Authors: Bodie Thoene,Brock Thoene
“You’re wrong, Rachel,” he said quietly. “I have never thought that of you. I don’t know what I feel; now, after all you have been through, I must ask you to risk your life again.”
“Risk?” She turned to him, a doubtful smile on her lips. “I have never risked my life, Moshe. I have only survived, and in so doing, I have lost my life. Ask what you will.”
Moshe looked away from her, out toward the empty stone bench in the courtyard that was littered with dead leaves. “All right then,” he said in English. He sat down at the table again, feeling a heaviness in his heart as they awaited Howard and Ellie.
***
It wasn’t long before Ellie burst into the room with Howard in tow. She was dressed in a rust-colored sweater and green-and-rust-plaid skirt.
Howard wore a black turtleneck and heavy, drab green corduroys. Rachel self-consciously rummaged in the cupboard for extra cups.
“Moshe!” Howard extended his hand in genuine delight. “No, don’t get up. Ellie tells me you have something exciting to talk to us about.”
“Here, let me help.” Ellie took the pot from the stove and poured coffee into the cups. She pretended not to notice Rachel’s trembling hands. “So what’s this all about?” she asked, setting the full cup before Moshe, who did not look up at her. She had a sudden surprising and protective feeling toward Rachel and a desire to knock the cup onto his lap.
What happened in the few minutes while
I was gone?
she wondered.
“Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. And the beginning of Hanukkah,”
Moshe began as Ellie and Howard pulled up chairs opposite him.
Rachel remained standing by the sink. “There is a British captain who has come forward to help us. Tomorrow the English who guard Zion Gate will be a fraction of their usual force. This fellow has volunteered to stand duty. And he has volunteered to help us smuggle weapons into the Old City to the Haganah there. He has come to our aid before.”
“What can we do?” Howard asked.
Moshe lifted a loaf of bread out of the bag and handed it to Howard.
“We are baking bread for the hungry.”
Howard gave a low whistle as he hefted the loaf. “Feels like something Ellie would bake.” He grinned at her.
Ellie jabbed him with her elbow and took the bread from him.
“Moshe!”
“I told you.” Moshe smiled. “Bullets, grenades, and pistols.” He rummaged for the round of cheese, lifting it with both hands. It was sealed with red wax. “The perfect Hanukkah gift, eh? Five hundred bullets in the cheddar.”
“Sounds tasty.” Howard hefted the cheese.
“It will be a gift for Rachel’s grandfather,” Moshe explained, turning to face Rachel, who looked at him in astonishment.
“My grandfather?”
“We have received special permission for you to enter the Old City.
It is natural that you would bring gifts. But the gifts are to be delivered to the Warsaw Compound. Rachel, there won’t be time to —”
“I will not see him then?” Rachel’s eyes lost their brightness as quickly as it had come.
“Not tomorrow night. If this is successful, believe me, there will be more opportunities. In the meantime, write down his name; I’ll see if someone at the Agency can come up with an address for you.”
“I see,” she said, faltering. “Yes, I will do whatever I can to help.”
She scribbled her grandfather’s name on a piece of shopping bag and, folding it in half, handed it to Moshe. “Thank you.”
“Good.” He directed his gaze back to Ellie. “You’re a journalist with a major publication. Your pass will be easy enough to get. The Old City on Christmas Eve, eh? Worth taking a photograph or two.”
“What will I carry? Besides my camera and film I mean?”
“We’ve got that all worked out.” He passed over her question.
“Now, here’s the clincher, Howard. And nothing can work without this.”
“What is it?” Howard leaned forward in his chair.
“Without help, neither Ellie nor Rachel will have the vaguest idea of where they’re going or where they’ve been.”
“The Old City is not my domain, Moshe. You’re the fellow who know the alleys and rooftop routes.”
“Not you, Howard. We need to use the boy.”
“Yacov?”
“He stands the best chance of getting through any Arabs that might stand between them and the Jewish Quarter.”
“I can’t allow it, Moshe. He’s just a child. What if he was hurt? And his eyes are not …”
The kitchen door creaked open and Yacov stepped in. “I know the streets even blind, Professor. I have escaped from the angry British many times. Though I never stole from an Arab, for we are neighbors. But certainly if there was a problem, I am best to lead Miss Ellie and Rachel to the Warsaw.”
“And can you lead them home again?” Moshe asked.
“I will come back. I will wish that I might light the Hanukkah candles, but I shall come back to this house.” The boy stared hard at Howard with his one good eye, then adjusted his black patch. “I have to help you light the candles, yes?”
Howard nodded slowly. “You’ll be back in time for supper.”
“Yes,” Yacov said jauntily, “if it is Rachel who cooks.”
Rachel smiled shyly then as Ellie sighed in exasperation. “You mean you like her stuff better than mine?”
Yacov shrugged. “Not I, but Shaul …”
Howard chuckled in spite of the seriousness of the moment. “And what about me, Moshe? How can I help?”
Moshe reached into the pocket of his shirt and pulled out a folded envelope. “This came last night to the university from Moddy Elaram in Bethlehem.” He handed it to Howard.
“The Arab antique dealer?” Ellie asked, instantly recognizing the name of the merchant who had often visited the Moniger home.
His
eyes are warm and brown like a Jersey cow’s.
Usually he brought information or a small but authentic artifact for Moshe and Uncle Howard to look at.
“It was apparently mailed three weeks ago. We’re lucky to have gotten it at all,” Moshe said. “Go ahead, read it.”
Howard studied the cramped writing on the envelope, then slipped the letter out and began to read aloud.
“Most Honorable Professor Sachar,
It is my hope that you have found great delightness in the watering
jar you purchased yet a fortnight ago. I have, since all this trouble,
grieved over the loss of my good Jewish friends and customers. Also
it has come into my attention some very ancient writings brought to
me by two Bedouin shepherds. Though I did not keep these scrolls
—”
When Ellie gasped, Howard glanced up for a second before continuing.
“… for their writing is obscure to me, I have agreed to act as agent. If perhaps you and the Professor Doctor Moniger shall like to see them, they have promised to come to Bethlehem on Christmas Eve to my shop at seven in the evening, for then will the Christians be traveling to worship and you will be less noticed.
Truly,
Your Servant,
Moddy Elaram”
Howard stared at the letter and gave a low whistle. Then he looked up at Moshe, who wore an excited smile. “It has to be the same men,” he said finally.
“They threatened to go to the antique dealers in Bethlehem.” Ellie took the letter from Howard and scanned it. “But that’s an Arab stronghold.”
“They were afraid to come back here, I suppose,” Moshe said. “We must go, Howard. We must.”
***
The heavy aroma of stale cigar smoke greeted David and Michael as they banged open the door to their room in the Atlantic Hotel in Jerusalem. It was early morning, and Michael still looked as though he had not slept for a week, David noted, even though he had slept his way across Europe.
David pitched his canvas duffel onto a chair, unzipped his leather flight jacket, and threw himself across the bed, clutching a pillow for the first time since they had left Prague three days before. His legs hung off the opposite side of the bed. As Michael passed, he gave them a little kick. “You better take off your boots, Tinman,” Michael warned. “You sleep like that, your knees are going to fall off.”
David moaned and rolled over, sitting up and unlacing his boots.
“You should know. You’re the expert on weird sleeping positions. I can’t figure out why your neck isn’t permanently cocked off to one side, the way you squash your face up against the cockpit and lean on it for hours while I fly the plane.” He pitched his left boot at Michael, who ducked into the bathroom.
“It’s fear. Makes me sleepy every time you fly,” Michael called.
David stood and pitched the other boot into the bathroom, hitting Michael solidly on the rear end.
Michael hooted and slammed the door.
David pounded his fist on the thin wood. “You’re not going to go to sleep in there, are you?”
The bolt slid shut. “Lay off, Meyer,” Michael called. “Or you’ll never sleep again, believe me.”
“Says you.” David lost the urge to razz his buddy and instead fell backward on the bed. For a few moments he studied his toes, poking out from hopelessly undarned socks. “If I hang these up on the mantel tonight,” he said loudly, “Santa will have a terrible time filling them.”
“What’s that?” Michael stepped out of the bathroom.
“I said Santa won’t be able to stuff my stocking.” He wiggled his big toe.
Michael sniffed and wrinkled his nose. “He wouldn’t want to.”
“Now I know why he smokes a pipe. Aromatic tobacco,” David said sleepily.
“I been meanin’ to talk to you ’bout that, Tinman.” Michael opened his dresser drawer and pulled out a red-wrapped package. He pitched it to David, who caught it with his left hand and held it up as he stared at it.
“You want me to guess or open it now?”
“Open it now. Tonight’s the big night, ain’t it?” Michael teased.
“You can’t go over to Ellie’s in holey socks.”
“Don’t tell me; it’s a new wallet full of fifty-dollar bills.” David laid the package across his forehead. “David sees all, knows all,” he intoned. “A new 1947 Dodge … ah, no, no―I see it now …” He ripped off the wrapping. “A brand-new pair of black-and-red argyle socks! Great!” He laughed, genuinely delighted. “Terrific!”
“Happy Hanukkah.” Michael blushed. “It ain’t much, but if ever a guy needed somethin’ …”
“Look in my top drawer,” David instructed. “There’s a little something for you. Under my Tshirts in the green paper.”
“Aw, you shouldn’t have.” Michael pulled out the flimsy package.
“You better open it now, Scarecrow. I mean, I know you gotta live up to your name and all, but I swear I never saw a guy with patches on his boxer shorts before.”
“Comes from flying by the seat of my pants.” Michael smiled as he opened the package, revealing not one but three pairs of undershorts decorated with red hearts. “Ah, you shouldn’t have done it.”
“Got ’em in Rome. The lady even embroidered your initials on ’em.”
“Yeah?” Michael examined them closely. “Thanks, Tinman. You really do have a heart.” He chuckled at his own pun and pointed to the hearts on the shorts.
“Well, anyway, Merry Christmas a little early, huh?”
“Thanks.” Michael folded them neatly and put them in his top drawer. David clutched the socks and rolled over with a happy sigh as he thought about the gift he had wrapped and placed in his duffel bag. He hoped Ellie would read the note he had written to her and know that he meant what he said that night in the plane above Jerusalem.
Tonight’s the night,
he thought as he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.
28
Christmas Eve
The lobby of the
Palestine Post
newspaper office was not unlike that of the little newspaper in Glendale, California, where Ellie had worked one summer. The floor was covered by a geometric pattern of small square tiles, a few missing or chipped. The long mahogany counter that separated the entry from the secretary had the mellow glow of age. A few awards hung on the walls next to framed copies of the paper that recounted momentous events in the existence of Palestine. Photographs of men like Theodore Hertzl, the man who made Zionism more than just a word, mingled with more recent photographs of David Ben-Gurion. Three men and a woman worked busily behind cluttered desks, tapping away on time-worn typewriters.
As Ellie and Rachel walked in, only the woman glanced up. She continued her work as Ellie took a copy of the day’s newspaper from the stack on the counter and began to skim the front page. The headlines were ordinary, reporting nothing more urgent than the lack of phone service between the Arab and Jewish sections of the city.
The world has reverted to worrying about mundane, irritating
matters once again,
Ellie thought. There was one major difference between the
Palestine Post
and the
Glendale Herald
: the
Glendale
Herald
was not in the middle of a war.
Ellie cleared her throat and slung her empty leather camera bag onto the counter with a thud.
The woman at the desk looked up. “May I help you?”
“I am Judith,” Ellie replied, repeating the words as Moshe had instructed her the day before.
“Yes,” the woman replied in a delighted voice. “You’re early,” she said, just as Moshe had predicted.
“My watch always runs a little fast,” Ellie said in response to her words.
With that, the woman rose from her desk and opened the waist-high swinging door set in the counter. She stood aside as Ellie and Rachel passed through. Without another word, she led them to a door with a frosted-glass window that led to a flight of steps to the basement.
“Straight to the back. In the darkroom. He’s expecting you.”
As Rachel and Ellie started down the stairs, the woman closed the door behind them.
The heavy slam and clank of the printing press greeted them as they entered the basement. Wheels churned, then reversed as the massive printing block slammed down on the paper in rhythm. A young man in a leather apron watched over the press, his face smeared with ink.