The Gates of Zion (18 page)

“You don’t look s’good yourself, ma’am,” he said, scanning her smoke-smudged, torn clothing.

David said loudly, “I’m telling you, if I hadn’t taken this truck, they’d be dead. For goodness sakes, get the kid into the hospital, will you?”

The officer nodded at the soldier holding David, who reluctantly pulled the gun away. David straightened himself, then rushed back to pick up Yacov. For a moment his eyes met Ellie’s. They were full of emotion as she handed Yacov’s limp body to him.

“Are you all right?” he asked quietly.

Emotion flooded her. Tears pushed at her throat, and she tried to hold them back. She grasped her blouse, lowered her head, then fell against him. “Oh, David!” she sobbed. “David.”

Suddenly the truck was surrounded by medical attendants. David handed the boy to a team, who placed him carefully on a gurney, then raced into the building.

“It’s okay, Ellie,” he whispered. “It’s okay, honey. I’m here.” He folded her in his arms. Oblivious to the nurses standing by with a second gurney, he lifted her out of the truck and carried her gently through the doors into the safety of the hospital.

***

The gray smoke of the New City commercial district gradually disappeared as dusk fell over the city. Moshe ran up the steps of the hospital and burst through the doors. The lobby was crowded with clusters of people awaiting word about friends or relatives who had been caught in the riot. Policemen and British officers seemed to be everywhere, taking depositions and moving back and forth among the bustling doctors and nurses.

Moshe felt angry at himself for not having called Ellie when he first got to Jerusalem and angry at Ellie for having been so foolish as to go out alone―today, of all days! When he had finally phoned, he had learned that Howard Moniger had returned and was at the hospital with Ellie. Miriam had no more details than that.

As Moshe reached the information desk, a harried-looking receptionist glanced up from the buzzing switchboard. “What is it?”

she asked impatiently.

“I need the room number for Ellie Warne. Maybe it’s under Michelle Warne.” Moshe clenched and unclenched his fist nervously.

She scanned a list and, without looking up, said, “Room 312.”

Moshe did not wait for the elevator. Instead he ran up three flights of dimly lit stairs. Ignoring the posted visiting hours, he strode down a long corridor. Near the end he spotted Howard’s portly form next to a tall, middle-aged British officer with a handlebar mustache. The officer scribbled notes as the professor spoke with deep concern, worry clouding his usually cheerful face. He was still dressed in his khaki clothes and field boots. Moshe wondered if the professor felt as exhausted as he looked.

When Howard glanced up and saw Moshe, he raised his hand in greeting.

“How is she?” Moshe asked as he walked up, interrupting the officer.

“She’s going to make it, Moshe.” Howard put a hand on his colleague’s arm. “A concussion. Smoke inhalation. A few scrapes and bruises. They’ll keep her here a couple of days.”

“Can I see her? talk to her?” Moshe started toward the door.

“She’s sedated.”

“Oh.” Moshe was disappointed. He wanted only to see that she was alive. He noticed that the British captain was holding Ellie’s camera.

“What’s this?” he asked abruptly.

“Moshe, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine. Captain Luke Thomas.”

The officer nodded and extended his hand. “Ellie took a photograph of her assailants,” the captain explained.

“Assailants? You mean she … was she … ?”

“No, Moshe, she escaped,” Howard said solemnly. “She was with a little boy, it seems, and he led her away.”

Moshe turned and, without waiting, pushed the door open and walked into the half-light of the hospital room. A small lamp was lit by the bedside, and Ellie’s damp hair glowed like dark copper against her pillow. He stood watching her chest rise and fall with even breathing, then stepped quietly to the edge of her bed and took her hand.

There were dark circles beneath her eyes, but she slept as peacefully as a child. His anxiety melted away and was replaced by tenderness.

He placed her fingertips against his lips. “My silly girl,” he said softly. “My darling, foolish girl.”

She sighed and turned her face toward him and gently squeezed his hand.

He wanted to take her in his arms but was afraid that he would hurt her, so he stood for a full minute gazing at her as she slept. He leaned down to kiss her, but as his lips were about to brush hers, he heard a sound from a darkened corner of the room.

“Ahem.”

Startled, Moshe whirled around and stared into the darkness, barely able to see the dim features of the man who had cleared his throat.

“Moshe Sachar, aren’t you?” The voice was clearly irritated.

“Who is there?” Moshe asked grimly as he stepped between Ellie and the man in the corner.

“I saw you at the meeting this morning. With the Old Man. What are you up to? I want to know. And what have you got her involved in?”

The voice seemed furious now.

“She is involved in nothing.” Anger welled up in Moshe.

“Is that so?” The hostility turned to sarcasm. “Those jokers weren’t chasing her and that kid for nothing, you know. They were after something.”

“Look,” Moshe demanded, clenching his fists, “what business is it of yours?”

The dim figure stood up then and stepped out into the light. Moshe instantly recognized the American flier from the meeting, but the flier’s face was now rigid with fury, his eyes hard and piercing.

“I happen to be in love with her,” the flier answered fiercely.

“Then you have my condolences, Mr. Meyer,” Moshe said with irony. “David Meyer is the name, is it not? I thought I recognized the name at the meeting this morning. Ellie told me all about you.” He continued to smile, as though he were in on some great private joke.

David glared back at him, then blinked hard and looked at the sleeping Ellie. A trace of tenderness passed across his face.

Moshe stepped to the side, blocking David’s view. “At any rate,”

Moshe said with finality, “you have been out of the picture a long time.”

“Well, I’m back now. And whatever political garbage you’ve got her involved in―”

“She is involved in nothing,” Moshe interrupted. “She knows nothing of my work; she must not.”

“Good. Because as soon as she’s on her feet, she’s going back to the States. Understand?”

David strode to the door and walked out, leaving Moshe alone by Ellie’s bedside. He turned to her and stroked her forehead, smiling at the trace of freckles across her nose. “He is right, you know, dear one. Because I love you, I must send you home.”

***

Hassan bowed low before the presence of Haj Amin Husseini, Mufti of Jerusalem. He hoped that the trembling of his hands would not show as he handed the package of the young woman’s photographs to the chief bodyguard. In turn, the package was given to the Mufti, who opened it without expression, then thumbed through them with perfunctory interest before he lifted his gaze to Hassan.

“Well?” said the Mufti.

“The girl dropped them as she ran into the tailor shop. Surely they must be of some importance to the Haganah. Perhaps the scroll is some sort of code.”

“Unless we have the girl, we have no way of knowing; is that not so, Hassan?”

“Yes, Haj Amin, it is so. If it be the will of Allah―”

A spark of anger flashed across the Mufti’s placid expression. “It is the will of Haj Amin, Grand Mufti of Jerusalem, Hassan!”

Hassan bowed low again, fearful of the slightly raised voice of his leader. “I beg your forgiveness, Haj Amin.”

The Mufti smiled graciously. “Our friend the Führer had the proper attitude toward the Jewish problem. Such a pity he had not the opportunity to finish what he started. Gerhardt would have killed her had you not stopped him.”

“But the boy …”

“He still lives as well, does he not?”

“He is still at the hospital. It seems there has been some damage to his eyes.”

“His eyes? Poor child. He is blind, then.”

“Only in one eye, they say.”

The Mufti pressed his fingers together thoughtfully. “An excellent idea, Hassan. Perhaps you will redeem yourself after all.”

Hassan stood in dumb confusion, trying to think what idea he might have had that would so please the Mufti.

“If the boy is blinded, he shall not be able to identify our top agent, shall he?” the Mufti continued. “A pity you could not have taken his other eye as well, but we shall hope that you will prove yourself worthy of our trust.”

Hassan nodded eagerly. “Anything you request, Haj Amin.”

“Well, then—” the Mufti leaned back against a cushion— “bring us the boy’s other eye as well. Or his body. It makes little difference, although the eye of a Jew would be more amusing for us. And the girl. Kadar says she is beautiful. It would please us.”

“As you say, Haj Amin.”

The Mufti leafed through the stack of photographs. “As for these, we shall take them to that fool of a Jew in the Jewish Quarter, Rabbi Akiva. Perhaps he can shed light on their meaning.”

Part II

THE AWAKENING

In the end days it is said that the lion and the lamb will lie down
together. I think even then I would rather be a lion.

David Ben-Gurion

12

The Truth About the Scrolls

December 1947

Seven days had come and gone since the British officer had brought news of Yacov. A lonely Shabbat had passed, and there had been no further word on his well-being. Rabbi Lebowitz rose stiffly from his chair and surveyed the tiny apartment in the Old City. “Too large it seems without you, Yacov,” he muttered to no one. “Too empty. Too bleak.”

He wandered past the boy’s iron cot and paused to touch the pillow.

How he longed to touch Yacov’s brow and speak to him of the Torah! But the Old City was cut off from the New. The gates were blockaded by angry Arabs called in by the Mufti to guarantee that Jews who passed beyond the gates of the Quarter did not return to their homes. The Mufti, it seemed, would starve the scholars and the rabbis from the Old City, even though they, like him, were against the Zionist radicals who sought a homeland without the Messiah.

“
Come now, let us reason together… ,”
the old rabbi hummed. But he feared there was no reasoning left. He could only hope that Rabbi Akiva would be able to reach some sort of agreement with the Mufti that would enable life to resume some normality in the Quarter. Then he would be able to travel to the hospital where Yacov lay.

Rabbi Lebowitz took his coat from the peg by the door. Slowly he put it on, feeling the fragile thinness of the worn fabric. His heart, too, was becoming thin and fragile. Yacov was all he had left, all he lived for―that and the hope of Messiah.

***

Ellie held Yacov’s hand and toyed with the identification bracelet on his wrist. His head was swathed in bandages, and he had been silent for a long time after she told him why his grandfather was unable to come visit him.

She wondered if he had fallen asleep.

Then he sighed. “What about Shaul? Did you find him?”

Ellie looked painfully up at Moshe, who stood at the foot of the boy’s bed. Moshe cleared his throat and answered gently, “Perhaps he returned to the Old City. To your home.”

“No,” Yacov answered with tears in his voice. “I told him to wait at the butcher shop. He would wait.”

“He could have gone back to your grandfather,” Ellie interjected hopefully.

“He is most certainly dead if you did not find him where I said.” The boy turned his head on his pillow and pulled his hand away. “I cannot see to read my prayers or the Torah,” he said finally. “Shaul was just a dog, I know, but I will say kaddish for him when I am well.”

“You and Ellie were very lucky.” Moshe reached out and touched Yacov’s foot through the covers. “The Eternal was with you.”

Helpless in the face of the boy’s grief and loneliness, Ellie sat back in her chair and stared bleakly at his bandages. She could not tell him that perhaps he would never see clearly again, that almost certainly he had lost the vision of one eye and that the other was an uncertainty at this point.

“Mr. Sachar,” said Yacov, “they say that you studied in Yeshiva.

That you were almost a rabbi.”

“Who told you this?” Moshe smiled.

“The doctor who checks my eyes says that you are a great professor of the ancient languages for the Hebrew University.”

“
Ye’he sh’lomo rabbo min sh’mayo, ve’chaim oleynoo ve’al kol
Yisroale, ve’imroo Omaine,”
said Moshe, then winked at Ellie.

“Omaine,” repeated Yacov. After a pause he asked, “Then it is true?

Will you help me say kaddish for Shaul?”

“We do not know that he is dead, Yacov. Wait, boy. We do not know.”

Yacov’s slender shoulders seemed to sink into the bed, and the eagerness of his voice faded. “Will you help me with my prayers, then, before you leave? I cannot wear my yarmulke.”

“The bandages will do for a head covering.” Moshe sat beside him and patted his hand. “We will pray together.”

Ellie stepped back and leaned against the windowsill, bowing her head self-consciously as Moshe and the little boy recited words that had been uttered by Jews since the days of Moses.

Maybe it was not such a big step for Moshe from rabbi to
archaeologist,
thought Ellie. As she listened to the ancient Hebrew tongue, she felt vaguely uncomfortable and somehow distant from Moshe. This was a part of him that she was completely unfamiliar with. What other things about himself did he hold from her? As she watched his broad shoulders rise and fall with the cadence of the prayers and listened to his confident but tender voice, she realized he belonged here in this land; she did not. And then she began to wonder:
Do I belong anywhere?

***

As Rabbi Lebowitz stepped into the chill of the evening air, he began to cough, the pain in his chest growing fierce. Tonight he would speak with Rabbi Akiva. He would ask the mayor if it was possible for such an old man to receive special permission to leave the confines of the Quarter and return after a visit to his grandson. Perhaps Akiva could negotiate with the Mufti. Then Rabbi Lebowitz would see Yacov and be comforted.