Authors: Anita Diamant
Tirzah grabbed her. “What’s gotten into you?”
“What’s gotten into me? Sleeping on a plank, surrounded by barbwire, watching other
people get out while I’m left behind? Why am I still here anyway? Answer me. Why am
I still a prisoner in this shit hole?”
Tirzah lowered her voice. “If you don’t stop yelling, I am going to slap you hard
enough to loosen some teeth. Do you understand me?”
“Don’t be such a bitch,” Nathan said, putting his arm around Shayndel’s shoulder.
“It’s a twenty-four-hour postponement,” he explained as they walked into the kitchen.
“We go tomorrow night. The moon will still be dark, and if you think about it, the
extra day is a blessing. We have more time to get ready.”
“But what if they come and take these Iraqi men tomorrow morning?” Shayndel said.
“Didn’t you say they were being sent somewhere else?”
“You have to show a little trust,” said Nathan. “My commanders
know what they are doing, and the idea is to get them and everyone else out of here
without any casualties. You yourself know this is not going to be easy. These people
are not all strong or fit. Also we have the little matter of disarming the guards.”
“That’s no problem,” said Shayndel.
Nathan laughed. “Do you plan to take them on yourself?”
“I know those guns,” she said. “They’re Italian. The firing pins are so badly made
you can practically snap them off with your bare hands.”
“Are you sure?” he said.
“She wouldn’t say it if she wasn’t sure,” said Tirzah. “You can get Applebaum and
Goldberg to fix them tonight.”
Nathan put his hands around Shayndel’s face. “When this is all over and done with,
I am going to take you out to dinner in a wonderful little restaurant by the sea in
Tel Aviv.”
“What would your wife say about that?” Tirzah said.
Shayndel laughed.
The dining hall was louder than usual as the men teased each other and boasted about
their performance in the morning exercise classes, but there was an undercurrent of
anxiety beneath the bravado. Rumors were flying about spies in camp, and about the
possibility that the Iraqis would be released before anyone else.
The Poles sitting at the table behind Zorah were complaining bitterly about that theory.
“We’ve been here for weeks and they just arrived. It is intolerable. Where are our
advocates? Where are all those heroic Jews who are supposed to rescue the remnants?”
“How can you tell that these guys are Jews at all?” someone asked with a smirk. “Did
you see how dark they were? They look more like Hassan and Abdul than Moshe and Shmuel.”
“Listen to that asshole. You want to check their foreskins? What about you? I heard
those new calisthenics teachers are here looking for spies. Maybe you’re a spy.”
“Who the hell would I be spying for, idiot? You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“How naive can you be? If these people knew what they were doing, we wouldn’t be stuck
in this place. There wouldn’t be a prison for Jews in Eretz Yisrael.”
“No prisons? You don’t think there are Jewish thieves?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“The Yishuv knows what it is doing.”
Zorah composed brilliant responses to their nonsense, even as she silently mocked
the way they all talked past one another. My people, she thought, rude and arrogant
as fishmongers. Or Talmud scholars.
It struck her that while the men were talking nonstop, the women sat in little groups
or paired beside boyfriends, quietly sipping and chewing like domesticated animals.
Even a heroine like Shayndel rarely spoke up in mixed company, she thought. And I
am no better.
The debate around her stopped abruptly as the doors opened and four prisoners from
the locked barrack walked in, accompanied by four armed guards.
The men seemed curious and eager as they searched the faces in the room, but the soldiers
were nervous. “Hurry up,” muttered one of the British soldiers, pointing at the platters
that had been set aside for them. Tirzah appeared with a plate covered by a napkin,
which the soldier ripped off.
“Biscuits,” she said haughtily in English, then switching to Hebrew muttered, “Horse’s
ass.” The room exploded into laughter and echoes of “horse’s ass.” The Poles behind
Zorah stood up and started practicing their Hebrew obscenities.
After they were gone, everyone sat down and the room grew as quiet as an audience
waiting for the curtain to rise on the second act. After a few minutes, people returned
to eating and talking, and then drifted outside.
Zorah wanted to talk to Shayndel, but she had not sat down at all during lunch, so
Zorah slipped into the kitchen and found her staring out the back door.
“You have to tell me what is going on,” Zorah said. “I feel like a big storm is about
to break over my head.”
“Don’t let your imagination get ahead of you,” Shayndel said. “I think everyone is
nervous because there are so many guards and guns in the compound.”
“You are the worst liar I’ve ever seen,” said Zorah.
“I have nothing to tell you.”
“You can’t even look me in the eye.”
“Not now,” Shayndel said, as the two of them went outside, drawn by the sound of a
loud, angry argument rising from a tight circle of about twenty men. They had gathered
around Uri, Bob, and Francek, who was poking Uri in the middle of his chest, one jab
for every word. “We demand that you get us out of here before those other men.”
“Look here, brothers,” said Uri, who tried to take a step away from Francek’s finger
but was pressed forward by the crowd. “You have to be patient just a little bit longer,
and then, I promise, you will all be free men in Eretz Yisrael.”
“We are not children,” Francek said, “and we do not acknowledge your authority, you
asshole.”
Uri’s smile vanished and in a single deft move, he grabbed Francek’s hand, twisted
his arm behind his back, and dropped him to the ground with his boot at his throat.
After one breathless, shocked moment, the other prisoners closed in. Bob tried to
run for help but he was tackled from behind and fell to the ground face-first.
All of this took place so quickly and quietly, Zorah felt as though she were watching
a silent movie.
Shayndel pushed her way into the middle of the lopsided tussle, as ten men struggled
to keep the two Palmachniks from getting away. “What do you think you are doing?”
“We have to take matters into our own hands,” Francek said, dabbing at his bloody
nose. “Get them inside.”
It was no simple matter moving the two flailing men without alerting the guards. On
the way to the barrack, Uri and Bob landed several hard kicks to their kidnappers’
shins and shoulders.
And then it was as if nothing had happened. A few men stood at the door, sharing a
cigarette and calling out to some of the girls, who were strolling arm in arm.
Nathan and Tirzah came running toward Shayndel and Zorah. “What happened? Where is
Uri?” Nathan asked. “And Bob? Where are they?”
Shayndel picked up one of Bob’s shoes and pointed.
Nathan sprinted to the barrack door and started knocking. “Let me in there,” he called.
“This has to stop.”
The noise started to attract attention. Esther and Jacob joined Zorah, who explained
what was happening. A few minutes later, the sallow British sergeant known as Wilson-the-antiSemite
arrived. “What’s going on here?” he barked. “What’s going on?”
Wilson shoved Nathan aside and tried the latch. “Open up,” he shouted. All of the
windows were shut tight as well. “Open the door,” he yelled and pounded on it with
the butt of his gun. “That is an order.”
“You have a little dick,” came the reply in Hebrew, setting off a roar of laughter.
“What did he say?” Jacob asked.
“Shhhh,” said Zorah.
Goldberg ran to the door and shouted to the men inside, in Yiddish, “What’s going
on?”
“Is that you, Goldberg?”
“Yes, it’s me.”
“We demand justice,” Francek announced. “We demand our freedom. We will not release
these two Yishuv stooges until every last man is out of Atlit. Go tell those fucking
British assholes that, would you?”
Zorah watched Goldberg’s craggy face register amusement, worry, and annoyance. He
returned ten minutes later with Colonel Bryce, his aide, and four soldiers carrying
bayonets through a crowd that included nearly every inmate in the camp.
Sergeant Gordon knocked at the door and announced, “Colonel Bryce will address you
now.”
“Gentlemen,” said Bryce. “I have just spoken to a senior member of the Jewish Agency
in Tel Aviv. A delegation is on its way to talk to you directly. The matter will be
settled when they arrive.”
He gave orders for two of the armed men to stay, and left, taking the hated Wilson
with him.
The crowd kept a nervous watch. The mood was tense but not grim. A break in the routine
boredom of a day in Atlit was
always welcome, and as the hours passed, some of the children started kicking around
a battered soccer ball. Esther tried to push Jacob to join the other boys, but he
refused to budge. Zorah said, “Let him be.”
“He needs to build up his strength,” said Esther. “He must learn to join in with the
others.”
“I’m not sure that’s in his nature,” Zorah said.
“I know. All these other boys are so robust and it seems all they talk about is fighting
and farming. I’m afraid Jacob is not built for that.”
“There will be a place for him. Among Jews, there is always a place for the thoughtful
ones.” But Zorah frowned as soon as the words left her lips; she didn’t know if that
would hold true in Palestine. What if all of the pioneer propaganda turned out to
be prophetic and Eretz Yisrael became a nation filled with new kinds of Jews: soldiers,
farmers, and athletes living on communes, cheerfully following the rules, arguing
about nothing but military tactics and crops and soccer?
What would happen to a dreamy child in such a world? What would happen to the solitary
ones, with inward-facing souls? Where would Jacob fit in? Where would she go?
“Are you unwell?” Esther asked. “Perhaps you should sit down.”
“I’m fine,” Zorah said. “It’s not too hot today.”
“It is beautiful,” said Esther in halting Hebrew. She raised her hand to shield her
eyes and looked up at the sky. “This may be the most beautiful day I’ve seen since
we got here.”
Zorah followed her gaze up to the cloudless sky.
“It would be nice to walk by the sea today,” Esther said wistfully.
“Or in the hills,” said Zorah.
“Let us go into the open,” said Esther, “among the henna shrubs… . And then, what
is it? To the vineyards?”
“Where did you learn that?”
“Jacob has been taking lessons from that fellow from Grodno, the one who has so many
books.”
“Don’t tell me you’re letting him study with that fanatic?” Zorah said.
“He must become learned in the ways of the Torah,” said Esther.
Zorah smiled. “You are already a better Jew than I am.”
“Why don’t you teach Jacob?” Esther said. “You are learned,” she insisted, cutting
off Zorah’s objection. “Don’t deny it. And you are not a fanatic. Most important,
you care about him and he cares for you.”
Zorah opened her mouth, but Esther stopped her again. “It doesn’t matter what book
you use.”
The ball bounded out of play and landed at Jacob’s feet. He smiled at his mother and
booted it directly between two bricks that had been set up as a makeshift goal.
“Who did that?” cried the other boys. “It was Jacob? It was him? Hey, the baby can
kick!”
Esther gave him a gentle push forward and he joined the game, which went on until
the afternoon sun started to cool and an ancient Mercedes, coated with dust, roared
up the road.
Two short, stocky men jumped out. They wore white shirts and jackets but no ties,
and their hats were pulled down over their foreheads as they headed for the front
gate. Goldberg met them and escorted them to the barrack where Bob and Uri were being
held.
“Comrades,” Goldberg called, “I have some gentlemen from the Yishuv to speak to you.”
The door opened and all three of them disappeared inside. A few boys near the windows
tried to hear what was going on, but everyone else settled in, anticipating a long
wait.
Barely ten minutes later, the Yishuv men reappeared. Uri and Bob glared at the startled
crowd as they marched behind their rescuers, arms stiff at their sides, fists clenched
all the way to the car, which coughed and shuddered to life and raced out of sight.
By then, Francek and his friends had emerged from the barrack, packs of American cigarettes
bulging in their shirt pockets.
“Look how our heroes were bought off for a carton of smokes,” said Zorah, who pushed
her way forward and put out her hand. “Not at all,” Francek protested as he handed
them out.
The mutineers would only smirk when asked about what they had gotten in return for
the hostages. But Francek couldn’t help boasting. “Those two guys you saw, they’re
big shots in the Jewish Agency. They were very sympathetic to our demands, and I could
see, honestly, that I made quite an impression on them. When I get out of here, I
am pretty sure there will be a commission in the army for me. Commensurate with my
abilities—that’s how they put it.”
Zorah managed to keep from laughing at the double-edged message. “Good for you, Frankie,”
she said as she slipped an extra cigarette out of his packet. “Let’s just hope your
little stunt won’t make problems for the rest of us.”
With the breakout postponed for twenty-four hours, Tirzah had to inform Bryce about
the change. Her head ached at the
prospect of seeing him in his office, where everything they shared seemed distorted
and dirty.
She walked through the gate, across the road, past Wilson-the-anti-Semite, and into
the office, wishing she had thought to take an aspirin.
Private Gordon got to his feet. “Colonel Bryce is on a call at the moment,” he said,
“let me get you some water,” pouring it before she could say no.