Raquela (24 page)

“Do you want me to come with you?” Raquela asked. “We can look for your brother together.”

Judith shook her head. “I must find him myself. Just tell me where to look.”

They went outside the hospital to the Walkover. “The men's barracks are on this side.” She pointed to the right. “They've been kept together pretty much according to their countries of origin—Poles, Romanians, Hungarians, Czechs. Just ask the people where the Czechs are.”

Judith started down the Walkover. Raquela watched her stop several men. “Can you tell me where Joseph Steiner is?” Judith asked. A bit farther along, she saw Judith stop a young man. “I'm looking for Joseph Steiner.”

“I am Joseph Steiner.”

The sister and brother embraced and wept.

Raquela slipped quietly back into the hospital.

FRIDAY JULY 18, 1947

Raquela was in the outpatient clinic when she heard a commotion. She stepped outside to see the whole camp on the Walkover, talking agitatedly.

“What's happening?” she asked a man who seemed a little calmer than most of the others.

“Somebody just brought us news from the Haganah radio,” he said. “The biggest refugee ship in history is on its way to Haifa. They say forty-five hundred people are aboard.”

“Forty-five hundred! That's more than the three thousand we have here in Athlit.” She looked at the man in disbelief.

“That's right. Picture a whole Athlit and fifteen hundred more on a little ship on the high seas.”

Raquela moved along the Walkover. She heard people talking: “Maybe my cousin is aboard…” “Maybe my brother…” “My sister…”

The man she had first talked to sought her out. “You should know—the name of this ship is
Exodus. Exodus 1947
.”

She nodded. They were all people of the Exodus, all the survivors.

She had to know more; her patients in the outclinic would wait. She ran to the tent where Ruth Berman had once held office. But Ruth was no longer in Athlit; her tour of duty had ended. New Jewish Agency liaison people now sat in the tent, listening to a shortwave radio.

“You're just in time,” a young man in a cool white shirt told her. “
Kol Israel
is picking up a broadcast that's coming from the deck of the
Exodus
.”

The radio came alive. A voice with an American accent spoke urgently:

“This is the refugee ship
Exodus 1947
. Before dawn today we were attacked by five British destroyers and one cruiser at a distance of seventeen miles from the shores of Palestine, in international waters. The assailants immediately opened fire, threw gas bombs, and rammed our ship from three directions. On our deck there are one dead, five dying, and one hundred twenty wounded. The resistance continued for more than three hours. Owing to the severe losses and the condition of the ship, which is in danger of sinking, we were compelled to sail in the direction of Haifa, in order to save the forty-five hundred refugees on board from drowning.”

In the afternoon word came that the forty-five hundred were being dragged off the ship in Haifa. They were transferred to three prison ships. The British announced they were sending them to Cyprus. Two members of U
NSCOP
who were in Haifa had watched the refugees being pulled off the
Exodus
and herded onto the prison ships.

Days passed. The ships did not arrive in Cyprus.

The air in Athlit was charged with desperation. Raquela felt the new strain among the people: the
Exodus
people were missing. Where were the British taking them?

Finally, caged in the prison ships, the refugees were taken back to Port-de-Bouc, in the south of France, the port from which they had sailed for Palestine. But the people refused to come down from the prison ships. “We will come down only in Palestine,” they said, defying the British.

In Acre, in the middle of the night, the British woke the three young Irgunists to tell them they were to die at dawn. The boys asked to speak once to their parents. The request was denied them. Their parents were told, “You must be outside the prison walls at eight
A.M
. with a truck, and we shall deliver the bodies to you.”

The Irgun carried out its threat. They hanged the two sergeants from a tree in a woods near Natanya.

Listening to
Kol Israel
in the Jewish Agency tent, Raquela lowered her head. What did the world gain by having five young lives—Jewish and British—snuffed out?

“When would the hatred and agony end?

For three weeks Raquela waited restlessly with the prisoners of Athlit for news of the
Exodus
; the forty-five hundred people on the three prison ships still refused to leave their iron cages, even in the blistering heat of the south of France. Bevin tried to pressure the French into forcing the people off the ships. The French refused; Marseille, they said, was not Haifa; there would be no use of force in France's waters; there would be no broken skulls.

Dr. Carr brought a newspaper from Haifa; Raquela read of an American journalist the French had smuggled aboard one of the prison ships, disguised as a nurse. She described the ships as “floating Auschwitzes.”

“There are a thousand orphans who came on the
Exodus
,” the journalist wrote. “Now on these prison ships, it is the children who keep morale high. There are schools in the iron cages; the children are learning the Hebrew language and literature and the Bible story of the ‘Exodus.'

“On one of the prison ships, the
Empire Rival
,” Raquela read, “the officer commanding the soldier-guards has ordered all books in Hebrew and Yiddish burned. Among the books is the Bible. These are the people of the Bible. They are the People of the Book and the Land, and on these prison ships both have been taken from them.”

People of the Book and the Land
.

Would she have the strength, Raquela wondered, to go on as they did? What lay ahead for the people of the
Exodus?

On August 22 she rushed out to the Walkover. The refugees were shaking the barbed wire, waving their fists, screaming curses at the guards.

“Haven't you heard?” a man shouted to her. “The British are taking the people of the
Exodus
to Hamburg. To Germany.” His voice and face changed “They will fight back. They will get out of Germany. They will get on more ships. They will come home. Now you will see the birth of a Jewish state.”

In Geneva the members of U
NSCOP
continued their search for a solution. Their deadline was September 1. At five minutes before midnight on August 31, they signed their names, in alphabetical order, to their report. They recommended to the General Assembly of the United Nations that the British mandate be terminated and Palestine divided into a Jewish state and an Arab state.

All that fall, the debate raged at the UN, which met at Lake Success. Arab leaders denounced the recommendations; Jewish leaders declared that partition meant “a very heavy sacrifice”; they had been promised all of Palestine, yet reluctantly they would accept partition.

In Athlit, Raquela and the refugees waited.

Would the nations of the world accept
UNSCOP'S
recommendations?

Would there be a Jewish state and an Arab state where Jews and Arabs could live side by side, helping one another, in peace?

While the debate continued, Britain still held the Mandate, sending “illegals” to the prison camps of Athlit and even worse, to Cyprus. Athlit, at least, was on the soil of the Holy Land; Cyprus was more than two hundred miles away.

Early in November, Raquela's replacement arrived. Raquela examined the new midwife with a critical eye. Young. Pink cheeked. Fresh. Naive. She too had come young, rosy faced, innocent. She would not frighten the young woman as she had been frightened.

She took her into the hospital and through the barracks, introducing her to the people. Soon word spread that Raquela was leaving. Men and women streamed into the hospital compound bearing gifts. A woman brought a small hand mirror she had saved; a man came with a wooden bird he had carved from an old crate. Raquela blinked back tears; the people were giving her their most precious possessions.

Back home in Jerusalem, Papa held her against his tall body, Mama kissed her. Raquela picked up the telephone. “Arik!” she shouted. “Arik, I'm home!”

FOURTEEN

NOVEMBER 1947

O
n Mount Scopus, Raquela returned to the routine she loved—delivering babies in the clean white delivery room.

Two weeks later Dr. Yassky sent her a message through Miss Landsmann: “Come see me as soon as you can.”

This time Raquela entered his office without trepidation. Miss Landsmann was sitting in the chair opposite his desk. Dr. Yassky stood up to greet Raquela.

“You must know how proud we at Hadassah are with the job you did in Athlit.”

He offered her a chair and returned to his desk. Raquela watched him fit a cigarette into his black and silver cigarette holder. Had the busy chief called her to his office just to thank her?

He took a long puff and blew smoke into the air. “Now we have an even tougher assignment for you, Miss Levy.”

“What kind of assignment?”

“Cyprus.”

The word ripped through her like a blade. Her stomach hardened.

“There aren't many young women I would ask to serve, Miss Levy, but Miss Landsmann has recommended you highly.” He paused. “I want you to know the truth. There are better facilities in Cyprus, I'm told, than you had in Athlit for delivering babies. But the place itself might be a lot tougher. This time I promise you—it will be for only six weeks.”

“Do I have to give you my answer immediately?”

“Perhaps you will want to discuss it with your parents and”—he hesitated—“with Dr. Brzezinski.”

She stood up. Arik was very much on her mind. They had spent a few evenings together; on Saturday they had walked, hand in hand, through the Old City. It felt good being with him, comfortable, yet something was missing. Was she to be forever his pupil? His favorite disciple? And nothing more? Words flowed easily between them. He seemed to want to talk of everything—of his admiration for her parents, of politics, of the fear and tension in Jerusalem, of the impending vote on Palestine at the UN—everything except how he felt about her.
Still
, she had told herself,
I'm home now; there will be time to find out how he really feels
.

Now there would be no time, if she went…

“I will let you know, Dr. Yassky,” she said.

She left his office and walked pensively down the stairs to the ground floor of the maternity wing. She knocked at Arik's door. There was no answer. She entered, looked around at the familiar desk, the bookcase, the sofa bed, the long narrow windows Erich Mendelsohn had designed to keep out the hot summer sun and the cold winds of winter. It was winter; the room was heated, but she was shivering.

She stretched out on Arik's sofa bed.

He came in after dark. “Raquela! What a pleasure. What can I offer you?” He opened the door of his closet. “Coffee? Wine? Chocolates? Here's a whole box—unopened—a gift from a grateful new father.”

“Arik, sit down. I need your advice.”

He walked to the sofa and waited for her to speak.

“Dr. Yassky has asked me to go to Cyprus.”

“Cyprus.” He said the word slowly. “So they've selected
you
.”

“They didn't ask you, then? It was not your suggestion?”

“No.”

She was sure he spoke the truth.

“What do you think, Arik?”

“It's just two weeks since you left Athlit. Are you ready for another descent into hell?”

“Arik, for God's sake, what about us? We've been separated for so many months.”

Arik moved restlessly around the room.

“I love you, Arik,” she said.

“I love you, too, Raquela.”

She leaned back on the sofa and shut her eyes. He joined her and put his arms around her. “I love you as I have never loved any woman.” He pressed his lips against hers. She clung to him, her body flushed with joy. He stroked her hair; his skillful fingers traced her cheeks, her chin. Long minutes passed.

At last she spoke. “Arik,” she paused. “I can't bear the thought of being separated from you again.”

“Did Dr. Yassky say how long you're to stay in Cyprus?”

“Six weeks.”

He relaxed. “For heaven's sake, what's six weeks? Before you turn around you'll be back again.”

She moved away from him. “Arik, you're telling me to go. Why?”

“Dearest, you're just twenty-three and I'm in my late thirties, nearly forty. I'm afraid…”

“Afraid? Of what?”

He walked to the window and looked out at the lights twinkling over Jerusalem. His back was to her as he spoke.

“I'm afraid that I love you so much that if I married you, after a while you…you might grow tired of me. Because I'm too old. And that would destroy me.”

Raquela went to the window and stood beside him, looking down at her beloved city. “Arik, why would I grow tired of you? You're the kindest, warmest, dearest man I've ever known.”

He smiled indulgently. “How many men have you really known? I've heard about Carmi. Dearest, that was puppy love. I want you to meet more men. Young men. Younger than I. I want you to be sure that it is really me you love.”

“Arik, you're sending me away.”

“No, Raquela. The decision was yours. You knew deep down, the moment Dr. Yassky asked you, you would say yes.”

She was silent.

On the morning of November 21, 1947, Arik called for Raquela in a cab. In town, they climbed into a
sherut
—a seven-passenger intercity taxi—bound for Haifa.

Raquela took the rear middle seat; Arik was at her right, a taciturn man at her left. The moment the seventh passenger entered the car, the driver took off. He handled the steering wheel as if he knew this road blindfolded. He was short, barrel-chested, and bald headed, with a red handlebar mustache. He wore an open blue shirt and khaki shorts whose pockets were stuffed with papers. Jovially he said, “Call me Yitzhak.”