The Gates of Zion (13 page)

Whoever had planted them―the British Mandatory Government or the Jewish Agency―had hopes of being around long enough to watch them grow and enjoy their shade.
Somebody was surprised by last
night’s vote,
she thought as the taxi passed the two Quonset buildings that housed the British Officers’ Club.

Just beyond the officers’ club on the left was the large stone YMCA building and directly across from it the King David Hotel. Neither building showed any scars from the deadly explosion set off the year before by Jewish terrorists, killing many of the British Mandatory Government’s staff as it ripped apart an entire wing of the hotel. The Irgun, a renegade collection of militant Jews, had claimed responsibility for the tragedy, and every Zionist, however peaceful, had suffered for their bloody deed. The bodies of clerks and typists had been hauled from the rubble, bloodstains cleaned from the surrounding buildings, and the King David rebuilt.

The Mandate itself continued to crumble, however, until the British government had called for help from the fledgling United Nations.

But they had never expected the outcome of the vote to be in favor of the Zionists. Ellie guessed that this morning the government workers were in a state of shock. Unless the UN revoked Partition―and everyone knew that could still happen―they would be out of a job.

The driver took the longest route to Jaffa Gate, passing the triangular post office and turning on Jaffa Road through the business district in the great shadow of the rugged wall. The castlelike structure of the Citadel loomed ahead with Jaffa Gate just below it. The taxi screeched to a halt in front of the gate, and the driver turned to Ellie with his palm up for payment.

She placed the coins in his hand without a tip, aware that the route he had taken had pushed the fare up considerably. Smiling at his frustrated expression, she hopped from the back of the taxi into the human tide that surged into the Old City.

She had joined the crowd of Christians who were flocking to Sunday worship in the dozens of holy sites of the Christian Quarter. This place, too, was a minor political battleground. Each of the Christian sects and nationalities argued over whose ground was the most sacred and which was the proper mode of worship. Each claimed to have cornered the market on truth and righteousness and God.

Ellie paused to stare up the street as a procession of incense-bearing priests passed by. To her left rose the towers of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where Jesus was said to have died. Ellie wondered what He would say if He could see Jerusalem now. Splintered into a hundred fragments, each block a deadly time bomb of self-righteousness.

And where is God in all this? If He was ever really here, surely He
has given up on this contention and moved His headquarters
somewhere else.
She raised her camera and snapped the shutter as smoke from the incense curled around the cap of a bearded Eastern Orthodox priest.

Directly ahead was the Street of the Chain, which led to the Jewish Wailing Wall and the Muslim Dome of the Rock. The golden dome shone dully today beneath the overcast skies. Yet, still, it outshone anything else in Jerusalem for majestic architecture. Ellie couldn’t help but believe that those who worshipped there had an advantage over the poor, shabby Jews who stood in front of the ancient stones of the Wailing Wall and prayed.

To her right was the Muslim Quarter, spiked with minarets for calling the faithful to prayer.
They would also make terrific posts
for snipers,
Ellie noticed, since they looked over the rooftops into the streets of the Jewish Quarter. And as she gazed down the alleyways of the Arab section of the city, she observed that something was very wrong indeed. Unlike other days in the Old City, when Arab vendors hawked their wares and pursued pedestrians down the street while dickering over a piece of unwanted merchandise, today was sullen and quiet. In the Arab Quarter, merchants sat inside closed little shops and warmed themselves near the rattling primus stoves while they talked of the Mufti’s speech and brooded.

Conversations ceased when Ellie passed by, and angry eyes followed her as she moved through the gloomy alleyways toward the home of Yacov. She felt more like an infidel trespasser now than she had at any time since she had arrived in Palestine. Thinking that perhaps her camera had aroused hostility, she tried to tuck it under her flapping jacket. For now, at least, she had no motivation to take pictures of anyone who wouldn’t smile back at her. Not after last night anyway.

A veiled woman carrying a water jar on her head stared fearfully with liquid brown eyes at Ellie, as if to ask,
“What are you doing
here today?”

Ellie was tempted to turn on her heel and run back the way she had come, back to the relative safety of the New City. Instead she stopped at the open entrance of a tiny shop filled with brass pots and candlesticks and bravely handed the envelope with Yacov’s address on it to a harmless-looking old Arab man.

“Can you tell me … ,” Ellie began as the man turned the envelope upside down and studied the scrawl. It became quickly evident to Ellie that the words held no meaning for him. “Is there someone here who can read?” she continued.

“Read?” The old man smiled, revealing only two yellowed teeth. He reminded Ellie a bit of a jack-o’-lantern. “You American?”

“Yes, American.” She took the envelope from him.

“You like to buy candlesticks, eh? Very cheap.” He rubbed his hands together.

“I need this address.” She pointed to the envelope and talked a little louder, as though raising her voice would help him understand what she wanted.

The Arab picked up a pair of dusty candlesticks and held them out to her. “Very fine, very fine.”

Ellie was about to pocket the envelope when she heard a deep, resonant voice from the darkest corner of the musty little shop.

“What is it you need?” A man dressed in a black robe and checkered keffiyeh stood and walked from the shadows. Ellie saw the blackness of his eyes before his craggy, bearded face came into the light. There was only a hint of a smile on his thick lips, but it was not a kind smile. It was amused at the foolishness of an American woman in the Arab Quarter on a day like today. A golden crescent-moon medallion glinted on his chest.

The black-robed Arab was no taller than Ellie, but his presence seemed to fill the room. Hesitantly she smoothed out the wrinkled surface of the envelope and held it out to him as he approached.

Studying her face, he took the envelope from her, and only when she began to feel the color rise to her cheeks did he look at the writing on it.

“Why do you go to this place today?” he asked, his eyes boring through her once again.

Ellie swallowed hard. “I have a friend there. A little boy I want to visit.”

“You would be well advised to stay away from the Jewish Quarter,”

he warned.

“I have to go, you see, I …” Her voice faded as she watched the strange smile creep back to his lips.

“You are going to take pictures?” He pulled back her jacket to reveal the camera.

Instinctively Ellie edged toward the door. “Maybe. If you don’t know where the place is, I’ll ask someone else,” she said in a rush.

He took a step nearer to her, his steely eyes roaming from the top of her red head to her feet. “I will show you where it is. Come.” He pushed his way past her and strode majestically into the cobbled street.

Ellie followed self-consciously in the wake of the Arab’s flowing robes.
Is it my imagination, or do I glimpse fear and respect on the
faces of Arab men as he passes?
It didn’t matter; she felt somewhat protected and was grateful for the escort to the archway that marked the end of the Arab Quarter and the beginning of the Jewish Quarter.

“There.” He pointed into an alleyway teeming with black-coated Hasidic Jews. “Take many pictures, young woman, for soon this shall be no more.
Salaam.
” He bowed and touched his forehead in salute, then turned and was gone.

The street was so narrow in places that Ellie could almost reach out and touch the houses on either side. Streets were built that way to keep the sun from beating down unmercifully during the hot months, Moshe had told her. Today, especially, Ellie felt as though she had entered a maze peopled with men and women from another century.

As she made her way up the steep slope of the alleyway to the boy’s address, she did indeed begin to snap pictures.

***

Hassan leaned against the entrance of the brass shop and lit his last Lucky Strike as he waited for Kadar to return from escorting Ellie. He inhaled deeply, wondering how long it would be before he could lay his hands on another pack of American cigarettes. They were a luxury enjoyed only by the very wealthy, or the privileged and feared. He was both privileged and feared by the general Arab population. And so was Kadar. It had most certainly been the will of Allah that the stupid girl he followed had stopped in the shop of Kadar’s father to ask directions.

Kadar nodded briefly as he approached. A self-satisfied smile tugged the right corner of his mouth slightly upward. Hassan followed him into the shop, and they both sat in the darkened corner by the stove.

“Allah is kind to us, Hassan.” Kadar toyed with the medallion.

“You recognized her from the photograph, then?” Hassan leaned back against the wall and inhaled the smoke, then flicked his ashes into a brass bowl.

“Surely many of our number on the streets today recognized the red-haired companion of Moshe Sachar. The truth is, even if we were not following her every move, I would have escorted her.”

“Straight to your bedroom, eh?” Hassan laughed loudly.

“A beautiful woman, is she not?”

“Such a shame that we will have to kill her.”

Kadar smiled and narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps she will not have to die quickly. Not before we learn all of her Haganah secrets.”

8

On Eagles’ Wings

The smell of hot apple strudel and cheese blintzes drifted into the dining room from Fanny Goldblatt’s tiny kitchen in her small apartment in Tel Aviv. She poked her head out the swinging door and trilled, “Starving by now, eh? So don’t rush me. Strudel takes time!”

“It’s worth the wait, Fanny.” Moshe rubbed his hand over his newly shaven face.

The majestically plump Fanny wagged a wooden spoon at Rachel. “I expect you to eat everything,” she stated. “Then I will make more.”

Rachel nodded and smiled.

Moshe couldn’t help but wonder,
How long has it been since Rachel
enjoyed cheese blintzes and strudel?

“We need to get a little meat on your bones,” Fanny added, ducking back into her kitchen.

Moshe shrugged. “Fanny thinks every woman should at least
look
like she knows how to cook.”

“And eat, too?” Rachel sipped her coffee.

Her slim figure was lost in Fanny’s deep blue dressing gown, but Moshe noted how it highlighted her black-rimmed, cobalt blue eyes.

Her freshly shampooed hair bore a sheen like black satin.
In broad
daylight, clean and groomed, she is perhaps the most beautiful
woman I have ever seen.
He looked quickly away as her eyes caught his.

“So tell me,” she said softly, circling the rim of her cup with her index finger, “what do you do when you don’t do …
this
?”

“You mean when I am not eating breakfast at Fanny’s?” he countered, noticing that Rachel’s nails were chewed to the quick.

She set the cup down and leaned her chin in her hand. “No, when you are not pulling foolish girls from the sea.”

Moshe evaded her question. “Actually I lead a rather dull life. It would not interest you, I am sure.” The less she knew about him, the better. Most certainly after this morning they would never see one another again, and there was no sense in revealing his civilian identity to anyone who did not absolutely have to know. “You will stay here with Fanny for a day or so. I’ll arrange for your papers.

Someone will pick you up.”

“Like they picked up the two soldiers?” She smiled.

“They will not have far to walk.”

“And where will they take me?”

“There is a kibbutz not far from here. Probably there. It is where the others from your group—”

“It doesn’t matter. I told you last night. I
have
family in Jerusalem.

That is where I belong.”

Moshe noted again her insistence. “Family is important. It is important to belong.”

“You are going to Jerusalem. May I not travel with you?” Her voice dissolved into pleading.

Would it be heartless not to take her with him? Moshe agonized.

Then reality struck and he hesitated, staring hard into his coffee cup.

“And what would you do if the British caught wind of us? Would you jump from the jeep like you did the boat? I can’t take you to Jerusalem. Not now.”

Rachel began to protest as Fanny burst through the swinging door carrying a tray heaped with steaming food. “So, am I interrupting anything?” she asked as Rachel drew back from Moshe and looked away. “Such a pretty girl, Moshe! Your mother, God rest her soul, should have lived so long to see you sitting here with such a pretty girl!” She transferred cheese blintzes onto Moshe’s plate. “So eat already,” she instructed, then turned to Rachel. “Grandchildren.

That’s what every mother wants. And a nice Jewish girl for her son.”

She grinned widely as Moshe and Rachel shifted uneasily in their chairs.

“Come on, Fanny, sit down.” Moshe savored a bite of strudel.

“No, no, I’ll leave you children to yourselves. Lots to do in the kitchen, you know.” She clanged back through the door, humming a Yiddish love song as the two tried not to notice.

Finally Rachel glanced up and whispered, “Is she always … like this?”

“You mean trying to marry me off?” He shrugged. “You are not the first, but you certainly—”

“What?”