The Gates of Zion (42 page)

God and sinners reconciled!

Joyful, all ye nations, rise,

Join the triumph of the skies;

With th’angelic host proclaim …”

“It’s too high for me.” She laughed. “That’s always where I lose it.”

Moshe cleared his throat and in a loud falsetto sang: “Christ is born in Bethlehem!

Hark! the herald angels sing,

Glory to the newborn King!”

From between them Yacov looked up and tapped his temple.

“Meshuggener!”

Just then Howard waved broadly. “Going my way?”

“Just like Bing Crosby,” Ellie called back.

“Moshe! Would you like a lift?” the professor asked. “As long as it is not to the Temple Mount.”

“The Mufti’s residence, please.” Moshe poked his head in the window. “Hello to you, Rachel.”

Yacov’s ears caught awkwardness in Moshe’s tone. He edged closer.

“You are looking well,” she replied, looking away quickly. “Are you … well?”

“Yes … uh.”

What is wrong with Moshe all of a sudden?
Yacov wondered.

“Come on, Moshe, get in. We’ve got to get home,” Ellie urged, patting his back.

Moshe looked at his watch, then raised up and bumped his head.

“Nearly four-thirty! I didn’t realize it was so late.” He put his hands on Ellie’s shoulders and gave her a peck on the cheek. “I almost forgot. I have to go.”

“I thought you were going to―,” Ellie began.

“Thoughtless of me. A meeting,” Moshe said absently. “I have a meeting. Good-bye, darling. Howard. Yacov, it’s good you are going home. And Rachel.”

Yacov watched, puzzled, as Moshe Sacar hurried off across the parking lot, back to the Hebrew University.

***

“Well, I like that!” Ellie said indignantly as she opened the car door.

“He is not going with us?” Yacov asked.

“I guess not, son.” Howard started the car.

Rachel stared out the window, certain that Moshe had not wanted to ride with them because she was in the car. Overcome with shame, she barely looked up when Ellie introduced her to Yacov. Ellie and Howard made conversation with Yacov during the long drive home, but silence hung heavy from the backseat, where Rachel gazed out the window at the rolls of wire that made the city a prison.

26

Salvation Comes from the Sky

The British armored car wound slowly around Mount Zion and past the Tomb of David. Just ahead, the No. 2 bus belched smoke as it crept toward Zion Gate. The six members of the Highland Light Infantry leaned against the rough-hewn stone of the Wailing Wall and chatted among themselves as they awaited the arrival of the group they were to escort back through the crooked streets of the Arab Quarter and on to Mendelbaum Gate in the shadow of the synagogues.

“Here they come, mates.” One soldier snuffed out his smoke and shouldered his rifle.

“The bus and that Jew-lover captain of ours.”

“Watch your mouth, Tory. The captain ain’t a bad sort.”

“How much y’ wanna bet there ain’t but half of them Jews that came out this mornin’. They’re cowards, y’know, these Yids.”

“Five quid says twelve came out and twelve’ll go back in, Tory.”

“You’re on, Williams. How about it? Any other takers? I say them Yids are runnin’ scared on their holy day. No more’n half back through Mendelbaum. You’ll see.”

The brakes of the dilapidated blue-and-white, armor-plated bus squeaked loudly as it pulled up in front of the waiting soldiers. The doors slapped open, and the weary bus driver stared down at the smiling soldiers.

“Anybody gettin’ off?” yelled one soldier.

Slowly an old woman disembarked, followed by the two Ashkenazi Yeshiva students and another young woman and her aged Orthodox mother.

One of three soldiers nudged a man next to him. “They’ve all gone to Beirut.”

His smile began to fade as five more followed out the bus door.

“That’s still only ten.”

Captain Thomas and Rabbi Lebowitz walked up behind the soldiers.

“Ten what?” asked Luke.

“Ten passengers off the bus, sir.” A soldier snapped to attention.

“Me an’ Tory ’ere got us a bet … I say twelve out, twelve in.”

“Well, here is number eleven, then.” Luke nodded toward the old rabbi.

“Any more in there?” shouted Tory.

One old man slowly descended the steps and looked around, blinking in the late-afternoon light. “This is Zion Gate?” he asked feebly. “I meant to go to Katamon.” He turned and disappeared into the interior of the bus.

“That’s still only eleven.”

A moment passed, and Tory stood among the other soldiers with his palm outstretched as the little troop of Old City residents gathered beside the heavy steel-plated gates.

Rabbi Lebowitz drew a deep breath and shook his head with a chuckle. “So, it looks like we are having more students for Yeshiva school.” He jerked his head toward the bus door.

From the dim interior of the bus, eight more grim-faced, black-coated young men emerged one at a time. Cash was snatched from the palm of Tory, and a cheer went up among the other soldiers.

“Wait a minute! Wait a minute, mates!” Tory squawked. “These lads ain’t part of the bargain. They didn’t come out this mornin’ and they ain’t goin’ back in, are they, Captain?”

Luke Thomas rocked back on his heels and eyed the young men as they stood with luggage in hand in a line along the side of the bus. “I don’t see why they shouldn’t be allowed to enter the Quarter as long as they aren’t bent on causing mischief.” He frowned at a large, rawboned Hasidim. “You going to cause trouble, lad?”

“No, sir,” the lad said in heavily accented English. “I am come only to study God’s Word.”

“There, you see?” The captain turned and walked away.

“Well, sir, y’ ain’t lettin’ the Jews through without at least searchin’

their luggage?” exclaimed Tory.

“Of course not. Open up, lads. Let’s see what you’ve got in your grips.”

One by one the newcomers opened their battered suitcases. Captain Thomas nonchalantly nudged their clothes with the end of his Sten gun, then, satisfied, ordered them to close up their valises. “Happy now, are you, Tory? Seems to me you lost the bet.”

“How about the women? And that old guy there.” Tory pointed at Rabbi Lebowitz.

“Come off it, Tory!” said another soldier. “Pay up.”

“Shabbat will soon be over,” said the old rabbi. “We must be home.”

Tory scowled and turned away, throwing his cigarette butt onto the cobblestones at his feet.

“Front and center!” Luke commanded. He turned once again to Grandfather. “If you would be so kind, Rabbi, to organize your people by fours.”

A much larger band marched back through the Arab Quarter than had come out this morning. And a much more prepared group as well.

Three grenades were hidden in the bulky clothing of the elderly Orthodox woman, and rifle cartridges seasoned the sack of beans her daughter carried home for the Hanukkah meal. But the dearest Hanukkah gift to enter the Old City Jewish Quarter that afternoon was the disassembled Sten gun strapped inside the trousers of the group’s only rabbi.

***

“
Yakum purkan min shemaya
. Salvation comes from the sky.” Michael Cohen patted the fuselage of the bright new Messerschmidt 109 and grinned broadly at David.

“Well, I shot enough of these German babies out of the sky. I sure never thought I’d be flying them.” David turned a full circle, scrutinizing the flock of German war-surplus fighter planes clustered on the grass airfield of Budejovice in Czechoslovakia.

“So, what do you think?” asked Avriel, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses.

“Well, they’re real planes. Fighters.” David shook his head.

“Unsteady and unstable,” Michael added.

“Can you fly them?” Avriel frowned.

David and Michael looked at one another and said loudly, “Can we fly them?”

“Yes, yes. That is the question.” Avriel peered at them suspiciously.

“We’ll need a few hours in them, Avriel. You know they’re not Mustangs.”

“Or Spitfires.”

“But it beats a Piper.”

“I’ll bet these’ll even hang together without bailing wire.”

“You think they’ve got real spark plugs, Michael?” David joked.

“The only thing that’s been keeping my engine running is an excess of fear. It radiates from me out to those antique spark plugs.”

“All part of being a good pilot, David. You gotta have a plane that really challenges you.”

“The word is
threaten
,” David retorted.

Avriel grinned. “Am I to understand you fellows would like to have a go at these?”

Michael cocked his head thoughtfully. “We already had a go
at
them in the late war, Avriel. We’d like to have a go
in
them.”

“Good. That’s good. We can have twenty-five. In May.”

“In May!” David exclaimed. “What are we supposed to do for the next four and a half months?”

“Pray,” Michael said glumly. “So how are we going to get them from here to Tel Aviv? I mean the range on these things is—”

“We’ll worry about that tomorrow.” Avriel cut him short as he spotted the obese, obsequious little arms merchant waddling across the airfield.

“Well. Yes, yes, sirs, how do you like them?” asked the merchant.

“They’re not Spitfires or Mustangs,” Avriel grumbled. “Unsteady.

Quite unstable, you know.”

“Perhaps this is not to your liking.” The merchant screwed up his face and stared mournfully at the planes.

“Our men would need training.”

The merchant brightened again. “Ah yes, there is a former Luftwaffe pilot …”

“A Nazi?”

The merchant spread his arms. “Who can say? Maybe he likes the Führer, maybe not. Did efery American who flies fote for Rosenfelt?”

“Roosevelt,” David corrected.

“Whateffer,” the agent fired back. “So he flies for Germany. Maybe once you shoots at him and now he will teach you to fly a Messerschmidt.”

The three Americans exchanged glances.

Michael shrugged. “Why not?”

The agent smacked his stubby hands together gleefully. “Gute!” he exclaimed. “Twenty-fife?”

“If you will throw in one hundred thousand rounds of ammunition,”

Avriel bargained.

“No. No.” The agent shook his head sadly. “Sefenty, perhaps.”

“Ninety.”

“Eighty.”

“Eighty-five.”

“Done!” The agent grabbed Avriel’s hand and pumped wildly. “And as for that other matter …”

“What other matter?” Avriel looked puzzled.

“The matter of arms shipment?” The agent pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket. “Yes. You see—” he ran his finger down a long list —“ten thousand of rifle. Hmmm. Machine guns. Ammunition. Your other arms agent, the tall dark fellow, Kadar … he is worried about shipping. It is not to worry. We haf a little ship to carry. It is called the
Lino
and shall sail in only three weeks. Here is the schedule.” He shoved the paper into Avriel’s hand.

“Great.” Avriel peered at the statement long and hard. Michael and David stared over his shoulder at the impressive list of weapons destined not for Jewish defense but for the Mufti’s arsenal. “Mind if I keep this?” Avriel shoved it into his pocket without waiting for an answer. “Okay. Well, let’s draw up the papers, shall we?” He patted David on the back. “You guys go on to the hotel. It shouldn’t take me long.”

***

David and Michael rode silently to Prague in the little green taxi. They were conscious of the tough-looking taxi driver who glanced suspiciously into the rearview mirror at them. Occasionally David would smile and wink back, and the angry eyes would dart back to the bumpy dirt road.

When at last they entered the filthy postwar streets of Soviet-occupied Prague, Michael tapped the man on the shoulder and indicated that they wanted to be let out. They were still several blocks from the run-down Hotel Flora, but neither wanted to wait to discuss the list that had just fallen into their hands.

Michael counted out the fare to the driver as David attempted not to notice the glare of a ragged young man in a tweed coat and a wool sailor’s cap. As they walked toward the hotel, it seemed to David that every eye was turned toward them.

“So,” David said under his breath, “looks like the Mufti’s heard about war surplus, too.”

“Wonder how many planes the Arabs bought.”

“Wonder if the same Luftwaffe guy is going to teach their guys to fly.”

“Yeah. And where are they gonna get the pilots?”

“Probably the same place we’re getting ours―war-surplus Nazis and Americans, huh? Gonna do it all over again.”

“How about that list of stuff? Machine guns. Rifles. Ammo.”

“Enough to blow us off the face of the earth.” David grimaced.

Michael eyed his friend and smiled. “You know, David, it’s good to hear you saying
us
.”

“Blow
us
up. Shoot
us
down. Send
us
home in a box.”

“It does have a certain ring to it, doesn’t it?”

“I’ll tell you, Michael, this is the craziest thing I’ve ever seen.
We
have an arms embargo against
us
―”

“There’s that word again.”

“So
we
can’t do anything but buy this stuff and wait until the British pull out. After they’re gone, then
we
can deliver it. In the meantime, the Mufti’s shipping stuff like crazy to the other Arab nations and is getting it all delivered before the first Englishman leaves Palestine.

We
are definitely in a heap of trouble.”

“Yeah,” Michael said under his breath. “I think maybe we oughta see if there’s not some way we can stop that Arab shipment. I don’t know if —”

“You just cogitate on it a while, Scarecrow. You know, I figure if we’re at this long enough, you just might get some brains.”

“Maybe you’ll find your heart,” Michael fired back.

“No problem.”

“Yeah? You and Ellie back together?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Well, what then?”

“I’m going to her place Christmas Eve.”