Jerusalem Interlude

  Rabbi Lebowitz ducked down a side street that led to the Armenian Patriarchate Road. He walked close to the facades of the buildings as the smoke darkened the sun. The street was nearly deserted. British soldiers in gas masks, resembling giant insects, stood watch from the stone walls. Swathed in smoke and shifting degrees of darkness, they seemed like strange, unearthly creatures, the stuff that nightmares and visions are made of.

  5

  The Hiding Place

  Today the Grand Mufti spoke to his flock with the help of a loudspeaker. Rabbi Lebowitz could hear his voice as it floated over the walls that surrounded the Dome of the Rock. As Haj Amin called for rebellion and commanded hatred, his voice stirred the passions of ten thousand Muslims more than any other voice had done since the time of Saladin.

  The roar of cheering worshipers erupted at the end of a sentence. Haj Amin Husseini was certainly one example of English foolishness. The British government had put him firmly in place as Grand Mufti, and since that day there had been no real peace in Jerusalem.

  Another roar rose up. The faithful liked whatever Haj Amin told them. It was hard to make out the words exactly. The voice crackled amid static from the PA system powered by British electricity.

  The old man shrugged and walked quickly through the winding streets. Everywhere Jewish shopkeepers had stepped from their stalls to stand in small groups and strain their ears to hear what Haj Amin was up to now. No one seemed to notice the rabbi as he made his way past familiar faces of friends and neighbors. He knew that Haj Amin would continue to shout his Friday sermon for at least another hour. That was certainly time enough for him to get to the post office in Allenby Square and back. It was the best time for him to leave the Quarter, he reasoned. After all, the Arab populace was crammed into the Haram instead of out on the streets.

  Muslim voices rolled like a wave over the entire Old City. To his right and left along Rehov Habad, the stalls of Jewish and Armenian merchants began to close. Beneath the domed roof of the souk, men and women stared up at the vaulted ceiling as if it might fall on them. The religious rallies of Haj Amin always had that effect on Christians, Armenians, and Jews alike. It was hard to say what might follow these fanatic tirades. The last twelve years had borne witness to what the twisted hatred of one man in power could accomplish.

  “Rebbe Lebowitz!” shouted Memel the basketmaker. “Where are you going?” He had his entire display moved indoors and was just locking the metal grate.

  “To the post office to mail a letter to Etta and the children!” the rabbi answered without slowing.

  “Better wait! You can’t hear that crazy man? He is in a very bad mood today!”

  “It is Friday,” he explained. There was no need for further explanation. Everyone knew that on Friday Rabbi Lebowitz mailed a letter to his daughter in Warsaw. It was the last thing he did before Shabbat services began—his way of sending a blessing to his only child and the grandchildren.

  “Shabbat shalom,” Memel called nervously. The words meant “Sabbath peace,” but from the sound of things there would be little peace this Sabbath.

  “Shabbat shalom!” The rabbi returned the greeting, which was lost beneath a resounding cry of “ALLAH AKHBAR! GOD IS GREAT! GOD IS GREAT!”

  He quickened his pace. The back of his neck prickled with an uneasy sense of what could happen in Jerusalem after such a sermon. The graveyards were full of reminders of what had happened before. He fingered the letter in his pocket. Nothing would happen. The Muslims always ended their Fridays with this tumult of shouts and chants. Why should today be different? This was the safest time for a Jew to walk out of Jaffa Gate. The safest time. When all of them were—

  “And Allah has promised the faithful that the time is near when the Holy City will no longer be occupied by infidels! The end is near for them!” Suddenly the words sounded clearly along the Street of the Chain. Had someone turned a speaker this direction from the wall of the mosque? Did the Mufti mean for everyone in the Old City to hear these threatening words?

  Not one shop remained open. The Suq el-Bazaar was shuttered tight. David Street was empty except for two Copt priests hurrying away in their flowing black robes. The towers on either side of Jaffa Gate were lined with British soldiers who looked pensively toward the shiny Dome of the Rock.

  Omar Square, usually a picture-postcard of activity, was deserted. The old man stopped and gazed toward the New City beyond the gate. It was only a short walk to Allenby Square from here, but his uneasiness escalated into a fresh and wild sense of fear. A soldier cupped his hand and shouted down, “Old man! What are you doing? Get indoors!”

  Foolish. He saw how foolish he had been. He should have turned around the first time he heard the roaring passion of Haj Amin’s followers! Things were not as they had been—they were getting worse every day, every minute! He should have known. Armenians do not shut their shops for no reason. How many times had the people of the Old City witnessed violence erupting like a storm? It had come without warning. Was this such a day?

  “Old man!” shouted the soldier in Yiddish. “Get to your house!”

  The rabbi’s eyes widened as the rattle of gunfire sounded from behind. The dam had broken. A sea of violence swept toward him. Shouts and screams drowned out the warning of the soldier. The crackling sound of bullets aimed at nothing, yet meant to kill everything!

  Rabbi Lebowitz turned to see where he might run. Everywhere the shops were shut. It was half a block to the closest side street. He could not run back now. Instead he ran forward toward Jaffa Gate. He glanced up toward the soldier who had shouted, but the man had disappeared.

  “ALLAH AKHBAR! FOR ALLAH AND THE PROPHET!” voices called out.

  The rabbi ran as fast as he could. He hugged the face of the shops, searching for some opening, praying for some crevice to hide in until the storm swept past. He was old. He felt old. As never before, he felt years hanging on his legs, holding him back from the road of the Armenians.

  Breath came hard, yet he managed to breathe the name of God. He cried for help! English guns took aim over the heads of the mob. Fire and smoke burst from their rifles. Shrieks of alarm wailed at his back. Had any Arab rioters fallen in that volley?

  Bullets whined above the old man’s head, and he dashed toward the corner where he imagined safety to be. There was lead in his shoes. The nightmare of a body that would not respond became reality. He stumbled and fell, tearing his trousers and bloodying his knees.

  Get up, old man, or you will die!

  And then he was on his feet, half running, half crawling toward the corner. A slim dark crack was visible between two shops. With his last ounce of strength, the rabbi clutched the edge of the hard stone and pulled himself forward into the tiny space.

  Within seconds the mob swarmed past. Women, their hair loose and wild, shrieked with the same venom as the men. Those docile followers who had entered the holy gates of the Dome of the Rock this morning now tore their clothes, hurled stones, and shot their British-made rifles into the air and through the windows of the shops and houses.

  In the shadow of his hiding place, Rabbi Lebowitz clutched at the pain in his chest. He fought to breathe, and used his breath to pray that no Muslim would discover him while they shouted, “DEATH TO JEWS! DEATH TO ZIONISTS! DEATH TO THE BRITISH OPPRESSORS!”

  He could not guess how many thousands surged by. How many passed through Jaffa Gate and Damascus Gate into the New City? He did not look at their faces anymore. But there was one thing he noticed, one sign that marked the depth of their frenzy—the rioters were all barefoot! Not one had stopped to put on shoes before the hysteria had pushed them into the streets. Bare feet. Empty shoes and empty prayer rugs on the stones of the Temple Mount.

  The last of the rioters straggled past. Old men and old women. Their faces reflected the same bitter hatred as the young who had gone before them. And then there was silence. Stifling heat. The hum of flies and the distant crackle of gunfire.

  Rabbi Lebowitz
dared not move from his hiding place.

  ***

  The Promised Land. Holy Land. Zion. All these phrases that had once seemed so near to the heart of Leah Feldstein did not reflect the truth of those first moments when dreams, at last, became reality.

  From the harbor, the flat, drab skyline of Tel Aviv was a shabby comparison to the Ringstrasse of Vienna. The sun beat down unmercifully on the heads of passengers onboard the SS Hildebrand as they hung against the rails to absorb first impressions of their new homeland.

  At the far end of the docks the rusting hulk of a cattle boat was moored beside a small British gunboat. British soldiers roamed the decks in search of hidden refugees.

  “Tried to get past the British Navy,” observed a passenger who stood next to Leah. “Poor fools. What do they think will become of them now?”

  Leah turned her eyes away from the captured vessel. She tried to smile at the pitiful collection of buildings lining the docks. This was Zion. The Jewish homeland. She should feel joy, but she could not. She felt nothing but a dull ache for Shimon as he stared at the cattle boat and remembered another ship, other pilgrims.

  Shimon’s arm was still immobilized in a plaster cast. Sweat trickled down between the cast and his skin. It was so hot, even in October, when the trees of the Vienna woods would be turning a thousand shades of red and gold. They had talked about the heat of Zion, discussed the aridness of the land and the malarial swamps of Galilee. Yes, they had dreamed of the glorious sunlight on this land when the rain had kept them indoors with their fiddles and pots of hot coffee. Yes, they had dreamed. But they could not have imagined what it was really like.

  “Well, here we are, Shimon!” Leah tried to sound cheerful, but the brightness of her voice quavered slightly. When Shimon glanced at her, she knew he was aware of what she was really thinking.

  Tugboats nudged the ship against the dock. Thick ropes were thrown down to men who shouted and cursed in a strange language. All along the waterfront were stacks of crates and swarms of flies and dogs and beggars and urchins and donkeys and muck.

  “You are not really going to do it, are you?” Shimon asked grimly.

  “Do what?”

  “You said that as soon as you stepped on the soil of Palestine, you would kneel and kiss the earth.”

  Leah shook her head slowly. No. That was one vow she would not keep. In the photographs there had been no flies, rotting fish guts, camel droppings. The photographs had been clean and perfect. They had not revealed the heat that now beat against their backs like hammers. They had not smelled. Black and white photos had been studied with the adoration of paintings by Monet or Renoir. Now that the waterfront was a fact before their eyes, Leah could see that nearly everything was still black and white and varying shades of gray. The sky was blue, of course, and the water was blue. She had guessed that, but she had never dreamed that Tel Aviv could be so entirely drab.

  A long metal shed stretched along the wharf. A white sign with blue lettering spelled: H. M. CUSTOMS AND IMIGRATION. This was written first in English, then in the fluid script of Arabic, then in the blocky alphabet of Hebrew. Six British officials stood outside the building and watched the docking of the Hildebrand from beneath their shadowed visors. They, too, seemed to be a part of the sameness of the scene—all dressed in khaki, all with the same tight disgust on their faces, waiting for this latest load of European Jews to pass beneath the tin roof of His Majesty’s customs house before they emerged into the life of Zionist Palestine. Like a troop of warriors they waited, daring anyone to try to get past their stations with forged papers or smuggled weapons of some undeclared taxable item.

  The last matter was really of little concern lately. With the passage of time and the tightening of Reich regulations, the Jews had come through the shed with less and less. Still, there were always a few who thought they could sneak by.

  Bullhorns shouted directions in a dozen languages. All luggage was piled into one net on the deck of the ship and then lowered like a catch of fresh herring onto the dock.

  Leah had been forced to argue hotly that her cello could not be treated so casually. This discussion took place with a fellow who had never heard of Bach, never seen a cello. What did he care?

  Tearful appeals were made to the captain, who was mercifully sober for the second time on the journey. Yes, he would radio the customs authorities. The instrument—what was it again?—could be hand-carried off the ship, but must be immediately handed over to a British official for inspection.

  A splintered wooden gangplank crashed into place and the final crossing into the Promised Land took place single file and very cautiously. There were actually some displays of emotion when Jewish soles touched hallowed ground. One Orthodox-looking fellow from Latvia actually did drop to his knees and kiss the ground, such as it was. Leah clung tightly to the cello and to Shimon’s big hand. She tried not to step in anything unpleasant. She tried not to think of Vienna—its beauty and elegance. Of course, there was no more Vienna. Vienna had died, almost taking her and Shimon with it. No, Leah would not let herself think back and remember the golden days. She must turn her eyes to the land of their future and their hope.

  Her chin quivered slightly. Why hadn’t Moses wandered farther north? It seemed that a forty-year odyssey could have brought the children of Israel someplace more picturesque—like Italy, or the southern coast of France.

  FORM LINES HERE! This sign was written in several languages besides Hebrew and Arabic and English. These British fellows were catching on—most of the people in their lines read languages like German and Polish and Czech . . . especially Czech, these days.

  A grim-faced customs agent marched up to where Leah and Shimon stood. He scowled and postured as he looked at the cello case.

  “Who said you could carry that off the ship?” he demanded, extending his hand to take it from her. “Against regulations!”

  “Very valuable instrument,” Leah sputtered. “Centuries old. Please be careful.”

  The man muttered, “Regulations!” and turned his back on her.

  With a little cry, Leah put her hand against her aching head. “Whatever did Moses see in this place? I ask you!” Her indignation caused slight smiles on faces around her. All except for one sad-eyed little man who was sweating profusely in his European-made wool suit. He tapped her lightly on the shoulder and then pointed a hundred yards down the waterfront where several hundred illegal refugees from the captured cattle boat were caged behind a wire fence. They were guarded by soldiers with guns. Men. Women. Children. Ragged, haunted-looking people like the ones Leah had seen at every turn in Europe, like those who had perished aboard the Darien.

  Shimon drew his breath in sharply at the sight of them. Crates of oranges were stacked just beyond their reach outside the fence. Only the flies of Palestine passed freely through the wire.

  “At least they are alive,” Shimon managed.

  Suddenly Leah felt ashamed. Why was her heart not thankful that they had arrived here with legal documents when there were so very many who tried to come but were kept out? How could she forget so soon after Austria? After all that Shimon had told her?

  The people behind the wire began to sing a mournful dirge. “Vi aheen zoll ich gain? Wherever shall I go?” This was the anthem of the coffin ships. Shimon had once sung this song with those who had not found any harbor in this life. He stopped in the slowly moving line and watched and listened. So many longed for this place. How many would not make it? How many would do anything to stand in this line and brush away the flies and bless the heat of the sun?

  Leah tugged his sleeve. “Come along, Shimon. Come, love. We cannot help them now, but we can live for them, nu? Come along, Shimon.”

  Inside the immigration shed Leah found a bench and sat beside Shimon as they waited for their names to be called. Shimon sat, silent and preoccupied, as she took out her pen and began to write the letter she had promised Elisa.

  Dearest Elisa,

  I did not
kiss the ground of Palestine, but I am glad we are here all the same. . . .

  Outside on the Tel Aviv dock, six distinguished-looking Englishmen chatted among themselves as their luggage was unloaded from a British naval launch. Diesel fumes rose from the sputtering engine, adding another element of unpleasantness of their first stifling moment in the Promised Land.

  Captain Samuel Orde looked on as lordly glances were cast in the direction of the caged refugees.

  “What are the Jews singing about?” asked one of the men with a hint of irritation.

  Orde had heard the song before. “They are asking where they will go,” he explained, concealing his own emotion at the sad refrain.

  “Where they should go?” a member of the group bellowed. The disdain on his face was evident. “What business is it of His Majesty’s government where they go? That’s the trouble with these Jewish beggars. They expect us to provide for them after they’ve got themselves into a corner.”

  “Quite right,” agreed a second member of this latest British venture, the Woodhead Royal Commission of Inquiry. He mopped his brow and then adjusted the brim of his Panama hat lower against the sun. “Things have changed in Palestine over the last year—and not for the better, that is obvious. We’ll have to review this partition and immigration question very carefully again.”

  Captain Orde tugged the brim of his own cap lower so these eminent British politicians would not read the anger in his eyes. He held his tongue as he had a thousand times before. Woodhead, he thought. An appropriate name for this group. When they see thousands of acres of Zionist citrus orchards destroyed by Arab marauders, I suppose they’ll ask what appeasement they might make for the Arabs to settle down. Spain was in the midst of a civil war, after all, so the British Mandate of Palestine had become the chief source of oranges. Now that was being interrupted. What would hasten the return of order? Cut Jewish immigration? Orde thought bitterly. Limit the land sales to Jewish settlers? Give the Arab leadership what they wanted? Forget about the 1917 British promise of a Jewish homeland?