mob.

Danny spent an hour with Benny in his warehouse office on the Manhattan side of the Hudson, exchanging reminiscences about growing up in the old neighborhood, about Danny's military experience, about how prosperous Benny was looking. They even talked about Becky.

“Lucky girl,” Benny observed. “Marrying Carl Pickman put her right up on top.”

Sort of like marrying Stefano De Fazio's daughter, Danny thought, but all he said was, “I guess she's made her own luck.”

Benny's smile was blinding. “I can go along with that. Now what can I do for you, Danny boy?” He shot his cuffs, planted his elbows on his desk and rested his jaw on his clasped hands. “If I'm in luck you're here for a job, because I could do with a sharp guy like you.”

Danny blushed and tried not to stare at Benny's cuff links. They were glittering gold and the size of buffalo nickels. “I'm not here for a job, but thanks anyway. I'm
here to talk business. Have you been following the action in Palestine?”

“Who hasn't? The news is full of it.”

“Here's the story, Benny. I'm working for Zionists, but I don't want to go into detail. We need a warehouse. It's got to be the kind of place where people have learned not to be too nosey. It's got to have concrete floors and a loading dock (Strong enough to support heavy machinery. It's got to have good access to the piers—”

“You're talking to me, kid, but you're not saying much.”

“You know what I'm talking about.”

“Something shady for sure. Look, Danny, when it comes to Palestine, I've done my part and I'll do more if I can. A few months ago I got a call from a guy who's working with Ben Hecht, the big Hollywood writer. He's fund-raising for the lrgun, and me and a lot of my associates anted up. Everything those lrgun guys can dish out to the British they deserve. I say we've negotiated long enough. Negotiate is just another word for begging. The Jews have begged enough. Those poor saps in Germany probably begged all the way into the gas chambers, and what did it get them?”

He shook his head. “That's how I feel and I don't mind saying so, but I still want you to level with me about what you and your friends are planning to do with the warehouse. I've got to know what I'm getting myself—which means Stefano—involved in.”

Danny leveled with him. When he was done Benny said, “Renting you warehouse space would be just the beginning of it. Stefano owns the docks, and that means you're going to need us to get this stuff of yours out of the country.”

Danny tried Herschel's argument. “Nothing we've bought so far is technically against the law.”

Benny scoffed. “Take it from me, there's plenty of
guys in jail on technicalities. You on the War Assets Administration's mailing lists?”

Danny nodded. “We have people going to all the auctions—”

Benny's smile turned hard. “Tell me, kid, you think the Feds aren't there as well, watching to see who buys what and for how much? Sooner or later you guys are going to get a nice visit from the FBI.” He shook his head. “What I told you before about being contacted by some Hollywood guys to contribute to the lrgun—well, maybe those movie moguls have been watching their own gangster pictures too long. Maybe they expected us to ship our old tommy guns over there or something. Now, that's been done on a small scale, but maybe I looked into the profitability of a privately arranged large-scale arms shipment to Palestine. You know, make a few bucks and help our people out at the same time.”