The Gates of Zion (33 page)

Ehud climbed down the steps for the last time. The water was knee-deep in the hold, but the damage was not so great that she couldn’t be floated again if it were not for the destroyer that waited for the last of the passengers to get clear.

“All clear!” Ehud shouted to Moshe and Ellie. He joined them on deck and picked up a bundle wrapped in an oilskin raincoat. “It’s her compass,” he answered their questioning looks. “She has taken me many places, and I will not leave her.”

Moshe turned to Ellie. “Can you swim?”

“Sure. I spent half my life in the surf at Balboa.” Ellie laughed as she pulled off her field boots and jacket.

“Race me.” Moshe stood at the bow as Ellie grimaced in anticipation of the cold water. “So jump,” he said impatiently.

When she hesitated, he shoved her into the murky water.

Cold closed over her head, and she came up sputtering and coughing in time to see Moshe dive from the bow. “Well, come on!” he shouted as he swam ahead of her with sure, steady strokes. She followed the hundred yards to the sand.

Trucks from the kibbutz had pulled up behind the dunes, and by the time Moshe and Ellie reached the shore, with Ehud just behind them, refugees were already being loaded and driven to hiding places in the area.

Ehud turned to gaze across the breakers to the
Ave Maria,
perched forlornly on the sandbar.

“Maybe you can float her again,” Ellie said hopefully.

Ehud shook his head sadly. “It is not to be.”

The three of them stood together and watched as the destroyer lowered her guns and took aim. The scream of the siren and wind was shattered by the flash and roar of a cannon, and the
Ave Maria
was splintered into a thousand pieces.

“Checkmate,” Ehud whispered.

21

Return to Jerusalem

Rachel Lubetkin sat in the far corner of the mess hall at Netanya Kibbutz.

She nervously sipped a morning cup of coffee as David Meyer dumped the contents of the mailbag onto a table. When she dared to glance at him, he caughter he eye and smiled.

Pulling a white envelope from his pocket, he held it high above his head, “Quiet!” he shouted, calming the din. “I got a letter here from the Jewish Agency that I am supposed to hand deliver.” Silence fell over the room as men and women turned toward David. “Seems there is a young lady here who’s been waiting for word from her family in Jerusalem.”

Eyebrows raised as members of the kibbutz exchanged glances, then focused their attention on Rachel. Rachel remained silent.

David pivoted slowly, as if making certain that everyone saw the letter. Then he cleared his throat loudly. “Is there a Rachel Lubetkin here? Rachel Lubetkin?”

Rachel set her cup on the table and stood shakily, biting her lip to control her emotion. She walked forward through the silent crowd, then stumbled, and a man reached out to steady her. “I am Rachel,”

she said loudly. “It is my letter.” She held her eyes on David’s, knowing he must certainly see her gratitude. She reached out for the letter, and as he handed it to her, she stepped back shyly and lowered her gaze. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” he said.

When two women started whispering together, anger flashed across David’s face.
“Mazel tov,”
he added. “Isn’t that what you say?

Good luck.”

Without a word, she left the mess hall and, tucking the precious envelope into her pocket, hurried toward the orange orchard, now heavy with ripe fruit. She sat on the bank of an irrigation ditch and took the letter from her pocket. Clumsily she tore the letter open and held it in trembling hands.

Dear Miss Lubetkin,

In reply to your inquiry of last week, we have conducted a search
and are most happy to report that your grandfather is indeed living
in the Old City of Jerusalem. Under ordinary circumstances we
would be pleased to assist you in the reunification of your family.

The political situation at this time, however, precludes travel to
Jerusalem. It is our hope that at a later date we will be able to assist
you in relocation to the city of Jerusalem.

Shalom and Best Wishes,

Freda Moskevitch

Director of Family Reunification

Rachel read the letter over again and again. Grandfather was alive! Her heart rejoiced that the old man’s heart still beat. The letter did not say if he knew of her. And she was uncertain about the phrase
“precludes travel to Jerusalem.”
Was she to leave today? What exactly were they trying to tell her? She puzzled over the words, feeling remarkably stupid and inadequate. And who, in this place, could she trust to help her understand the meaning of the words?

Behind her she heard a gentle knocking on one of the tree trunks; then an orange plopped beside her. She turned to find David standing on the opposite bank of the ditch, peeling another orange.

“Good news?” he asked, jumping across and sitting beside her.

“Yes.” She handed David the letter. “But I do not understand many of the words.”

David read the letter. “Well, great. That’s good, Rachel. The old man’s alive, huh?”

“Yes.” She nodded again, then pointed to the third sentence. “But what of this? What does it mean, please?”

“Well, I think they’re trying to say that things are getting so hot there that you won’t be able to get together with your grandfather until things are a bit more peaceable.”

Rachel’s smile dropped away, and she leaned over to study the words once again. “I must stay here then?”

“Yeah. Looks like it.”

***

David watched as disappointment wiped away the joy that had only moments before lit Rachel’s beautiful face. What could he say to keep her hope alive—her hope of going home to Jerusalem? to her grandfather?

“Only until this political situation gets settled, you know,” David hastened to add. “Don’t worry.”

“Then I must stay here,” she said dully, taking the paper from him.

“For how long?” She searched David’s face.

He pursed his lips, not wanting to give her an answer. “It may be a while. Honestly, I don’t know what to tell you.”

Tears spilled out as she clutched the letter and lowered her head.

She made no sound, but small drops fell on her skirt.

David patted her back awkwardly. Once again he was the Tinman, clumsy and stupid in the face of emotion. He searched for words to comfort her but found none.

Finally she wiped her eyes. “He is so very old, you know. So very old. And I have no one else.”

“I’m sorry.” David frowned and threw a dirt clod at an orange peel on the ground in front of him. “I’m really sorry, you know. But the Arab Legion has moved in on the roads from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem.

A beauty like you wouldn’t get five miles past the blockades.

Understand?”

Rachel nodded. “You are the only way into Jerusalem then?” She looked at him hard.

For a moment he didn’t answer; finally he stood up. “Sorry. Uh-uh, not me. No way. They’ve got a list of priority stuff for me to fly in, and you’re not on the list, I’m afraid. Besides, once you get to Jerusalem, how are you going to make it into the Old City? The Mufti’s got every way in and out covered.”

Rachel continued to gaze at him in silence. David looked away from the question in her eyes. He had never, he thought, seen such hauntingly beautiful eyes. “Don’t look at me like that. I can deliver a letter for you maybe, but smuggle you into Jerusalem? No way can I do that. No ma’am.”

She put her hand timidly on his arm. “It is all right, David. You have done so much already. I would never ask you to risk that.”

David frowned and scratched his head. “Risk? I don’t know that it’s such a risk. Except for you, y’know. Jerusalem is hard-pressed to feed the folks who live there now. That’s the risk. It’s no risk for me.”

“Then I will find another way to get there. Perhaps I can make it over the roads.”

“Wait a minute―just hold it.
That
would really be a risk! You’d be shot or taken hostage or―well, all kinds of things could happen.

You’re a beautiful woman. Beautiful.”

“Do you not think that I know what could happen? I am familiar with what cruel men can do to a woman.”

David looked quickly away. “What I meant was …”

She smiled sadly at him and took her hand away from his arm. “They told you of my past, David. I am not afraid of anything anymore―except living alone.”

David ached with sympathy for her and searched his mind for an answer. “You won’t make it to Jerusalem on the road. It’s that simple.”

“I have to try.”

“Ah―” he threw a wedge of orange peel into the ditch— “have you got a place to stay until we can get you to your grandfather?”

“You will fly me?”

“I didn’t say that. I asked you where you intend to stay.”

“I do not know. I know no one.” Rachel frowned. “I will simply have to find Grandfather.”

“You’ve got to have a plan, Rachel. Do you think you’re just going to waltz right up to the Mufti’s men and walk through the gates? Listen —” he paused thoughtfully—“I know a girl. A journalist. Maybe she can help. She can get into places where sane people fear to go.” He laughed at Rachel’s questioning stare. “Anyway, I’m supposed to pick her up, along with another guy, in Naharia this afternoon. Maybe you can stay with her for a few days.”

“You will fly me to Jerusalem then? Today?”

David threw down his half-peeled orange, shaking his head in disgust with himself for being such a sucker. “Go get your stuff.”

***

Rachel ran back to her Quonset dormitory, clutching the letter. She paused at the door and smiled at the women who had just returned from breakfast.

A thin, cruel-lipped woman watched as Rachel stuffed a small canvas bag with her few belongings. “Going somewhere, Rachel dear?” the woman sneered.

Rachel finished packing, then stood erect and squared her shoulders, looking each of her tormentors straight in the eye. “I am going home,”

she declared. Turning swiftly, she walked regally from the room and across the grassy square to the mess hall.

She pushed the door open and stood for a moment, searching for David among the members of the kibbutz. He sat near the far end of the room among a small group of men and women. His plate was heaped high with scrambled eggs and coarse brown bread with orange marmalade, but he had not eaten. Instead he sat quietly listening to the BBC of Palestine.

A voice announced in frantic, heavily accented English: “
This morning, just past six o’clock, Jewish terrorists
attacked and bombed the Arab Semiramis Hotel in the
Jerusalem suburb of Katamon. The death toll at this time is
eleven, with many more believed to be buried in the rubble.

The staff of Hadassah Hospital has opened its doors to the
injured and dying… .”

Rachel stepped back and shut the door slowly, then walked toward the empty plane waiting in the field. She had grown so tired of the talk of death and dying all around her. Just for this morning, she wanted only to think about living, about her grandfather, about the home she had heard her mother speak of so many years ago. She unlatched the door of the little plane and threw her bag behind the passenger seat, then climbed in and closed the door behind her.

Sunlight warmed the interior of the plane, and Rachel began to feel drowsy. Leaning her head against the glass windowpane, she gazed across the plowed field into the orchard beyond. A young couple walked hand in hand along the edge of the field and disappeared into the orchard. Tears filled Rachel’s eyes as she wondered what loving words were spoken in the shadow of the branches. Such words she had never heard―and never would, now that she bore the mark
Nür
Für Offizere
. No man would ever see past that mark to love her.

David threw open his door with a clang, startling her back to reality.

“There you are!” he exclaimed. “I thought maybe you had chickened out.”

“Chickened out?”

“Changed your mind.” He smiled.

“No, I have not.”

“Well, now’s your chance. Another hotel just went up in smoke.

Radio says the Haganah did it. Nobody around here seems to believe that, so we got us a real mystery on our hands. Killed a bunch of civilians―Arabs, I guess.”

“Terrible,” she said. “Sad for everyone.”

David climbed in and flipped the ignition switch while two strong Sabra men cranked the propeller. The engine roared to life; then the plane bounced over the rough terrain and slowly lifted into the air.

David circled the kibbutz once and dipped his wings in salute as Rachel gazed, enthralled, at the tiny buildings and trees below her. A feeling of peace flooded her. For the first time in years she felt unfettered.

“It is wonderful!” she shouted at last over the noise of the motor.

“Ever flown before?”

As David smiled at her, Rachel thought she had never seen such a handsome man. She looked away quickly. “No, but I like it very much, thank you.” She sensed his eyes were still on her. She glanced at him. As he held her eyes with his own, she said, “I know what you are thinking. You must not pity me.”

“Pity is the last thing I’d think about. I was just thinking that you must be some kind of lady to have come out of those experiences still sane.”

“Sanity is simply a matter of perspective, is it not?”

“I guess that’s one way to look at it, especially if you’re the one in a straitjacket.”

“Everyone, I think, wears a straitjacket at one time or another.”

David grinned. “Like I said, that’s one way of looking at it.”

Rachel sat silently, afraid to say more―afraid to say too much.

Finally she asked, “This girl I am to stay with, she is your girl?”

“She’d say that’s a matter of perspective.” David laughed.

“But you are … you love her?”

“Yep.” He banked the plane and set course for Naharia.