The Gates of Zion (25 page)

“What’s your point?” David asked Luke.

“The point is,” the lean, sunburned captain answered, “that for some reason, this young woman is dangerously of interest to the anti-Zionist faction in Palestine. I don’t believe they have picked her at random. Certainly there is a motive behind their actions.”

“Could it be the scrolls?” Ellie asked.

“Not possible.” Uncle Howard toyed with a pencil thoughtfully.

“They would have no concept of their political importance at this point.”

“You are seeing a fellow,” Luke probed. “Moshe Sachar. Are you romantically involved?”

Howard yawned and stretched. “A cold trail there, Luke. Moshe is interested in the politics of ancient Assyria.”

“Thought I’d ask,” Luke said as he puffed cheerfully on his pipe and eyed David.

David was staring hard at Ellie, noticing the blush that colored her cheeks at the mention of Moshe’s name. Jealousy rushed through him, so he stood and walked to the bookcase, pretending to read book titles as the conversation continued behind him.

Ellie tossed her hair and lifted her chin. “Whatever you might think, Moshe is the last person in Palestine to be a threat to anyone.

Especially to the Arabs. As long as he can continue his work, the world can fall down around him. He’d no doubt leave notes on clay tablets for archaeologists digging around in another couple thousand years.”

“And where is Professor Sachar now?”

“University business,” said Howard, his eyes fixed on David as though he were trying to see into his mind. “Isn’t that right, David?”

David turned and leaned against the bookcase. “I don’t know,” he stated. “I just drive the bus.” David was certain now that it had indeed been Ellie’s association with Moshe that had brought her so near death. He clenched his fists and turned back toward the bookcase. Ellie’s ignorance of Moshe’s Haganah connection would ensure that she got on the plane for home five days from now. In the meantime, he would keep his mouth shut and let Moshe deal with the Arabs when Ellie was safely on her way.

“Sachar seems like a real egghead type to me,” David said. “No offense, Professor. All he wanted to talk about was archaeology stuff. When the Arabs attacked the bus, it scared the stuffing out of him, poor guy.” He turned and winked at Ellie, who looked away.

Was she ashamed and embarrassed for Moshe? David wondered briefly, seeing the look of pain that crossed her face.

“You see, Captain,” she said, “that avenue is a waste of time.”

***

Perched on a large rock in Netanya Kibbutz, Rachel shielded her eyes against the late-afternoon sun and searched the skies in the direction of the faint drone of an airplane engine. She shifted her weight and nervously chewed her nails. Today was mail day again, and as she scanned the horizon for the tiny blue-and-white airplane, her pulse began to race in anticipation that perhaps this was the day she would hear news of her grandfather in Jerusalem.
By now,
she hoped
,
the Jewish Agency must
have located him; by now he knows that I am alive and searching for him.

As the speck in the sky grew larger, so did her excitement, although she attempted to mask it behind a placid exterior. She had learned too late that the others in the camp merely mocked her hopefulness; most doubted that she did indeed have a family.

Two women with whom she shared a small corner of her barracks walked by and snickered as they eyed her from head to foot. Rachel focused on the ground.

“Still waiting for your precious letter, Rachel dear?” one of the women sneered.

Rachel did not answer.

The other jibed, “No, she’s waiting for the pilot. Maybe he’s a paying customer.”

Rachel stood quickly and walked to the kibbutz mess hall, listening as the steady buzz of the engine grew louder. Just as she reached the heavy double doors of the building, the airplane passed low over the grassy square, touching Rachel with its shadow. She whirled around and looked up at its bright blue underbelly, then stood, blinking in the sun, as the plane slowly turned and landed on the kibbutz’s makeshift landing strip. Everyone except the armed guards on duty around the settlement’s perimeters dropped their work and ran to greet the fragile little craft and her pilot. But Rachel turned her back instead and entered the empty mess hall to wait alone for mail call.

The sounds of her shoes on the concrete floor echoed hollowly. She poured herself a cup of coffee, then pulled out a long wooden bench and sat down. On top of the white table, two lovers had scratched their initials and a heart. Rachel traced the heart wistfully with her finger and wondered what it must be like to love and be loved by a man. Then the doors clanged open and the crowd pushed in behind David Meyer, the tall American pilot. As if to hide her thoughts, Rachel placed her coffee cup over the initials.

David was laughing loudly. The mailbags were slung over his shoulder as he made his way to the center of the room. He dumped the mail on the table and sprawled out on a bench.

“Hey, how about some coffee for the mailman!” he shouted playfully.

One of the Sabra girls filled a cup and set it down in front of him as two men began to sort through the bundle of letters and call out names of those gathered for mail.

Rachel continued to stare at the rim of her cup. She tapped the handle nervously with her index finger.

One by one the names were recited and whoops of delight filled the room as first packages and then letters were handed out. Rachel swallowed hard as the last name was read and hers had not been called. She sipped her cold coffee and listened to the snatches of conversation that floated around the room. “Looks like the Mufti’s going to strangle the Old City first,” she heard David say to the leader of the kibbutz. “Then the Arab Legion will go for the city’s jugular. I don’t know how much longer we’ll be able to get in and out freely.”

A wave of panic swept over Rachel. Not to be able to reach Jerusalem would mean she had no reason left to live.
There must be
some oversight. Maybe the letter is still in the bottom of the
mailbag. Perhaps it has been overlooked.

She rose from the table and jammed her shaking hands down into her pockets. She hesitated, then slowly walked to where David sat talking and sipping coffee with several other men and two young Sabra women. She stood quietly at his right elbow until the conversation died and the attention turned to her.

“Pardon … me,” she said haltingly.

David turned to her brusquely; a smile danced across his lips. He gave a low whistle and nudged a man beside him. “You guys have been holding out on me.” He laughed. “Where have you been hiding all the gorgeous dames? What are you doing tonight, honey?” he joked.

The two women at the table exchanged glances and the men looked self-consciously at their hands.

David must have noticed the change of mood. “What’s up?”

“Excuse me, please.” Rachel turned to go. “I should not have interrupted.”

“Whoa now, pretty lady!” David jumped to his feet and grabbed her arm.

Rachel continued to look down at a crack in the concrete floor, aware now that nearly every eye in the mess hall had turned toward her and the pilot. “Please,” she said quietly, pulling away from him, “I am sorry.”

He lowered his voice and held on to her wrist. “No, I’m sorry. I mean, I … I was just kidding, you know?”

“It’s all right,” she answered.

“Can I help you with something?” he asked kindly as he pulled her to a bench. “You want some coffee?”

Still not looking at him directly, she searched for words. “I am waiting, you see. For a letter from the Jewish Agency in Jerusalem.

About my family.”

David nodded. “It didn’t come today?”

Rachel looked into his eyes. “I thought perhaps it might have become lodged in the mail pouch.”

“Sure,” David said hopefully, but his gaze acknowledged her anguished hopefulness. “We’ll have another look. What’s your name?

“Rachel Lubetkin.” She spelled the name slowly as he opened the bags and rummaged inside them.

“I’m sorry,” he said, holding the bags upside down. “That’s it.”

She looked at her hands again and tried to smile. “Yes,” she said, stiffly fighting back tears of disappointment. “Thank you very much.”

She started to rise, but David again touched her arm.

“Maybe next time, huh?” he said, trying a smile to cheer her up.

“Maybe.”

“Yeah, uh, well, is there anything else I can help you with?”

Rachel clasped her hands in her lap. “Could you … ,” she began haltingly, “
would
you take a letter to the Agency for me by your own hand? Perhaps if you brought it to someone’s attention. I have family there. In Jerusalem, you see. A grandfather in the Old City,” she explained in a rush.

“Sure. You got it? You got the letter with you? I’ll take it.”

“It’s in the barracks.” Rachel stood and walked quickly to the door.

She turned and gazed gratefully at David before she ran to the barracks and her bunk, pulling yet another sheet of paper from her notepad and stuffing it into an envelope already addressed to the Jewish Agency.

“Another letter, Rachel?” one of her barracks companions said in mock sympathy. “Don’t tell me―still no word from Jerusalem?”

Rachel licked the seal and glared back at the woman. Then she dashed back to the mess hall. She opened the door and stood self-consciously, watching as the two women at the table filled David in on her shameful past as an SS prostitute. One of them looked up and saw her at the door, then nudged her companion to silence. They both stared awkwardly at her.

David turned, his eyes full of pity.

Rachel’s heart went numb, and she simply stepped back and closed the door. She clutched the letter to her and walked across the square, feeling totally alone. But she had felt alone before, and still she had lived―or at least survived.

The sound of footsteps came from behind her. “Hey, Rachel Lubetkin,” came a cheery voice. She did not turn or stop until David caught her by the elbow and spun her around. “Hey—” he smiled into her eyes— “haven’t you got a letter for me to deliver?”

***

Moshe watched in amusement as Ehud finished his third helping of cheeze blintzes, then wiped his mouth on his red-flannel shirtsleeve and belched loudly.

“It warms my heart, Ehud,” cooed Fanny Goldblatt lovingly, “to feed a man who likes to eat.” She poured another round of coffee for Ehud, Moshe, and Dov Yori, chief of Haganah Intelligence, who had gathered in her Tel Aviv apartment.

“Someday I am going to marry you, Fanny.” Ehud belched again and pushed his plate away from him.

“Only you would eat yourself to death in a week.” Moshe laughed.

“She feeds you free now, Ehud. Marry, and you pay the grocery bills,” Dov quipped, ducking as Fanny reached out to whack him on the top of his shiny bald head.

Fanny plopped down at the large dark-oak table and folded her hands in front of her. “And what makes you think I would have such a gorilla as this?” She stuck out her lower lip in a mock pout. “King Kong would eat my cooking and not smell half so bad.”

“That is why he went to sea,” Moshe added with a grin. “The sardines don’t notice.”

“But the refugees do!” Dov howled.

“At least I get them safely to shore,” Ehud mumbled.

“Which reminds me, Moshe darling,” Fanny broke in, “have you heard from Rachel Lubetkin, hmmm? Such a beauty.” She raised her eyebrows.

Moshe looked at her with surprise, then shrugged and changed the subject. He had not allowed himself to think of the beautiful young woman since he had last seen her. Now, at the mention of her name, he felt suddenly embarrassed, as though someone might sense the thoughts he had had about her. “So,” he said, “are we going to discuss the delivery, or what?”

“All right, all right.” Dov pushed his chair back from the table.

“Let’s get to it.”

“This might be my last ride for a while. I will be in Jerusalem.”

Moshe sipped his coffee, then added a little sugar, wondering how difficult it would be within a few weeks for the Jews of Jerusalem to find either sugar or coffee.

“Then tonight we shall make it a good trip, my darling and I,” Ehud promised.

Dov cleared his throat and pushed on the edge of the table, balancing his chair on its back legs as Fanny glared in silent disapproval. “We are bringing in a large group of young males this trip,” explained Dov. “Military age. As soon as they are off the boat, we begin their training.”

Moshe nodded in approval. “How many?”

“As many as you can squeeze on board, eh?” said Dov. “There is one problem we have encountered.” He paused. “Some of our passengers may be plants.”

“British?” growled Ehud, and Moshe imagined his hackles standing up like the ruff of a fierce dog.

“Some,” said Dov, a frown creasing the deep lines of his plump face. “American Army Intelligence has been able to help us with this a bit. Don’t ask me why or how. But there is one man in particular we need to watch for. They themselves have been searching for him for eighteen months.” Dov reached into his pocket and pulled out a faded photograph. He stared hard at it, then tossed it across the table to Moshe. “He is a Nazi SS commando, an explosives expert until he murdered another officer over a girl in a brothel. His mother was Muslim Arab and his father German. This fella grew up hating Jews.

No wonder, with a combination like that, eh?”

Moshe studied the craggy face and the jutting jaw. The ice blue eyes seemed cruel even in the picture. The only evidence of the SS

officer’s Arab heritage was a large hawkish nose. Moshe had the vaguely unsettling feeling that he had seen the man somewhere before. “So why should we be looking for him?”

“He is a terrorist―trained and bred for it. The Americans think he’s responsible for a number of atrocities. They would have liked to have had him as a defendant in the Nuremberg Trials. Unfortunately, after he sliced up his fellow officer, the Nazis threw him into Ravensbruk.”

“Ravensbruk?” gasped Ehud. “With Jewish prisoners?”