Zion (13 page)

The smell of baked bread filtered on to the landing as he stood, hunched over, getting his breath back. He heard a baby crying behind one of the doors. When he had recovered he found flat 613 and knocked on the door.

It edged open a fraction and a small, dark-haired woman peered out at him. “What do you want?”

“Pray for the peace of Jerusalem,” Asher said, giving the current
Palmach
password.

The woman opened the door and Asher went inside. The curtains were drawn and the air was stale. The remains of a meal were scattered on the kitchen table. There were five other occupants, four young men, and a girl. A Sten gun lay dismantled on the floor on a white sheet, and two of the men were carefully cleaning and oiling the mechanism.

One of them recognized him straight away. “Asher!”

“Hello, Moshe. How’s things?”

Moshe embraced him. “This is Asher Ben-Zion,” he said to the others. “He was in command of my battalion up in Haifa. He led the raid on Atlit.” The others relaxed. The girl who had answered the door offered him a cigarette.

“How’s the leg, Ash?”

“It’s coming along.”

“What are you doing these days? I heard you went back to the
kibbutz
.”

“They won’t get rid of me that easy. I’m working for the
Shai
until I can get another combat posting.”

“So what brings you here?”

“I’m looking for Rosenberg. Is he here?”

The door to one of the bedrooms opened and Netanel came out. His hair and clothes were mussed from sleep. He stretched. “Ash! What are you doing in Jerusalem?”

“I’ve got some good news for you, Netanel. How would you like to do a little job for the
Shai
?”

There were only two bedrooms, with a single metal-frame bed in each room, mattresses taking up the rest of the floor space. Six rucksacks were lined up against the wall. They all had to be ready to leave at ten minutes’ notice.

“See how we live in Jerusalem?” Netanel said. “Sometimes I think Auschwitz was better.”

“If you let your people clean Sten guns in the living room like that you might soon find yourself behind the wire again sooner than you think.”

“You know what
sabras
are like. You can’t tell them anything.”

“You forget I am a
sabra
.”

“No, Ash, I didn’t forget.”

Asher eased himself onto the edge of the bed, wincing at the pain in his thigh. He massaged the muscle. He had another cramp.

“How is it?” Netanel asked.

“It aches all the time.”

“Some wounds never heal. I know what it’s like. I still get headaches from where the Germans beat me once.” He took a packet of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his shirt and flipped it open with his thumbnail. He put one in his mouth and lit it with the glowing tip of Asher’s cigarette.

“Been busy?” Asher asked him.

“The Arabs are stepping up their attacks. One of my boys was wounded last week outside Zion Gate. I lost two more when the British found them with revolvers in their pockets. Enough of my own problems. Tell me about this job you have for me.’

“I’m working with the
Shai
- intelligence. Something came up I thought you might be interested in.”

“Greatcoats and fedoras don’t interest me.’

“We don’t want you as a spy. We need volunteers for a job we want done. It’s dangerous, of course.”

“Tell me what it is first.”

“It’s Auschwitz, Netya.”

Netanel’s face lost all expression. “One of them is here in Jerusalem?”

“My wife works for the
Shai
also. She has a contact inside the British government. He told her there’s a German officer living right here in Jerusalem, in the German colony. He was an SS major at Auschwitz.”

“The British are sheltering him?”

“Not exactly, but they’re not going to do anything about it, either. So that means we have to. Will you help us?”

“You already know the answer to that.” He drew on his cigarette. “What’s his name, Ash? Perhaps I know him.”

“It’s Emmerich. Former SS Reichsmajor Rolf Emmerich.”

Wilhelmina

There were two Arab policemen guarding the gate. Captain Wilbur Spencer-White, and his driver, Corporal George Taylor, handed them their security passes. Taylor dealt with them while the officer sat in cold and imperious silence.

“Good day for the race,” Taylor said.

The Arab sergeant examined the passes carefully. “What race?”

“The human race.”

The sergeant did not laugh. The passes appeared to be in order, but he couldn’t let slip the chance to harass these God-cursed Britishers. “What is your business here?”

“That is our concern,” the officer said. “Our papers are in order. Please let us pass, there’s a good chap.” He tapped his swagger stick impatiently on the dashboard of the jeep.

The sergeant fumed. Quickly come the dawn when they ran these arrogant sons of whores out of Palestine! He handed the passes back to the British corporal. He gave a lazy salute and turned his back.

“A good day for the race?” Netanel said when they were safely past.

“I actually heard a British corporal say that once,” Asher said. “It didn’t raise a laugh then either. But it serves its purpose. If someone thinks you’re a fool, they become less suspicious of you.”

The jeep stopped in the gravel forecourt. Netanel jumped out.

“Good luck,” Asher whispered.

“I’ve prayed for this moment ever since I got out of Auschwitz. I don’t need luck.’

“Remember, Netya! One bullet is all we have time for!”

“I’ll remember.” Netanel went to the front door, ramrod straight in his khaki uniform and peaked cap. He adjusted the holster of the Webley Special and rapped on the door with his swagger cane.

The house was classically Arab in style and architecture, built of weathered pink Jerusalem stone. The housekeeper led him through a central court-yard brilliant with purple flowering bougainvillea and then into the main house. There were graceful arches and high, vaulted ceilings. Copper plates decorated the walls and the floors were tiled in bold black and white marble.

“Major Emmerich does not receive many visitors anymore,” she said. Her name was Ilse; she was German also, she told him, though she had always been totally opposed to the Nazis. “Most good German people did not like Hitler or the things he did. But what could we do? What was your name was again?”

“Spencer-White. Captain Spencer-White.’

“What do you want to see him about?”

“Official business,” Netanel said.

“Well, I don’t know if he will be able to help you much.’

Just hurry up, he thought. I want to see his face when I hold the gun to his head; I want to remind him about Amos Mandelbaum.

“Major Emmerich didn’t like Hitler much either,” Ilse prattled on. “He was just a soldier doing his duty.” They reached the sitting-room. It had dusty parquet floors, Persian prints and a Bedouin hunting knife hanging on the wall.

There was a man sitting in a cane chair with his back to him, facing the garden. I can’t believe it, Netanel thought, I can’t believe fate has brought you back here!

“You have a visitor, Major,” Ilse said.

Netanel looked down at the man in the chair.

It wasn’t Emmerich.

The body may have belonged to him once, perhaps. He had the same short blond hair and glacial blue eyes. But for the most part it was like looking at a wax figure that had been left too near a hot fire; while one half of his face remained as coldly beautiful as he remembered, the other half appeared had melted away. The muscles on the left side of his face had wasted away, exposing the pink lower lid of his eye.

This could not be SS Reichsmajor Emmerich.

“You have a visitor!” Ilse shouted in his right ear. “It’s a Colonel Spencer-Weiss from the British army.
Verstehen Sie
?"

Emmerich mumbled something incomprehensible in German.

“I don’t know if you’ll get anywhere today, Captain,” Ilse said. “He has his good days and his bad days. Anyway, I’ll leave you with him. You give me a call if you want me. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

“Emmerich?” Netanel said. “Emmerich, do you know who I am?”

There was no response. Saliva leaked from his jaw and pooled on the front of his dressing-gown.

“Don’t you remember me? It’s Netanel Rosenberg!”

He thought he saw a muscle work in Rolf’s face.

He took the revolver from his holster and removed the safety. He placed the muzzle between Rolfs eyes.

“Netanel Rosenberg. You remember me, Rolf. At Auschwitz.”

Dear God, don’t do this to me! He must remember! Let me see one spark of Rolf Emmerich and then I can kill him. Amos will be avenged and I’ll be free!

He stared into Rolf’s good eye, right into the black heart of it, but it was empty.

“Too late,” Amos Mandelbaum whispered in his ear.

“Too late,” Netanel said.

Rolf mumbled something in German. It sounded like “
Ilse
.” Netanel was aware of a rank odor. Former SS Major Rolf Emmerich had fouled himself.

“Damn you,” Netanel whispered. There was no retribution to be had then, not here. Whatever was left of Rolf Emmerich had rotted away inside the skeleton under the blanket.

He holstered the revolver and walked out. Ilse came out of the kitchen wiping her hands on her apron. “Going already, Herr Captain?”

“How long has he been like that?”

“He was wounded in the head when a Russian fighter attacked the convoy he was with. He got a fever in the hospital afterwards. They say he’s been like this ever since. Some days he manages a few words. Did you finish your business?”

“Yes, thank you,” Netanel said.

Ilse proffered her hand and Netanel shook it. Too late he realized the trap. The sleeve of his uniform rode up his arm and Ilse stared at the tattooed number on his arm. “You’re not a British captain at all,” she said. She laughed right in his face. “You’re just a dirty Jew!”

Netanel snatched his hand away. “Get out of my way.’

“Hitler was right about you people. We were doing the world a favor. Perhaps the Arabs will finish the job.”

Netanel fumbled for the Webley in his holster. He placed the barrel against her head.

“Go on. Do it,” she said.

He lowered the revolver. He wasn’t going to murder a woman in cold blood. Instead he smashed it against her temple, sending her sprawling across the marble. He stepped over her unconscious body and walked out of the house.

PART THREE

PALESTINE, 1946

Chapter 9

Late afternoon, a white sun leaching the pink from the stone walls of the Old City and the blue from the sky. Henry Talbot squinted against the glare while his chauffeur tried to negotiate the traffic below the Jaffa Gate. He looked at his watch. He had an appointment inside the British Security Zone in the western city at four o’clock. At this rate he was going to be late.

“Hurry it up, Moussa,” he said, though it was clear there was little Moussa could do except punch the horn even more frequently.

Ahead of them the blunted spear of David’s Tower rose above the choking fumes of traffic and the bustle of the twentieth century. Talbot felt a longing for an ancient, less hurried, time.

Suddenly the Rover came to a complete stop. The braying of horns rose to a crescendo, almost drowning out the faint but unmistakable crack of gunfire.

Talbot leaned forward. “Moussa, what’s going on?”

An ancient lorry was stalled in front of them blocking their view.

Moussa shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know, Talbot effendi.” He tried to steer around the lorry but it was impossible. The road was completely jammed. A donkey cart tried to maneuver around a taxi and instead crashed into a fruit stall, spilling grapes and figs all over the road. An old Arab ran past pushing a bicycle, shouting something about the Jews.

“Wait here,” Talbot said to Moussa, though the instruction was unnecessary. He got out of the car.

A little Jew in a dark suit and a homburg crashed into him and sent him reeling back against the side of the lorry. More people rushed past, Arabs, Jews, women carrying screaming children, all shouting hysterically. A taxi, horn blaring, tried to bulldoze a way through the mob. An woman in a black
abbayah
fell screaming under its wheels.