Leon Uris (4 page)

Caldwell didn’t understand. He damned well thought that the brigadier should be much tougher with the refugees. But no one wins an argument with a general unless he happens to be a bigger general and it was all so deep—so Caldwell moved a pawn forward.

“Your move, sir,” he said.

Caldwell looked up from the board. Sutherland seemed completely withdrawn and oblivious of him. It was happening more and more lately.

“Your move, sir,” Caldwell repeated.

Sutherland’s face was troubled. Poor chap, Caldwell thought. The brigadier had been married to Neddie Sutherland for almost thirty years, and suddenly she had left him and run off to Paris with a lover ten years her junior. It was a scandal that rocked army circles for months, and Sutherland must still be taking it hard. Terrible blow for the brigadier. He had always been such a decent sort of chap. The white face of Sutherland was lined with wrinkles, and little red veins on his nose turned bright. At this moment he looked all of his fifty-five years and more.

Bruce Sutherland was not thinking about Neddie, as Caldwell believed. His mind was on the refugee camps at Caraolos.

“Your move, sir.”

“So shall your enemies perish, Israel ...” Sutherland mumbled.

“What did you say, sir?”

M
ARK LED
K
ITTY
back to the table, both of them breathless. “Do you know the last time I danced a samba?” she said.

“You’re not so bad for an old broad.”

Mark looked around the room filled with British officers in their army khakis and navy whites and their high and low English accents. Mark loved places like this. The waiter brought a new round of drinks and they clicked glasses.

“To Kitty ... wherever she may be,” Mark said. “Well ma’am, where do you go from here?”

Kitty shrugged, “Golly, I don’t know, Mark. My work is finished at Salonika and I am getting restless. I’ve got a dozen offers I can take around Europe with the United Nations.”

“It was a lovely war,” Mark said. “Lots of orphans.”

“Matter of fact,” Kitty said, “I got a real good offer to stay right here on Cyprus just yesterday.”

“On Cyprus?”

“They have some refugee camps around Famagusta. Anyhow, some American woman contacted me. Seems that the camps are overcrowded and they’re opening new ones on the Larnaca road. She wanted me to take charge.”

Mark frowned.

“That’s one of the reasons I couldn’t meet you at the airport. I went to Famagusta to see her today.”

“And what did you tell her?”

“I told her no. They were Jews. I suppose Jewish children are pretty much like any others but I’d just rather not get mixed up with them. It seems that there’s an awful lot of politics connected with those camps and they’re not under UN auspices.”

Mark was silent in thought. Kitty winked mischievously and waggled a finger under his nose. “Don’t be so serious ... you want to know the other reason I didn’t meet you at the airport?”

“You’re acting tipsy.”

“I’m starting to feel that way. Well, Mr. Parker, I was in Famagusta seeing my boyfriend off. You know me ... one lover leaves by ship while another lands by airplane.”

“As long as you brought it up ... who was this guy you came to Cyprus with?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Colonel Howard Hillings of the British Army.”

“Anything dirty between you two?”

“Dammit, no. He was so proper it was disgusting.”

“Where did you meet this guy?”

“Salonika. He was in charge of the British mission in the area. When I took over the orphanage we were short of everything ... beds, medicine, food, blankets ... everything. Anyhow, I went to him and he cut wads of red tape for me and we became friends for ever and ever and ever. He really is a dear man.”

“Go on. It’s getting interesting.”

“He got notice a few weeks ago that he was being transferred to Palestine and he had leave coming and wanted me to spend it with him here. You know, I’d been working so hard I’d completely forgotten I haven’t had a day off in eighteen months. Anyhow, they cut his leave short and he had to report to Famagusta to sail to Palestine today.”

“Future prospects as Mrs. Hillings?”

Kitty shook her head. “I like him very much. He brought me all the way to Cyprus to find the right setting to ask me to marry him ...”

“And?”

“I loved Tom. I’ll never feel that way again.”

“You’re twenty-eight years old, Kitty. It’s a good age to retire.”

“I’m not complaining. I’ve found something that keeps me content. Mark, you’re going to Palestine too. There are a lot of officers here leaving for Palestine.”

“There’s going to be a war, Kitty.”

“Why ...? I don’t understand.”

“Oh, lots of reasons. Lot of people around the world have decided they want to run their own lives. Colonies are going out of vogue this century. These boys here are riding a dead horse. This is the soldier of the new empire,” Mark said, taking a dollar bill from his pocket; “we’ve got millions of these green soldiers moving into every corner of the world. Greatest occupying force you’ve ever seen. A bloodless conquest ... but Palestine ... that’s different again. Kitty, there’s almost something frightening about it. Some people are out to resurrect a nation that has been dead for two thousand years. Nothing like that has ever happened before. What’s more, I think they’re going to do it. It’s these same Jews you don’t like.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like Jews,” Kitty insisted.

“I won’t debate with you now. Think real hard, honey ... since you’ve been on Cyprus. Have you heard anything or seen anything that might be, well, unusual?”

Kitty bit her lip in thought and sighed. “Only the refugee camps. I hear they are overcrowded and in deplorable condition. Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know. Just say I’ve got an intuition that something very big is happening on Cyprus.”

“Why don’t you just say you’re naturally nosey by profession?”

“It’s more than that. Do you know a Major Fred Caldwell? He’s aide to Brigadier Sutherland.”

“Terrible bore. I met him at the governor’s.”

“He met me in my room before you got in. Why would a general’s aide be sitting on my lap ten minutes after I landed on a matter that is seemingly trivial? Kitty, I tell you the British are nervous about something here. I ... I can’t put my finger on it, but five will get you ten it’s tied up with those refugee camps. Look ... would you go to work in those camps for me for a few weeks?”

“Certainly, Mark. If you want me to.”

“Oh, the hell with it,” Mark said, setting down his drink, “us two kids are on vacation. You’re right ... I’m nosey and suspicious by profession. Forget it, let’s dance.”

O
N
A
RSINOS
S
TREET
in Famagusta, facing the wall of the old city, sat a large and luxurious house belonging to a Greek Cypriot named Mandria, who was owner of the Cyprus-Mediterranean Shipping Company as well as owner of a great number of the island’s taxicabs. Mandria and David Ben Ami waited anxiously as Ari Ben Canaan cleaned up and changed into dry clothing after his swim ashore.

They both knew that the appearance of Ari Ben Canaan on Cyprus meant a top-level mission for Mossad Aliyah Bet. British policy for many years had been to exclude or extremely limit the Jewish immigration to Palestine. They had the Royal Navy to execute this policy. The Mossad Aliyah Bet was an organization of Palestinian Jews whose business it was to help smuggle other Jews into Palestine. However, as fast as the British Navy caught the Mossad boats trying to run the blockade the refugees would be transferred to detention camps on Cyprus.

Ari Ben Canaan, in a fresh change of clothing, entered the room and nodded to Mandria and David Ben Ami. The Palestinian was a big man, well over six feet and well built. He and Ben Ami had long been intimate friends but they played a role of formality in front of Mandria, the Cypriot, who was not a member of their organization but merely a sympathizer.

Ari lit a cigarette and got right to the point. “Headquarters has sent me here to stage a mass escape from the detention camps. The reasons are obvious to all of us. What is your opinion, David?”

The thin young man from Jerusalem paced the room thoughtfully. He had been sent to Cyprus months before by the secret army of the Jews in Palestine called the Palmach. He and dozens of other Palmachniks smuggled themselves into the compounds of refugees without the knowledge of the British and set up schools, hospitals, and synagogues, built sanitation facilities, and organized light industry. The refugees who had been turned back from Palestine to Cyprus were hopeless people. The appearance of young Palestinians of the Jews’ army infused new hope and morale. David Ben Ami and the other Palmachniks gave military training to several thousand men and women among the refugees, using sticks as rifles and rocks as grenades. Although he was but twenty-two years of age David was the Palmach commander in Cyprus. If the British had gotten wind that there were Palestinians inside the camps they kept quiet about it, for they did their guarding from the outside—having no desire to go into the hate-riddled compounds.

“How many people do you want to escape?” David asked.

“Three hundred, more or less.”

David shook his head. “We have a few tunnels dug but those lead to the sea. As you know by coming in here tonight, the tides are treacherous and only strong swimmers can make it. Second, we move in and out through the garbage dumps. They are loosely guarded, but we could never get that many people through. Third, British uniforms and false papers ... again, we can only get a few in and out at a time. Last, we crate some of our members up in boxes and send them to the docks. Mr. Mandria here owns the shipping company and his dock hands are on the alert for these crates. At this moment, Ari, I see no way to pull a mass escape.

“We will find a way,” Ben Canaan said matter of factly, “but we only have a few weeks to complete this job.”

Mandria, the Greek, arose, sighed, and shook his head. “Mr. Ben Canaan, you have swum ashore tonight and asked us to do the impossible ... in two weeks, yet. In my heart,” Mandria said, touching his heart, “I say that it will be done, but! ... in my head”—and Mandria tapped his skull with his forefinger—“it cannot be done.” The Cypriot clasped his hands behind him and paced the dining room. “Believe me, Mr. Ben Canaan”—he swung around and made a bravado sweep of the arm—“you Palmach and Mossad people can count on the Greeks of Cyprus to back you to the last drop of blood. We are for you! We are with you! We are behind you! Nevertheless ...! Cyprus is an island and it is surrounded by water on all sides and the British are not stupid or asleep. I, Mandria, will do everything for you, but still you are not getting three hundred people out of Caraolos. There are ten-foot walls of barbed wire around those compounds and the guards carry rifles ... with bullets in them.”

Ari Ben Canaan arose and towered over the other two men. He had ignored much of Mandria’s dramatics. “I will need a British uniform, papers, and a driver by morning. You can start looking for a boat, Mr. Mandria. Something between a hundred and two hundred tons. David, we will need an expert forger.”

“We have a boy out in the children’s compound who is supposed to be a real artist but he won’t work. The rest of the stuff is primitive.”

“I’ll go out to Caraolos tomorrow and talk to him. I want to look over the camp, anyhow.”

Mandria was elated. What a man of action Ari Ben Canaan was! Find a ship! Find a forger! Get me a uniform and a driver! Life was so exciting since the Mossad and Palmach had come to Cyprus, and he so loved being a part of the cat-and-mouse game with the British. He stood up and pumped Ari Ben Canaan’s hand. “We Cypriots are with you. Your battle is our battle!”

Ben Canaan looked at Mandria disgustedly. “Mr. Mandria,” he said, “you are being well paid for your time and efforts.”

A stunned silence fell on the room. Mandria turned as white as a sheet. “Do you believe ... do you dare believe, sir, that I, I, Mandria, would do this for money? Do you think I risk ten years in prison and exile from my home? It has cost me over five thousand pounds since I began working with your Palmach.”

David stepped in quickly. “I think you had better apologize to Mr. Mandria. He and his taxi drivers and his dock hands take all sorts of risks. Without the help of the Greek people our work would be nearly impossible.”

Mandria slumped into a chair deeply wounded. “Yes, Mr. Ben Canaan, we admire you. We feel that if you can throw the British out of Palestine then maybe we can do the same on Cyprus someday.”

“My apologies, Mr. Mandria,” Ari said. “I must be over-tense.” He recited the words completely without meaning.

A shrill sound of sirens outside brought the conversation to a stop. Mandria opened the french doors to the balcony and walked outside with David. Ari Ben Canaan stood behind them. They saw an armored car with machine guns leading a convoy of lorries up the street from the docks. There were twenty-five lorries, in all, surrounded by machine guns mounted on jeeps.

The lorries were packed with refugees from the illegal ship,
Door of Hope
, which had tried to run the British blockade from Italy to Palestine. The
Door of Hope
had been rammed by a British destroyer, towed to Haifa, and the refugees transferred immediately to Cyprus.

The sirens shrieked louder as the convoy swept close to the balcony of Mandria’s home. The lorries passed one by one. The three men could see the jam of tattered, ragged misery. They were beaten people—at the end of the line—dazed, withered, exhausted. The sirens shrieked and the convoy turned at the Land Gate of the old wall and onto the road to Salamis, in the direction of the British detention camps at Caraolos. The convoy faded from sight but the shrieks of the sirens lingered on and on.

David Ben Ami’s hands were tight fists and his teeth were clenched in a face livid with helpless rage. Mandria wept openly. Only Ari Ben Canaan showed no emotion. They walked in from the balcony.