The Gates of Zion (36 page)

“What do I do, Moshe? How can I know Him, too, and have hope?”

He stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head. “Just talk to Him, my love. Just ask Him to make you everything you can be. Give Him your heart.”

“But it’s broken, Moshe; my heart is broken.” She buried her face against him.

“He knows all about broken hearts, Ellie. And our King David writes that your broken heart is just the kind of sacrifice He will accept.”

***

Rachel followed the professor into the kitchen, nearly running into him when he stopped suddenly and switched on the light. Blue tiles glistened on the countertops, and tiny square mosaics covered the floor. A large gas stove took up nearly one entire wall, and a white refrigerator faced them from the opposite wall. A small white wooden table sat in the center of the room, with a vase of tiny blue flowers beginning to wilt.

The professor’s eyes seemed to caress the flowers. “This kitchen is not exactly my domain.” He crossed to the table and broke off one of the blue flowers and stuck it in his shirt pocket. “Miriam was a good cook. You like to cook?”

“My mama taught me at a very early age to cook. It is a pleasure one never forgets,” Rachel answered, turning on the tap water in the sink, then shutting it off again. “Do you follow Kashrut?”

“The kosher diet?” The professor frowned. “Miriam was a Christian Arab.”

“It is very good food,” Rachel said, feeling like an intruder in the old woman’s kitchen.

“Yes, very good. And if we bring Yacov home with us, I think it will be very important to him.” The professor turned and opened a cupboard full of clear jars of beans and pasta, all neatly labeled in Arabic. He picked up a jar of lentils and stared sadly at the handwriting, touching the letters with his index finger.

“I am most happy to help out,” Rachel said, pretending not to notice the professor reaching for memories of Miriam. Then she added, “I am very sorry she is gone.”

Howard looked up, as if still not quite able to believe that Miriam would never rattle another pan or brew another cup of tea. “So am I.

She was a remarkable woman. She knew where everything was kept.

I’m afraid I’m a little out of my ken in here. But I get the same feeling looking in these cupboards as I do at a dig. She’s still here in a way.

At least I know she still lives.” He sat at the table.

“Would you like some tea?” Rachel asked, filling the kettle, then striking a wooden match and lighting the stove.

“Yes, thank you.” He smiled. “You know, I never had tea in the kitchen. She always brought it to me. In the study, as if she were a servant. But really she was family.”

“I understand.” Rachel remembered how she had felt, clutching her mother’s sweater as the Nazis had led her away to a final end. How desperately she had longed for tender arms to fill those sleeves again and hold her close. She had buried her face in the soft hand-knit sweater and wept because of the emptiness that remained in place of her mother.

The heart of the man across from her now felt the emptiness Rachel had learned to live with daily. This was still Miriam’s kitchen. The stove still hissed and the kettle rattled and shrilled when it was time for tea. But Rachel knew that, to the professor, even the old familiar sounds seemed like hollow echoes in Miriam’s absence.

Rachel searched the cupboards for cups, finding them nearest the sink. She set them on the counter and poured hot water through a tea strainer she found perched on the window ledge. “Milk and sugar?”

“No, thank you,” said Howard, still gazing at the flowers.

Silence hung heavy—like a curtain separating the two of them.

“Has it made you sad to speak of her?” Rachel sat across from him, stirring the fragments of tea leaves floating in her cup.

“Not at all. She always spoke of her death as if she were planning a cruise around the world. I think she very much looked forward to brewing a cup of tea for the Lord.”

Rachel curiously appraised his tender smile, then looked down at her cup again. “She was not afraid then?”

“Never.
Joyful
is a better word.”

“Are you afraid?” she asked, sensing something different about him.

“My mother said that we didn’t all come into this world at once, and we’re not all leaving at the same time either―unless the Lord comes for us. I would prefer to go with all those I love, but no, I am not afraid.”

“I wish sometimes … many times … that I could have died with my family. But I think perhaps my grandfather shall have need of me.”

“I am sure, Rachel, that many will have need of your tender heart.”

Howard slurped his tea. “You are most welcome to stay here for as long as you like. At least until the Old City is safe again. We have need of you.” He patted her arm.

“I think perhaps your niece is not happy that I am here. It is a bad time.” She wondered if it was possible that he was speaking the truth. But what would this kind professor say if he knew her past?

“Nonsense. Ellie can’t boil an egg let alone cook according to Kashrut. And I know the girl loves to eat.” He laughed.

Rachel knew he was trying to make her feel needed and comfortable.

The swinging door banged open, and Ellie stumbled into the room. In her arms she carried a heap of sweaters and skirts and a pair of walking shoes. Her eyes were red and swollen, but she smiled bravely as she regained her balance and thrust the clothes toward Rachel. “You look about my size. I thought maybe—”

“You should like that I iron these for you?” Rachel asked, not comprehending what Ellie was saying.

“No!” Ellie exclaimed. “I want you to
wear
them. That is, unless they don’t fit you or something.”

Rachel gazed in astonishment at the beautiful blue and coral sweaters and skirts that lay in her arms. “You mean for me? to wear?” she exclaimed, tears welling up in her eyes. “Such beautiful clothes.

Such beautiful things.”

“Come on back to my room. I’m trying to reorganize my closet and my dresser drawers. I have a lot of things… .” Ellie sounded hopeful and friendly.

Uncle Howard’s eyebrows raised. He grinned at Rachel. “What were you saying about Ellie?”

Ellie put her hands on her hips. “Yeah. What were you guys saying about me?”

Rachel ran her hand over a soft, royal blue sweater. “I was saying, perhaps I should teach you to cook?”

A minute later, Rachel and Ellie were both in Ellie’s bedroom. The floor was covered by piles of clothes dumped from her dresser drawers and closet. Rachel stood just inside the doorway and surveyed the mess as Ellie plopped down in the middle of the heap.

“So many things.” Rachel smiled.

“Too many. I bought half the merchandise on the Miracle Mile before I came to Palestine.”

“Miracle … ?”

“Mile. The shopping district in Los Angeles.”

“Like the Paris fashion center.” Rachel nodded with understanding.

“Not quite. But I still managed to spend my money there.” Ellie sorted through a pile of blouses and divided them into two separate stacks. “Have a seat.” She indicated a bare patch of floor. “So, I thought as long as you are here you might like first crack at these.”

“Crack?”

“Yes. I mean―” Ellie pitched a pair of blue wool slacks into Rachel’s lap―“these’ll look better on you than they will on me.”

Rachel stared down in disbelief. “American women wear such trousers as these?”

Ellie scanned Rachel’s ankle-length black dress. “Yep. And our grandmothers wear dresses like that. No offense.”

Rachel blinked and took the trousers from her lap, then stood and slipped out of her dress, careful not to let Ellie see the mark on her arm. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and slid them on over her slip. “Where I am from, trousers are only for men to wear.”

“In America, women wear pants and build tanks and airplanes. Ever hear of Rosie the Riveter?”

“In Europe”―Rachel zipped up the trousers―“Germans put Jews in the factories so that if they were bombed, only Jews would die. I know some who say that when American planes would pass overhead, they would pray for bombs to fall upon them. When they did not fall, perhaps a Jewish factory worker would put a wire wrong or forget on purpose a screw. So perhaps we have helped America to win the war, eh?” She clasped her hands behind her back and stood shyly in front of Ellie. “So how do I look?”

“You look great.” Ellie tossed her a matching blouse. “Try this.”

Rachel turned her back to Ellie and put on the shirt, shoving her left arm into the sleeve first, quickly covering her tattoo. She buttoned the shirt, then turned around. “Do you wear these when you dance Glenn Miller with David?” She smiled and spread her arms.

“Who told you about Glenn Miller?” Ellie asked in amazement.

“Your David. On the airplane he talked very much about you. I have heard that men and women dance. And how much he is in love with you.”

Ellie sat back on her heels. “He told you that?”

Rachel nodded. “You are lucky to have such a one as this in love with you. I must admit I have great admiration for you.”

Ellie bit her lower lip and stared down at the floor. “David and I are not …”

Rachel tilted her head slightly as if trying to comprehend Ellie’s unfinished sentence. “You are lucky. So very lucky, Ellie. There is room in his heart for none other but you.”

“I thought he was interested in you.”

“Me?” Rachel exclaimed.

“And besides, it doesn’t matter what he feels anymore.”

“You are not in love with David?” Rachel sat down on the floor in front of Ellie and crossed her legs.

“He hasn’t got a serious bone in his entire body. Absolutely no convictions or commitment whatsoever.”

“But this is not true! He has such a heart of kindness. He has done so much for me.”

Ellie narrowed her eyes. “I’ll bet. Just watch out for the paybacks.

He always wants something in return.”

Rachel clutched at her shirtfront and sat straighter, her face blanching. “I do not believe this of David,” she said quietly.

Sensing she had somehow wounded Rachel, Ellie added miserably, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. It’s just that I came out of that relationship feeling so used, you know?”

Rachel held Ellie’s eyes for a long moment. “Yes, I know.”

“You too? Some guy?”

“Yes.” Rachel looked away. “But David and Moshe seemed somehow different to me.”

“Moshe? He’s wonderful, isn’t he? He always makes me feel so loved.”

Rachel smiled sadly as she realized, just now, the extent of Moshe’s relationship with Ellie. “Moshe. Yes, he is a good man. I did not know that the two of you were—” she swallowed hard— “but he is Jewish. And not an American.”

Ellie shrugged and went back to sorting through the clothes. “It doesn’t matter. He never used anybody in his life. He is good to me.

When I’m with him, he is thoughtful and considerate.”

“I see. Yes. You love
him
then. Moshe.” She gazed up at the pictures hanging on Ellie’s walls. Among the faces looking back at her was a recent photograph of Moshe on the deck of the
Ave Maria
with his arm around a little refugee boy. His brown eyes seemed to radiate into her soul. “He is a good man.” Her words were barely audible.

“They are both good men, I think.”

23

Brothers

Bonfires burned brightly in the streets bordering El Azhar University in Cairo, and street vendors hawked their wares to the crowd gathered to hear the outcome of the meeting. The leaders of the Arab nations were cloistered within to decide a unified Arab position on the Palestine problem.

Newspapermen and photographers leaned against the polished black limousines parked at the curb. Some men scribbled notes, but most of the group chewed roasted ears of corn and speculated. Without exception, each man believed that the very crowds they mingled with now would become the force by which the Jews would be driven to the sea.

Inside the gleaming marble halls of El Azhar, Hassan struck a match against a pillar and lit the last of his second pack of cigarettes as he waited beside the heavy walnut doors. Across from him stood the bodyguards of King Abdullah of Transjordan, and a few yards from them, the guards of Ibn Saud of Saudi Arabia waited. Hassan noted with amusement how the two groups of men glanced furtively at one another. King Abdullah hated Ibn Saud with the passion of an ancient blood feud. And Ibn Saud, ruler of the vast underground supplies of oil for the world, in turn hated King Farouk of Egypt, who also had an emissary at the meeting. The servants of these rulers shared the same Muslim faith, as well as the suspicion their masters bore for one another.

There was also one other thing they shared―a mutual and intense hatred of the Jews in their midst. This hatred, Hassan knew, gave his master, the Mufti, power over these men and the policies of their governments. Hassan glanced up as Gerhardt and Kadar walked purposefully up the hallway toward him. Kadar wore the same dark, confident expression as the Mufti. Gerhardt seemed harder and more grim than usual. The men of Ibn Saud eyed him curiously as he passed them, each touching fingertips to forehead in respect. King Abdullah’s guards, dressed in British-looking uniforms, continued to smoke and talk among themselves.

“
Salaam.”
Hassan touched his headband.

“They have not yet dismissed?” Kadar frowned slightly.

Hassan shook his head. “It is nearly six hours.”

“They have much to say,” Gerhardt replied. “But in the end Haj Amin will have his way.”

Kadar smiled slightly. “If Allah wills.”

Gerhardt snorted. “It is the will of Haj Amin. And, after all, short of committing themselves to full-scale war, which each of these braggarts publicly proclaims and privately hopes to avoid, we are their best hope. They will give him everything he asks for.

Everything. Even Palestine, eh?”

“That is what this meeting will settle.”

“It was settled three days ago when King Abdullah came privately to the mansion to speak with the Mufti. Later Ibn Saud slipped in the back door, and after him came the emissary of King Farouk. I tell you, there are only the terms left to settle. Money. Weapons. Men.