The Gates of Zion (22 page)

He hoped the boy would be sleeping soundly. It would certainly make his task easier. A slash of the knife and, like the Jewish butchers said, Yacov Lebowitz would be dead the kosher way―his blood draining painlessly and silently from his body.

***

Through a small glass porthole reinforced with wire, Hassan watched as a nurse rattled down the dimly lit corridor with a metal cart full of medication. He stared at the large red numbers and the arrows on the wall pointing the way to the little Jew’s room. Rooms 520 to 529 were to his left, opposite the direction the nurse had taken. He smiled at the wave of excitement he felt and bent to touch the handle of his knife once again.

He pushed the door open a crack and watched as the nurse disappeared around a corner. Soft light reflected on the shiny floor in front of the nurses’ station, where only one nurse remained. Her head was down, as if studying papers or reading a magazine.

He slipped from the stairwell into the corridor, careful not to let the leather soles of his boots squeak on the freshly scrubbed tiles. He walked close to the wall, passing rooms smelling of antiseptic and urine, cursing the fact that 529 was at the very end of the hall. A child swathed in white moaned as he passed the open door of room 525. He glanced in at the bars around the bed and imagined first the red blood of Yacov Lebowitz soaking the sheets and then the panic that would echo through this hallway when the deed of Ibrahim Hassan was discovered with the first light of morning. He wished that he could be on hand then—and even toyed with the idea of returning to the hospital to watch the chaos that resulted.

The wooden door of room 529 was closed. Hassan gingerly pushed it open, knowing that the boy’s eyes were bandaged and that he would not be awakened by the light. A cruel smile danced across his lips. He felt almost intoxicated as he slipped the knife from his boot top and tiptoed into the room.

Then his smile faded. There, before him in the darkness, was not the bed of one small Jewish child, but twenty beds occupied by twenty sleeping children. He turned with a gasp, bumping his arm hard on a large metal crib. His knife clattered to the floor, and a child cried out at the noise.

Hassan backed up behind the door in anticipation of a nurse scuttling into the room. Beads of sweat formed on his brow and trickled down his temples into his collar. Slowly his eyes began to adjust to the semidarkness. When no nurse appeared and the only sound was the steady breathing of the children, he allowed himself to relax and step forward. He would, he decided, simply search the sleeping faces.

He tiptoed to the first bed, then turned away immediately as he noticed a small leg encased in plaster and raised in traction. The next bed held a little girl, whose long, dark hair fanned over the pillow.

As he peered down at her, she moaned and thrashed, as if sensing something evil was near. He stepped away, brushing the foot of her bed with his fingers.
Two,
he counted wordlessly. He lowered his face close to the pillow of the next child, his breath causing the little one to turn away. There were no bandages on this child’s eyes, so Hassan crept stealthily to the next. Before him was the tiny form of a child whose head was swathed in bandages.

Hassan was in luck, he felt, and toyed with the blade of the knife before he raised the limp arm to check the identification band.

“I want a drink of water,” said a sleepy voice.

Hassan dropped the arm and lifted his knife. “What is your name, boy?” he whispered.

“Michael. I want a drink.”

“Shut up,” Hassan said in a menacing tone. “Where does Yacov Lebowitz sleep?”

“On the end,” came the whimpered reply.

Hassan straightened himself and, touching the foot of each bed as he passed, stole to the bed on the end nearest the window. There in the light and shadow of the city lights, he could make out the dim figure of Yacov.

“I came for you,” Hassan said with a cruel edge to his voice. He touched the neck of his victim and raised his knife to strike.

Just then the child he had awakened cried out loudly.

Hassan hesitated, knife still poised.

At that moment Yacov awakened with a start and bolted upright.

“Shaul!” he cried loudly. “Shaul!”

In an instant the ward was a mass of crying children. Hassan backed against the window. Then, as the door was flung open and the harsh lights of the ward flicked on, he smashed the window and lunged onto the fire escape. He clambered down the tiny steel ladder to the second-floor balcony, opened the window, and slipped into the darkness of a deserted room. He sprinted toward the door, into the hallway, to the emergency stairs, and smashed into the same nurse who had greeted him only a few minutes before.

When he reached the lobby floor, he paused barely a second before hurrying out. “There’s a terrorist on the fifth floor!” he cried to a group of British soldiers. As they ran toward the stairs and elevator, he walked calmly out to the stolen jeep and disappeared into the streets of Sheikh Jarrah.

15

The Haganah

Moshe paced the length of the Old Man’s office, glancing from time to time at the white head bowed over the stack of photographs.

“And you think the girl is trustworthy?” David Ben-Gurion said at last.

“Beyond doubt,” Moshe said without hesitation.

“An American journalist as a member of the Haganah would be helpful, to say the least.” Ben-Gurion took his glasses from his nose and rubbed a hand across his eyes. “Then approach her. Cautiously.

But do speak with her. There is only one way the world will hear our voice—that is if someone else shouts our cause.” He thumped the photographs. “I see your old friend Ibrahim Hassan was part of the riot.”

“You are surprised?”

“Perhaps we should take you out of Jerusalem for a while? Another assignment? How would you feel about a few weeks’ travel in Europe? Arms procurement.”

“Leave the travel to Arazi. I am Palestinian; even more, I am from the dust of Jerusalem. I can deal with Hassan.”

“What about the woman, Miss Warne? Have you considered her safety?” The Old Man leaned back in his chair and eyed Moshe knowingly.

“I have thought of nothing else for days.” Moshe sat heavily in the chair opposite him.

“You feel strongly about her, then?”

Moshe nodded. “Unfortunately. I am certain to lose her if I do not tell her of my involvement.” He stared miserably at the map of Palestine hanging behind the Old Man. “She has become committed to the cause, you see, and suddenly holds the Moshe Sachar she knows in contempt.”

“Well, then, she would find a way to stay even without you, wouldn’t she? Of course you could lose her. As she could lose you; as we have each lost someone in this bitter struggle. But that is a chance you must take.”

“She is not yet sure what it is that has changed in her heart. She does not know what has awakened, but I saw it in her eyes: She has become one of us.”

“Then you must let her be what God has made her. You must accept the risk or destroy what you feel in your heart for her. Listen to an old man, my young friend. There is always risk in love,
nu
?”

“I have not spoken to her of love,” Moshe said, looking down at his shoes, then back at the unrelenting gaze of David Ben-Gurion.

“Ha!” the Old Man exclaimed. “And you are worried that she will think you lack commitment!” he said sarcastically. “Perhaps she is right, eh?”

“I had not thought of it like that.” Moshe scratched his head and stood. “Perhaps you are right.”

“Perhaps.” The Old Man waved his hand. “And as for these other matters, which seem less important than the heart”―he passed his hand over the piles of papers that cluttered his desk―“they are in God’s hands. I know that God promised all of Palestine to the children of Israel. I do not know what borders He set. I believe that they were wider than the ones proposed. If God will keep His promise in His own time, our business as poor humans who live in a difficult age is to save as much as we can of the remnant of Israel.

That means that for now, Moshe, we must smuggle in a different cargo than we have in the past. We will not last a week without defense to hold our ground.”

He gazed seriously at Moshe, who had begun to pace once again.

“Sit down, will you?” the Old Man said in an irritated tone.

Moshe resumed his seat and stared at a smaller map of Jerusalem to the right of Ben-Gurion.

“You are reading my mind, maybe?” the Old Man prompted. “What about Jerusalem?”

Moshe smiled grimly. “I have spent the week speaking with area commanders. We have a very short supply of weapons and ammunition hidden in the New City. The Old City seems hopeless…

.
Hopeless
.”

“The very word Shimon used. So what is the situation?”

“We have ten men inside the walls of the Old City. Yeshiva students―determined but untrained. There are only fourteen rifles, antiques from the First World War, hidden in a cellar wall there, with enough ammunition for possibly three rounds each, if the boys even know how to fire the guns.”

“And the civilians?”

“Already the Mufti has made it impossible for them to pass into the New City. There are twenty-five hundred ultraorthodox inside those walls. They depend on this agency for their food, but there is no possible way that we can deliver anything to them.” Moshe frowned.

“Are you suggesting then that the Haganah begin by evacuating the Old City?”

“They are like lambs in the midst of lions.”

The Old Man glared at Moshe. “In the end time, lambs will lie down with lions. Even then I will want to be a lion, I think. I am asking you for an opinion. What is to be done?”

“Strategically, the Old City is a waste of time. We will have enough difficulty holding on to Jerusalem as a whole. But spiritually it is the center of our being. An integral part of our history. The great David’s capital. The place where Messiah is to return. Even those who do not believe in God recognize the value of the Old City.”

“Yes. It has changed little over the centuries. And now that the synagogues and ghettos of Europe have been wiped off the face of the earth, what else do we have but Jerusalem?”

“Then I say somehow we must make lions of the lambs behind those walls,” Moshe suggested. “Do what you can do. Talk with the British High Command before that vulture Akiva strikes some sort of bargain with the Mufti. If, on humanitarian grounds, you can get permission to convoy food to the Old City Jews …”

“You think you can smuggle in the necessities of survival?”

“Well, it is certain that Arazi and the others must transport the weapons we need into Palestine first. But once they get them to the New City, I can find a way to mix bullets and beans. I believe that we must try to save the Old City for the sake of our spirit.”

“It is certain,” the Old Man said with an air of finality, “that the eyes of the world are focused on the Faithful City. And Moshe―” he tapped the photographs— “your friend Miss Warne may well capture the image that they see.”

Moshe bit his lip thoughtfully, realizing the danger that Ellie would be placed in if she recorded the struggle. He wondered once again if he could ask her. “That square mile of earth and the Wailing Wall are what we had left after Titus destroyed everything two thousand years ago. How can we lose that without a fight?”

“Good.” The Old Man nodded. “I am glad you do not agree with Shimon. And now, what about these scrolls of yours?”

“Are you asking Moshe the archaeologist, Moshe the Jew, or Moshe the Zionist?” He laughed.

“All three.”

“I believe that they, too, may be the last remnant of Judaism of two thousand years ago.”

Ben-Gurion drew an astonished breath. “You believe they date from before the Diaspora? Incredible.”

“If that
is
so―and I must say
if
―their discovery at this time in history, when our people return from the four corners of the earth, is significant. Somehow I cannot help but believe that these ancient fragile writings may be as important as the Old City itself. They, like us, have been hidden from our legacy for these two thousand years.

And today when we most need hope, God has reminded us of His ancient promises.”

“This is Moshe the Jew speaking?” The Old Man smiled strangely as he studied the photographs of the scroll. “And what does the Zionist say?”

“We will know shortly if Professor Moniger’s and my belief about their authenticity is correct. If it is, then we have on our side a powerful weapon. We have the Word of God. There are some who will listen; we should let the world know what has been found.”

The Old Man straightened the stack and handed it back to Moshe.

“We need everyone we can muster on our side right now, my friend.

Especially God,
nu
?”

Moshe leafed through the pictures once again, skimming the words of Isaiah. “As well as His friends.”

“Does Professor Moniger share your enthusiasm over the significance of the scroll?”

“It was he who first mentioned it to me last night. He has lived in Jerusalem for twenty-eight years. He is a Christian, but also a Jew at heart. He is a good man, at any rate.”

The Old Man consulted his watch. “You have a plane to catch? And a ship to catch tomorrow night, I believe?”

Moshe nodded, rose, and shook his hand.
“Shalom.”

“And
shalom
to that hairy ape, Ehud, eh?”

Moshe left his office, filing through a crush of men and women waiting to see Ben-Gurion.
If there is truly to be a nation of Israel
,
surely the Old Man will be its prime minister,
Moshe thought. Ben-Gurion’s door was never closed, nor was his heart.

For the first time in days, Moshe felt lighthearted. He was at least clear as to the course of action he would take with Ellie. Once she knew the truth about him, he was sure she would tell the American flier good-bye.

As he approached the makeshift landing strip next to the Monastery of the Cross, he saw David and the other Haganah pilot, Michael, peering at the engine of the little blue Piper Cub.