Leon Uris (61 page)

The intercom buzzer went off on Bradshaw’s desk.

“General Tevor-Browne has arrived.”

Bradshaw and Tevor-Browne mumbled cold greetings. Tevor-Browne was one of the few pro-Jews in official circles. It was he who had predicted the end of the mandate in this very office at the onset of the
Exodus
incident and had pleaded that the
Exodus
be allowed to sail before the hunger strike. Tevor-Browne had always felt that the Jews and not the Arabs deserved British support for the reason that the Jews were faithful allies and could be depended upon and the Arabs could not. He had been for the building of a Jewish Commonwealth nation out of Palestine.

General Tevor-Browne’s thinking could not sway Bradshaw and the Chatham House crowd or the Colonial Office. Even at this hour they did not have the courage to reverse their drastic mistake but were standing ready to sink with it. The fear of Arab blackmail over the oil fields and the Suez Canal prevailed.

“I have been reading the summaries,” Bradshaw said.

Tevor-Browne lit a cigar. “Yes, very interesting. The Jews certainly aren’t obliging us by marching backwards into the sea.”

Bradshaw tapped his pudgy fingers on the desk top, resenting the general’s “I told you so,” attitude. “I must give a recommendation in a few weeks.”

“I don’t want your needling implications, Sir Clarence. I wanted to speak over the advisability of retaining Haven-Hurst. I think the time has come to get tougher with the Jews.”

“Haven-Hurst is fine for what you want—unless you wish to obtain the services of some SS generals in the war crimes prisons. We still maintain a civil government in Palestine, you know ... we do have a high commissioner.”

Bradshaw turned crimson under the insults. He managed to hold his temper, a temper which was growing shorter and more violent each day. “I think the time has come to place greater authority with Haven-Hurst.” He handed a sheet of paper over the desk to Tevor-Browne.

It was a letter addressed to the British commander in Palestine, General Sir Arnold Haven-Hurst, KBE, CB, DSO, MC. “The situation has degenerated to such a state that unless means can be recommended for immediate stabilization by you I will be compelled to suggest the matter be turned over to the United Nations.”

“Well said, Bradshaw,” Tevor-Browne said. “I am certain Haven-Hurst will have some rather interesting suggestions if you are a devotee of horror stories.”

SAFED, PALESTINE

The retirement order came through for Brigadier Bruce Sutherland quickly and quietly after the
Exodus
affair. He moved to Palestine and settled down on Mount Canaan near Safed, the ancient city at the entrance to the Huleh Valley in northern Galilee.

At long last Bruce Sutherland seemed to find a bit of peace and some respite from the years of torment since the death of his mother. For the first time he was able to sleep at night without fear. Sutherland purchased a magnificent small villa on Mount Canaan three miles from Safed proper. The air was the purest in Palestine and a constant fresh breeze kept summer’s heat from fully penetrating the area. His home was of white plaster with red tiled roof and granite floor. It was open and breezy and tastefully furnished in Mediterranean décor. Beyond his rear patio there was a terraced hillside of four full
dunams
of land which he converted into a lush garden crowned with four hundred Galilee rosebushes.

The rear garden afforded a breath-taking view of Safed across the valley. From here the city appeared to be a perfect cone in shape. At the wide base of Safed’s hill were the beginnings of winding roads which fought up the peak to the acropolis on top, some three thousand feet in the air. Like so many of the hilltops in Palestine, the acropolis of Safed had once been a citadel in the revolutions of the Hebrews against the Greeks and Romans.

He spent his days puttering in his rose garden, considered to be the finest in Palestine, on trips to the holy places, in studying Hebrew and Arabic, or in just wandering through the maze of crooked and aimless alleys that made up Safed. The town was a constant fascination. It was pressed against the hillside with its narrow oriental streets circling up toward the acropolis in no fixed plan, and the houses were jammed together equally haphazardly. These each with its own special design, grillwork, odd-shaped windows, doors, and balconies cluttered the strangled passageways to add up to a strange sort of charm.

The Jewish quarter, a tenth of the city, was inhabited by the poverty-stricken pious who were content to live off the meager offerings of coreligionists. Safed was the center of the Cabala, the Jewish science of mysticism. The ancient ones here spent their lives in study and prayer and were as colorful as the town itself. They ambled along the rows of tiny shops dressed in outlandish oriental costumes and tattered remains of once majestic silks. They were a gentle and peaceful lot, and for this reason the Cabalists of Safed had suffered the most at the hands of the Mufti’s riots for they were least able to defend themselves.

Their history in Palestine was one of the longest unbroken records of Jewish habitation of the Holy Land. The Crusaders banished the Jews, but after their defeat the Cabalists returned to Safed and had remained ever since. The cemetery held graves of the great Cabalist scholars with tombs dating back four and five hundred years. The Cabalists all believed that anyone buried in Safed would go straight to Gan Eden—the Garden of Eden—so pure was the air in Safed.

Sutherland never tired of walking through the tortuous lanes crowded with tiny synagogues and watching the people or filling himself with the folklore and legend of the rabbis and of the Cabala itself.

The Arab section of Safed held the usual broken-down hovels that are found in every Arab city and town in the world. However, the wonderful climate and scenic beauty of Safed attracted many effendi families to build splendid and spacious homes. Mount Canaan had many homes and resorts for the Jews, Arab Safed had the same for wealthy Arabs. Sutherland had friends in both places.

Consistent with the Arab renown for building atop ruins there were, in the Arab quarters of Safed, remains of medieval buildings converted into contemporary housing. The most beautiful example of the architecture was the Mosque of the Daughters of Jacob on the ruins of a Hungarian Crusader convent.

The crown jewel of Safed was the acropolis. The paths that wound up to the hilltop passed the old Knights Templar castle and the ruins of a Hebrew fort. The very peak stood in a pine forest amid a carpet of wild flowers and commanded a view from the Sea of Galilee on the south to the Huleh Lake in the north where one could follow the winding course of the Jordan River. On the horizon was Mount Hermon, and all the valleys and hills of the Galilee were visible beyond Meron on the western side.

On this hill the ancient Hebrews came once each year to light a fire. The signal would be seen and transmitted from hill to hill to indicate the start of the Holy Days. In the days before calendars the Holy Days were determined by calculations of the chief rabbis, and the fires burned on the hilltops from Jerusalem to Tabor to Gilboa to Safed and on to Babylon to where the Jews lived in captivity.

One discordant note jarred the otherwise perfect beauty and visual poetry: a large, ugly concrete Taggart fort stood outside Safed on the road up Mount Canaan and was visible from Sutherland’s villa.

Sutherland ventured north to look at the
tel
of Hazor and along the Lebanese border to see the burial places of Esther at the fort and Joshua at Abu Yesha. It was by chance that he happened into Gan Dafna and friendship with Dr. Lieberman and Kitty Fremont. For Kitty and Sutherland the renewal of the brief acquaintance made at Cyprus was a welcome thing. Sutherland was happy to develop into a patron saint of the children. Kitty prevailed upon him to let some of the more disturbed children come with her to visit his villa and Safed. In a short time the two formed a fast friendship.

One afternoon Sutherland returned from Gan Dafna and was surprised to find his former aide, Major Fred Caldwell, awaiting him.

“How long have you been in Palestine, Freddie?”

“I arrived just a bit ago.”

“Where are you serving?”

“Headquarters, Jerusalem, in Intelligence. I’m doing liaison with the Criminal Investigation Division. They’ve had a shake-up recently. Seems that some of our chaps have been working with the Haganah and even with the Maccabees, if you can imagine that.”

Sutherland could imagine it quite easily.

“Actually, sir, this visit is only partly social, although I certainly intended to drop up and see how you’ve been getting on. General Haven-Hurst asked me to see you personally because I had worked under you in the past.”

“Oh?”

“As you know we are now in the process of carrying out Operation Polly, the evacuation of nonessential British from Palestine.”

“I’ve heard it referred to as Operation Folly,” Sutherland said.

Freddie smiled politely at the jibe and cleared his throat. “General Haven-Hurst wanted to know what you planned to do.”

“I don’t plan to do a thing. This is my home and this is where I am going to remain.”

Freddie’s fingers drummed impatiently on the table top. “What I mean, sir, is that General Haven-Hurst wants it understood that once the nonessentials are gone he cannot assume responsibility for your safety. If you remain here it could pose a problem to us.”

Caldwell’s speech held obvious devious connotations: Haven-Hurst knew of Sutherland’s leanings and was afraid of his working with the Haganah. He was, in effect, advising him to get out.

“Tell General Haven-Hurst I am grateful for his concern and I fully realize his exact position.”

Freddie wanted to press the matter. Sutherland arose quickly and thanked Caldwell for the visit and walked him to the driveway, where a sergeant waited with a staff car. He watched the car drive down toward the Taggart fort. As usual, Freddie had botched his assignment. His delivery of Haven-Hurst’s warning had been clumsy, indeed.

Sutherland walked back to the villa and thought it over. He was in physical danger. The Maccabees could easily take exception to a retired British brigadier with Arab friends living alone on Mount Canaan, although the Maccabees would certainly think twice about doing him in. There was no danger from the Haganah. He had a loose contact with them and they were not only discriminate but did not go in for assassination. On the other side there was no telling what Husseini was likely to do: Sutherland had friends among the Jews. Some of them could well have been Maccabees unbeknownst to him.

Bruce Sutherland walked to his gardens. They were bursting with the early spring roses. He looked beyond the valley to Safed. He had found peace and comfort here. The hideous dreams were gone. No, he would not leave tomorrow—or ever.

Caldwell’s car entered the Taggart fort a few moments after he left Sutherland. The four outside walls held the offices and barracks. The inner court served as the assembly ground and parking lot for vehicles. He was met and asked to report to CID.

“Are you going back to Jerusalem tonight, Major Caldwell?” the Criminal Investigation Division inspector asked.

Freddie looked at his watch. “Yes, I plan to. We can make it back before evening if I leave right now.”

“Good. I have a Jew here I want taken back to CID in Jerusalem for questioning. Maccabee prisoner ... dangerous one. There is a chance that the Maccabees know we are holding him here and will be watching for a convoy to transfer him. That is why it will be safer if he goes in your car.”

“Happy to do it.”

“Bring the Jew boy in.”

Two soldiers dragged in a boy of fourteen or fifteen years of age manacled with heavy chains on hands and feet. A taped gag was over his mouth. His face was bruised from a CID third degree. The inspector walked up to the prisoner. “Don’t let Ben Solomon’s angel face fool you. He’s a ruddy little bastard.”

“Ben Solomon? Ben Solomon? I don’t remember seeing his name.”

“Just got him last night. Raid on the Safed police station. They were trying to steal arms. He killed two policemen with a grenade. Yes, indeed, you’re a mean little sheeny, aren’t you?”

Ben Solomon stood calm with his eyes blazing contempt at the inspector.

“Don’t take his gag off, Major Caldwell, or he’ll start singing Psalms for you. He’s a fanatic little bastard.”

The inspector became annoyed at the boy’s steady withering glare. He took a step toward Ben Solomon and smashed him in the mouth, sending him crashing to the floor, bloody and tangled in his chains.

“Get him out of here,” the inspector snapped in a nervous voice.

The boy was shoved on the floor in the back of the car. One armed soldier sat in back with him and Caldwell sat in front next to the driver. They drove out of the Taggart fort.

“Dirty little bastard,” the driver mumbled. “Ask me, Major Caldwell, they ought to turn us loose on these Jews ’ere a few weeks. That’s what we should do, by rights.”

“Cobber of mine got it last week,” the guard in the back said, “and a fine bloke he was, too. ’Ad a wife and a new baby. Them Maccabees give it to him right through the ’ead, they did.”

As they drove into the Beth Shean Valley the three men relaxed; they were now in all-Arab territory and the danger of attack was gone until they reached the Jerusalem area.

Caldwell turned around and looked at the prisoner on the floor. The juices of hatred churned in his stomach. He detested Bruce Sutherland. He knew in his heart that Sutherland was helping the Haganah. Sutherland was a Jew lover. Sutherland had intentionally let the catastrophe on Cyprus occur.

Caldwell remembered standing near the barbed wire at the Caraolos camp and a fat Jewish woman spitting out on him.

He looked back at the boy on the floor. The guard sat in the middle of the seat. One heavy boot was planted on Ben Solomon’s head and he snickered with amusement.

“Dirty Jew!” Caldwell mumbled under his breath.

He could see a parade of them. The bearded characters in London’s Whitechapel and he could smell the smell of pickles. The line of pawn shops—they sat hunched over their benches mumbling prayers. Caldwell could see the little boys on their way to Jew school with the black caps on their heads.