Raquela (29 page)

The staff stood in the arched hut, listening.

“This is no military order. It must be your decision. But you must make it immediately.”

“How long do you think we'll have to stay?” Raquela asked.

“It depends on how many more people break their necks to get to Palestine and wind up here. It could be weeks. Who knows?”

The nurses answered, “We'll stay.”

Dr. Gordon's tough, unflappable face grew soft.

The lights were low in the Chanticleer nightclub in Nicosia.

Raquela and her friend Esther Nathan, who was now head nurse in Surgery, were beginning their four-and-a-half-day leave.

The nightclub atmosphere—people relaxing, laughing, sipping drinks—excited them. They needed the change; January had been the roughest month in Cyprus. It had taken four days to unload the human cargo; the British had interrogated every single passenger, and filled out more than fifteen thousand forms. The soldiers had forced the people to leave their belongings on the ships, then for two more days had made a fine-combed search through the pitiful baggage. The Foreign Office announced to the press in London that they were looking for evidence of “fifth-column communists.” They found none.

Josh had told Raquela that one of the passengers was a world-famous brain surgeon, Dr. Harden Ashkenazy, who had refused to leave the ship without his bag of precious instruments. Josh slipped aboard, rescued the bag, and gave it to the brain surgeon, who, with his wife, was now a prisoner in the camps, waiting restlessly, his skills wasted. And all month in the hospital, the maternity annex had been on emergency footing. The medical staff worked as if they were in combat, on the front lines of war.

It
was
war. Though the British had begun closing some of their offices in Palestine, relaxing their control over everything—except immigration—planes and ships patrolled all the waters around Palestine; agents combed the seaports of Europe. The UN had ended the Mandate, but Bevin was adamant. Not one Jew must enter Palestine.

In the nightclub, Raquela and Esther celebrated like two schoolgirls. Both Jerusalemites, they had met for the first time at the British Military Hospital and had become instant friends. They were the same age, just twenty-four, with the same love for nursing, the same affirmation of life, which Cyprus made more poignant and urgent each day.

Yet their childhoods were totally different. Esther was born in Germany; she and her family had fled in the mid-1930s. Her father was a dentist, and Esther had finished the Government Nursing School in 1945.

Esther was shorter than Raquela, her hair darker, her eyes lighter and softer. Only their smooth complexions and the fact that both were strikingly good-looking could have explained why Old Battleship was forever confusing them.

They played on her confusion to the hilt. Whenever one was tired, the other took her place for the morning report. Now, in the gaiety of the nightclub, they were regaling their escort, Dr. Renzo Toaff, with stories of Old Battleship's confusion.

Dr. Toaff had just arrived in Cyprus, the first qualified gynecologist in the military hospital. Until now the only doctor in gynecology had been a British woman who had just graduated from medical school in England. Raquela had little confidence in the young woman and had called upon her for assistance only when there were problems that required an obstetrician.

Dr. Toaff's arrival was a blessing. There were now three Jewish doctors and eight Jewish nurses in the military hospital: several from Hadassah, some from the
Kupat Holim
—the Sick Fund of the Histadrut—and some from the government hospital in Haifa.

Dr. Toaff, who came from Hadassah, was a tall distinguished-looking man in his early thirties who had been born in Italy and still spoke with a musical Italian accent. Since the nurses would not go out alone at night, he had become their favorite escort. Now, at the club, they sat surrounded by Englishmen in army and navy dress uniforms and Englishwomen in colorful evening gowns. Esther wore a short dress, and Raquela, the periwinkle-blue outfit Henya had turned into a flattering Paris creation.

In the muted light Raquela saw two familiar figures come through the door—the captains of the
Pan Crescent
and the
Pan York
. Dapper in dress whites, they walked jauntily through the nightclub, peering at all the tables, searching for a familiar face. They saw Raquela and Esther and came over.

“What a stroke of luck,” Gad said. “Do you mind if we join you?

Raquela introduced Dr. Toaff. “By all means, join us,” he said. He called the waiter to bring two more chairs.

“Have you ordered yet?” Gad asked.

“Not yet,” Dr. Toaff said.

“Then you'll be our guests.” Gad spoke to the waiter. “Bring us two bottles of Retzini. We'll start with that.”

Soon the waiter returned with the golden-colored wine. Gad poured a small amount, tasted it, nodded, then filled the glasses.

“
L'Hayim
.”

During the meal Ike raised his glass again. “To the two best-looking nurses in the whole military hospital.”

Raquela looked at the two captains. Ike had an impish grin and a restless manner; Gad was calm and composed.

Gad leaned toward her. “Can I see you at the hospital tomorrow?

“I'm off duty tomorrow,” she said. “In fact, Esther and I are off for four and a half days.”

“Four and a half days' leave!” He sounded as if it were a lifetime. “Why don't the two of you come visit us on our ships?”

Raquela looked at Esther; both of them smiled. “We'd love it,” Esther said.

“And will you have lunch with us?” Ike asked.

“Anything to get away from that hospital food.” Raquela tried to hide her excitement.

At ten the next morning, a taxi pulled up in front of the hospital. Raquela and Esther were already waiting. The day was warm; the air smelled of early spring; crocuses dotted the hillside. Nicosia spread below them, a city of white with graceful turrets and minarets in a circle of trees.

Ike and Gad jumped out of the taxi and helped the two young women inside. They drove to the Famagusta harbor, and then walked along the dock. Commercial ships were anchored in the harbor. An English captain in stiff whites and gold braid, with a tobacco-stained mustache, strutted along the waterfront.

“That's the way I thought a captain should look,” Raquela said, “not like the two of you.”

“The British don't know we're professional seamen,” Gad said. He wore a sport shirt and chinos. “They must not know our real identities, or they'll throw us in the jug. They think we're refugees with a little knowledge of seamanship. All the foreigners we had helping as crew members have been allowed to go home. Only our Palestine Jews are left. Since we're in charge, we're known around here as Captain Gee and Captain Ike.”

Gad sought out a young Greek Cypriot, chunky, with tough arms and legs and a sun-leathered face. A fringe of black lashes curled around his sleepy brown eyes.

The young man saluted smartly. “Morning, Captain Gee. Morning, Captain Ike. Ready whenever you are.”

Gad acknowledged the greeting. “We're ready right now, Mikos.”

Lithe as a dancer, Mikos leaped into a small motorboat. Ike jumped in after him, holding up his hands to catch Raquela and Esther. Gad followed.

“Mikos,” Gad said, smiling, “meet two girls from my country. They take care of our babies in the British Military Hospital.”

Mikos' eyes woke up. “They hate British—like us?”

“We don't hate all the British,” Raquela said. “There are good and bad.”

Mikos looked belligerent. “
You
want freedom from the British.
We
want freedom from the British, too! We want our own homeland—like the Jews. Who needs the British to rule us?”

Soon Mikos' motor began to sputter, but finally, like a singer finding his voice, the motor hummed a welcome tune. The
Pan York
loomed above them.

“You'll have to climb the Jacob's Ladder,” Gad said. “It's a good thing the sea is calm today.”

Raquela looked at the swaying rope ladder hanging down the side of the ship. On the deck the whole crew of Palestinian Jews and the British soldier-guards seemed to be watching her as she made her precarious ascent. A sailor took her hand as she reached the top of the ladder and helped her over the railing.

Still breathless, she leaned over to watch Esther climb the ropes. Excited and relieved, Esther jumped over the railing. “I hope the biblical ladder in Jacob's dream looked steadier than this one.”

Gad led Raquela around the deck while Esther and Ike moved off in a different direction. Raquela looked out at the blue sea, dappled with sunlight. “I've never been on a ship in my life,” she confessed, as her eyes scanned the water all around her. “The only water we see in Jerusalem is water to drink.”

Gad laughed. “You're like a breath of home to me. It's a long time since I've seen Jerusalem; we've been at sea for months. And now, even if we're free to move around Cyprus, we're still detainees. See those soldiers.” He pointed to two British guards patrolling the vessel. “They make sure we don't try to sneak our ships out of the harbor. And they keep constant tabs on us; we had to give the British our word that Ike and I and the crew won't try to get out of Cyprus.”

He looked at her. “You and Esther—you're the ones who are free. You can just pick up and go home to Jerusalem. What keeps you here?”

She leaned against the rail, looking down into the water. Finally she waved her hand as if she were encompassing his ship. “You brought seventy-five hundred people on this ship, and Ike another seventy-five hundred. It's like those waves out there. I see waves of Jews coming into Palestine. After what happened in the Holocaust, it's something to see the strength of our people. The courage, the will, the guts, to fight the British, even if they end up here, like you, in Cyprus. I don't know any other place in the world where this is happening.”

Gad nodded. “That's why I can't wait to get out, to get back to Europe, so I can bring more people, and more, and more; get them out of those DP slum camps in Germany. Bring them home.”

He looked at her; her face was illuminated by the sun and the sea. “But you haven't answered my question. What keeps a girl from Jerusalem on this island?”

“There's something about that maternity hut—the fear in those women's eyes when they first come in. Those women you brought straight from this ship. They had that look. I don't want just to deliver their babies; I want to wipe that look of pain out of their eyes.”

A crew member approached him. “Excuse me, Gad, I have a problem. ”

Raquela stepped aside to let the two men talk. She was surprised by the soft manner and gentle tone with which Gad spoke to his crew, who were busy all over the ship, scraping the hull, painting, polishing, repairing, preparing for the day the ships would be released.

She recognized the sailors as typical Sabras—Palestinian Jews who had made their own place in the world, confident, friendly, informal, totally unimpressed by titles. Yet they seemed to recognize Gad's authority. He strode the ship secure in his identity. He was the unquestioned master of this world.

Trim and graceful, he looked younger than his twenty-seven years. He was both amusing and serious, handsome yet rugged, with blue eyes that dominated his suntanned face. Surrounded by the turquoise Mediterranean water and his respectful crew, he seemed romantic, adventurous, bigger than life.

Arik, she thought. Arik, you may yet regret
…

Ike and Esther joined them; Ike was pointing to his ship, the
Pan Crescent
, riding at anchor about a hundred yards away.

“How in the world did you squeeze fifteen thousand people into these two ships?” Esther asked.

“I'll show you,” Gad said. “Just follow me.”

He led them down the companionway to the hold. At the entrance Raquela sucked in her breath. She felt she was entering a dungeon with endless shelves. Thousands of wooden planks were arranged in columns of twelve that covered the entire hold and reached from the floor to the ceiling. She could still smell the bodies of the people who had spent six days and nights on these shelves.

“People actually slept here!” she gasped.

Esther shook her head. “There's not enough space for a person even to sit up.”

Ike put his hand on Esther's shoulder. “This wasn't exactly billed as a luxury cruise. We love these two ships, but where they used to carry cargo, we carried people.”

“How did you feed them all?” Raquela asked.

Ike grinned. “Just the way they prepare the menu for the
Queen Elizabeth
. We had all our menus prepared before they boarded.”

“With American canned rations,” Gad added. “From the JDC.”

Raquela's
eyes
swept the dungeonlike hold again. “What did you do about toilets?”

“Toilets!” Gad shook his head. “That was one of our worst problems. We built lavatories all over the ship. Even on the decks. And there were always lines waiting to use them.”

Raquela shook her head. “I hear there were terrible storms.”

“That there were,” Gad said. “It's strange what happens to people. We had twenty-four doctors and forty nurses among the refugees and a fully equipped operating theater. When the ship began to roll, the doctors and nurses took to their bunks—as seasick as the rest. The minute they were needed to operate, take care of an emergency, or deliver a baby, they stopped being seasick. As soon as they finished, they got seasick all over again.”

Totally absorbed, Raquela stood in the empty plank-filled hold and shut her eyes for a moment. She heard Dr. Weizmann's voice talking to the Anglo-American Committee:
The boats in which our refugees come to Palestine are their
Mayflowers,
the
Mayflowers
of a whole generation
. Were not these refugees pilgrims, too? Modern-day pilgrims leaving Europe in search of political freedom? To give birth to a new nation.