The Gates of Zion (6 page)

He knew the most obscure routes of escape from the grasp of some angry British sergeant in hot pursuit. The rooftops were second nature to him—a hiding place and a playground.

In quiet moments he feared the disapproval of Grandfather more than the wrath of God or the British. But he had decided long ago that he could not wait for the Messiah to come and bring His blessings to the bare cupboards of their basement room. He knew the commandments but hoped that somehow God would understand the ache of hunger that sometimes gnawed at him and kept him from sleep. Besides, he reasoned, were the British themselves not thieves? Had they not stolen the land of Palestine from her people?

But his most immediate worry was that of losing his quarry. There was talk, so much talk that he didn’t understand. Many people in the Old City thought perhaps the British soldiers would be leaving Palestine and the streets of Jerusalem forever. Tonight, he knew, some place far away in America, men who had never even seen Palestine were voting about something called Partition.

Grandfather and the other rabbis raged against it and against the young Zionist Jews who supported it. The baths and coffeehouses of the Old City had become centers of hot debates. Should Palestine become two states—one Arab and one Jewish? Shouldn’t they put their faith in the restoration of Israel when Messiah came?

Yacov understood little of the issues. But if the soldiers left, whose pockets could he pick? Arabs’? Many of his playmates were from the Arab Quarter, friends and neighbors who came to light the lamps for him and Grandfather on Shabbat. He could expect no mercy from God if he stole from his neighbors. That much Grandfather had taught him. But the British—they were the enemy. And like David, who took Goliath’s sword, Yacov was determined to take whatever he could win in his battle against the British “Philistines” who roamed the streets of his city. Whatever this Partition was, whatever his motive, Yacov stood by the rabbis’ stand: “May the English thieves stay until Messiah comes,” he whispered to Shaul.

The boy rubbed Shaul’s ear as he turned these things over in his mind. Sleep began to settle on him as he grew warmer beneath the dog’s weight. Scenes of tall British officers in kilts and tunics bulging with money drifted into his mind. The souks were crowded with Arabs and Jews and soldiers. A strong wind began to blow through the streets, tearing at robes and tunics until the English soldiers’ pockets burst open, and the streets became littered with British pound notes. Yacov scrambled to retrieve the money as a captain shouted, “Mind the little Jew beggar; they’re all thieves, you know!” Yacov filled his pockets and stuffed his yarmulke full, then scampered across the rooftops as the captain chased after him, blowing a horn and shouting, “Stop, Jew!”

Then through his dream he heard a sound that made him sit straight up in bed, sending Shaul tumbling to the floor. Seconds ticked past until, beyond the darkness of the room, the sound of a solitary shofar cracked the stillness of the night.

Shaul whined impatiently. “Shhh,” Yacov warned, listening closely.

Had it only been a part of the dream? he wondered.

He knew the sound he had heard—the ram’s horn, the ancient call to freedom for the Jewish people. Why was it being blown this night?

Had Messiah come?

Wrapping the blanket around his shoulders, he climbed out of bed and stumbled to the shuttered window. Too short to reach the latch, he felt in the darkness for the one wooden chair they owned. He carried it carefully to the window and climbed up, unlatching the shutters and peering out into the darkened streets of the Old City.

Then, clearly, he heard the sound of the shofar as it echoed mournfully in the Old City. The solitary blast of the horn was joined by another, then another, until the streets reverberated with the sound. A knot of warm excitement grew in the pit of Yacov’s stomach, and chills caused him to tuck the blanket more closely around him.

He was unaware of Grandfather standing behind him until he felt a gnarled hand on his shoulder.

“What does it mean, Grandfather?” Yacov asked.

“The ending of things as we know them, I fear,” the old man answered. “But tonight they will celebrate because they do not understand.”

The old man turned away and lit the oil lamp on the table. “So get your trousers on,” he instructed. “This is a night for every Jew to have his trousers on.”

Yacov barely noticed the cold fabric of his trousers as he pulled them on. Grandfather sat down and scrawled a short note. He folded the paper and sealed it with the wax drippings of a candle.

“You think you can deliver this to Rebbe Akiva tonight without getting yourself into trouble, eh?”

Yacov looked at the note in Grandfather’s hand and nodded slowly.

Never before had Grandfather sent him out after dark.
Surely this
night is as important as the first Passover,
thought Yacov.

“For the mayor of the Old City’s hand alone.” The old man gazed wearily into Yacov’s eyes before handing him the note.

Yacov looked down, trying to conceal his happiness at being part of some unfathomable adventure. He felt ashamed of the excitement that surely shone through his eyes since there was no joy in Grandfather’s ancient, lined face.

Grandfather took the boy’s face in his hands knowingly. “So you think this old man is blind? Hmm? Maybe soon, but not yet can you hide feelings from me. It is the stirring of battle you feel now, boy.

But you must think what that will mean.”

Yacov met his gaze and tried to understand the old man’s words.

“We here in the Old City try to live in peace with our neighbors, Christian or Muslim Arab, eh?” said Grandfather solemnly. “We try to live in the ways of peace. We wait for Messiah, Yacov. Until He establishes Israel, we cannot be a nation. There can be only more killing. This Partition is a nasty business for everyone. Christians will die, Muslims and Jews as well. It is a nasty business, Yacov.

Those who celebrate tonight do not know they dance on the edge of their own graves. Remember that, will you?”

Yacov swallowed hard. “Yes, Grandfather.”

Grandfather mussed his hair and half smiled through his thick gray beard. “So go. What are you waiting for? The Messiah?” He stood and walked Yacov to the heavy wooden door. Then he doubled over with coughing. Yacov wondered if he should really leave Grandfather alone, even to deliver such an important message.

Yacov put his hand on the old man’s back and patted him gently between his bony shoulder blades. “So go already,” Grandfather wheezed.

Yacov put on his coat and Shaul sprang to his feet, expectantly wagging his entire hind end.

Grandfather glared at the dog disapprovingly. “Jackal!” he exclaimed. Shaul cowered and lay back down. “So you’re going to lie here? Go with the boy.” He shook his fist and kicked at the dog.

Shaul scrambled clear. “And see that he gets home, or tomorrow it’s an Arab stewpot for you!”

Yacov unbolted the heavy wooden door, and Shaul gratefully followed onto the steps that led up to the street.
Always Grandfather
threatens
.
Always he kicks and misses and growls about Arab stew,
and always he sends Shaul out on my heels.
Briefly Yacov wondered if it was all some sort of game the old man played. One thing was certain: Grandfather knew that as long as the big dog was able, Shaul would protect Yacov.

In the dark streets of the Old City, Shaul’s shaggy presence was a comfort to the young messenger. From what Grandfather had said, soon it would not be safe for a Jew in the Old City streets at any time of the day or night.

Yacov bounded up the steps two at a time. He paused for one incredulous moment as lights began to wink on throughout the Old City. An eerie glow seeped through the shuttered windows and fell in uneven puddles on the cobblestones.

He stood and listened. In the distance, in the direction of the New City, came another sound. Like waves against a seawall, the blaring of automobile horns crashed against the hand-hewn stones of the Old City Wall.

“They are celebrating,” Yacov said to Shaul as they set out. “The Zionists are celebrating. That’s the difference between them and us.

On this side of the wall we still blow the shofar, eh?”

4

Partition Night

The blare of automobile horns penetrated the thick walls of Ellie’s darkroom. She paused to listen, squinting in the dim red light. “Something’s up,” she said aloud, startled at the sound of her own voice. Then she rinsed the final prints of the old Arab’s scroll and hung them to dry with the others.

The fumes from developing chemicals had seeped through her stuffy sinuses until, after six hours’ work, she felt better than she had in days. With a sigh, she washed her hands and dried them on the tail of the nightgown that had long since inched out the back of her trousers.

Then she switched on the light and plopped down on a three-legged stool to admire her efforts.

Row after row of dripping eight-by-ten photographs hung around the little room like laundry on a clothesline.
Chances are very good that
I have just spent six hours working on a 1925 copy of the Jewish
code for kosher butcher shops, or something equally ridiculous.

Moshe and Uncle Howard would probably laugh her out of the house.

“Oh, well,” she said to the pictures, “I might be an archaeological nitwit, but after I’m dead they’ll say I had stamina.”

She sneezed, like a roaring lion, rattling the prints hanging nearest her. She reached for the now-empty box of tissues. Staring at the overflowing trash can, she considered using photographic paper on her nose before reaching for the tail of her nightgown. “What I need right now,” she muttered miserably, wiping her nose on the soft cloth, “is a shower and a good hot cup of Irish coffee.” The shower was easy enough to arrange, she thought, opening the darkroom door and taking one last look at the photographs before she switched off the light. The Irish coffee would be a little more difficult, however.

Uncle Howard was a teetotaler, the son of a hellfire-and-brimstone preacher who would sooner die than take a sip of anything alcoholic, even for medicinal purposes. “The smaller the drink, the clearer the head,” he would say sternly, refusing a drink even at a cocktail party.

Ellie had yet to figure out why anyone needed a clear head to celebrate, but many times she had seen Uncle Howard’s short, stout form wandering from group to group with a half-consumed bottle of warm Coca-Cola in his hand. Early in the evening she might overhear him discussing various aspects of Baal worship with people obviously less clearheaded than himself; but as the night wore on, he changed his topic of conversation considerably more often than his soft drink. Spotting some half-loaded British colonel expounding on the problems of Jewish immigration to Palestine, he inevitably moved to the fringe of the officer’s audience. “It’s only a matter of time, you know,” Uncle Howard would interrupt with a benevolent smile on his face, “before the Jews have their own nation. Right here in Palestine. We’ll be asking
them
for passes to get in, eh, Colonel?”

Nothing gave him quite as much pleasure as watching a British officer choke on his whiskey and soda. When all eyes turned to Uncle Howard, he would add, “Read it and weep, Colonel. It’s written in the Good Book. You might as well pack your bags.” Then before anyone could say another word, he would smile, sip his Coke, pat the choking colonel on the back, and saunter off. Clearheaded— that was Uncle Howard. So there would be nothing to make her coffee Irish in his house.

Ellie glanced at her watch. It was after midnight. Even the bar at the King David Hotel would be closed up tight. After three days in bed, Ellie felt wide-awake and cursed her luck to be in a city that rolled up its sidewalks after a nine-o’clock curfew. She listened to the crescendo of automobile horns, wondering what had happened to cause such a clamor in the streets. It was some political demonstration, no doubt. Probably Jewish or Arab terrorists had blown up another building.

She tiptoed down the dark hall toward the bathroom, startled as she passed the kitchen and heard the sound of the radio. She pushed gingerly at the swinging door and peered in. There, at the table, sat Miriam and her gray-headed fifty-year-old son, Ishmael, listening gravely to an Arab newscaster speaking in undeniably angry tones.

Must be the Jews that blew something up this time.
Ellie stepped quietly into the kitchen. Miriam glanced up, dark circles beneath her eyes, her ancient face a mask of weariness. Ishmael looked at her, too, concern etched into the lines around his eyes.

Ellie blinked back at them, offering a half smile. “I know I look terrible, but it’s nothing to get upset about,” she quipped. Miriam and Ishmael solemnly stared back at her. “Excuse me,” she mumbled, turning to go. “I was just looking for the locker room. Quick shower …”

“Sit,” commanded Miriam. “Always making jokes. Well, nobody is laughing tonight.” The old woman pushed back her chair and went to the stove. “Sit!” she said again, narrowing her eyes. “I’ll fix tea.”

“Well, actually, I was in the mood for an Irish coffee, you know— with a little whipped cream on top.” Ellie pulled out a chair.

“What’s going on? Why are you still up?”

Without a word, Ishmael reached across the table to the radio and adjusted the dial, searching for the British Broadcasting Corporation of Palestine, the English-speaking broadcast of the Middle East.

Miriam opened a canister on the counter to prepare coffee.
No Irish,
Ellie mused, resigning herself to temperance.
Just coffee.

“Listen to the radio,” ordered the old woman. “Maybe you learn something.” Then she grumbled in Arabic while Ishmael fiddled with the tuning of the old radio.

“Do not worry about Mother. Pay no mind,” Ishmael whispered.

“She always talk like that when her feet hurt,” he said confidentially.

Ishmael continued to work the knob, passing over announcers that chattered in jubilant Yiddish and others in angry Arabic until finally the voice of the BBC slid in clearly: