Zealot (21 page)

MacLeod leaned forward and kissed her again, pulling her close so their bodies fitted together. He was pleased to feel her
tongue dance over his lips, and he opened them, taking her deep inside him. She didn’t hesitate, exploring every crevice of
his mouth, running her tongue along the slick, hard surface of his teeth. She wrapped her arms tightly around his waist, delighting
in the sensation of his naked back rubbing against her palms.

She moved against him as she kneaded the muscles of his back and shoulders, and he could feel the swelling of her breasts
grind against his own sensitive chest through the thin, worn cotton of her dress. He took in a deep breath and held it, savoring
the sensation. Then he allowed one hand to trail down from where it had rested in her hair, to softly caress her neck, and
then her shoulder, before gently cupping a tender breast. She made a sweet little sound in the back of her throat that vibrated
deep into his own through their kiss, and he could feel her body respond, straining to reach him through the fabric.

Without breaking the kiss, MacLeod lowered Miriam back onto the blanket, cradling her head on his jacket. Then, with deft
hands, he began to unbutton her dress.

Warsaw: April 18,1943

“This is the moment we planned for, prepared for, and prayed for. Now is the time to be strong. Not to falter. Not to show
fear. And above all, not to lose faith.” Mordechai Anielewicz was only twenty-three, but as he paced in front of the gathered
unit commanders, gesturing broadly with his hands, outlining strategy, boosting morale, Avram thought he spoke with the wisdom
and confidence of a man more than twice that age. “Whether we go to fight in the streets or stand firm in the bunkers, we
still resist. Armed Jewish resistance to the Germans is a reality, and, no matter what happens from this moment forward, they
can’t take that away from us. Or our people. No more will the Jews go peacefully to their deaths. No more!”

They were in close quarters, meeting in the protected basement of an empty butcher shop, and the “
Amen!
” that answered Anielewicz from the throats of the men gathered there resounded from the thick stone walls. He was their elected
commander and, since the uprising in January, the de facto leader of the less than fifty thousand Jews surviving of the half
a million who once walked Warsaw’s streets.

A heavy burden at twenty-three, the fate of a people, but Anielewicz had proven himself equal to the challenge. He had somehow
taken Zionists and anti-Zionists, farmers and intellectuals, Communists and Socialists, the devout and the secular, the left
and the right, and all the other schisms that had crippled Jewish Warsaw and gotten them to see beyond their ideologies. Avram
had once believed that in itself would take a miracle, but now they worked together for a common vision. Some in the ZOB compared
him to Eleazar, the heroic commander of Masada. Perhaps, thought Avram, who knew the strengths and weaknesses of both men
firsthand, but Avram thought instead of the legends told of Judah Maccabees, who’d led his own small force of poorly equipped
Jews against a heartless empire bent on their destruction. But Maccabees had restored the Great Temple to his people; Avram
was sorely afraid the most Anielewicz could hope for was to restore his people’s honor. Nothing could ever restore the lives
of the hundreds of thousands of innocent souls lost in Warsaw alone. Nothing could ever punish their murderers enough.

But if anyone could try, it would be Anielewicz, and Avram followed and supported him like he had no other mortal in nearly
two thousand years. From the back of the crowded room, he watched his leader plan for the coming battle. Avram wondered if
anyone else was struck by the irony—here on the stone killing floor of the butcher’s shop, site of a hundred years of ritual
slaughter, the Jews meet to plan the death of their enemies. And very probably, their own.

“Tzaddik?” Anielewicz called to the back, finally getting to Avram. “Your unit?”

“We’ve set up two stations on opposite corners of Gesia and Smocza. Thanks to the sudden generosity of Shmuel Issachar, each
station has a rifle, four or five grenades, and a dozen cocktails. There’ll be six fighters in each station, each has their
own pistol. Der Alte and I are overlooking the Gesia gate; we’re wired for both alarm and the explosive charge in the tunnel
under the gate.”

It was a run-of-the-mill report. Avram expected Anielewicz to move on to the next unit. Instead, he said in front of all gathered,
“I’m still not sure about Der Alte. What’s his game? He’s not one of us.”

“What?” He thought they’d gotten beyond this point months ago. If Avram, who prided himself on his skepticism, had gotten
over his doubts about MacLeod’s sincerity, he could see no reason why Anielewicz still didn’t trust him.

“Take him off the gate, Tzaddik. That mine’s too important to risk. Take Glonek up there instead.”

“Glonek?” Avram started to push his way to the front of the room. “Glonek is an idiot. He doesn’t know anything about explosives.
Der Alte’s the expert. He’s risking his own life to help us, Mordechai.” No one present had ever seen Tzaddik angry. The other
unit commanders moved back to give him space. “The man
saved
Miriam’s life today, for God’s sake. What more proof do you want from him?” He stood nose to nose with Anielewicz, two young
men who in happier times could be arguing the outcome of a football match, instead arguing over what could mean the life or
death of thousands.

“He doesn’t belong here,” the ZOB leader countered. “What’s to keep him from selling us out to the Germans to save his own
life?”

Avram wanted to smile a bit in spite of himself. He almost wished he could tell them why that wasn’t likely. Instead he said
simply, “I trust him with my life.”

“Do you trust him with
all
our lives, Tzaddik?”

Avram couldn’t blame him. His was an incredible responsibility to bear. As solemnly and sincerely as he could, he impressed
upon the young leader, “Yes, Mordechai, I do.”

There was complete silence in the room as Anielewicz weighed his faith in Avram against his distrust of MacLeod. Finally,
he gave in. “Fine. But God help us all if you’re wrong.” He moved on to the next unit. “Gutman?”

By the end of the meeting, it was nearly half past one in the morning. The Germans were expected to begin their assault at
four. Anielewicz gave the word to the couriers to alert all the fighters to report to their stations and all noncombatants
to enter the bunkers they had so carefully prepared over the winter and stay there. Until the end.

One of the youngest commanders, a rabbinical student before God had made other plans for him and placed a rifle in his hands,
led them in a brief prayer before they all started back to their units. As the commanders moved to leave, Anielewicz issued
his benediction, and his challenge.

“
L’shanah hahor-or Birushala-yim!
”

Next year in Jerusalem.

The final words of the traditional
Haggadah
told every year at the Passover seder. Next year in Jerusalem. They embodied thousands of years of history, of oppression,
and most importantly, of hope. They were a beacon uniting the struggle against Pharaoh, against the Romans, against the Tsars,
and now the struggle against the Nazis with the day-to-day struggle for life and Jewish identity. With it was the small comfort
that the God who rescued his people out of the land of Egypt might somehow deliver them from this evil as well.

As he walked through the dark, deserted streets back to his post on the other side of the Ghetto, vigilant, ready, the words
haunted Avram. So many seders celebrated with friends and loved ones in so many lands. Happier times in Spain and Russia,
Italy and North Africa, even America—but always the hope that next year they’d celebrate together in the Holy City. But there
were so many nights like this one, waiting for the shadow of death to pass over, wondering who among his friends and those
he loved would live to see the morning light.

Avram moved silently across the cobblestoned streets. It was a skill he’d learned early on, to not be noticed, to disappear.
As a Jew in foreign cities, it had kept him alive more than once. He moved like a ghost through a city of ghosts. Occasionally
he could detect weak signs of life—the flutter of an upstairs curtain, shadows dashing furtively between timeworn brick buildings.
Mostly he was one in the dark, one with the ghosts of Warsaw. Ghosts who had once hoped they, too, would live to celebrate
Pesach
in a Jewish Jerusalem.

Avram himself had returned to Jerusalem only twice since the dark time when the Romans had dispersed his people to the four
winds of the earth: once under the Byzantines, once under the Turks. Both times he’d left within a year, unwelcome in the
place of his birth. Every street, every hillside was a reminder of what his people once were, once had—and had taken away.
The Great Temple, the focal point of his mortal life, gone, destroyed. And in its place, the Dome of the Rock, built upon
the blood and ashes of the Jews on the sacred Temple Mount by the followers of Mohammed. He’d vowed he’d never go back until
Jerusalem was free once more.

Next year in Jerusalem …

He’d crossed out of the occupied Central Ghetto and into block after block of abandoned residences and factories that would
never again hear the hum of machinery or the chatter of workers. Once the Ghetto had been bursting with the half million Jews
forced behind its Wall. Now, with not even a tenth of its population remaining, most of the Ghetto lay vacant and desolate.
This was the territory assigned to Tzaddik’s unit, the no-man’s-land between the Gesia Street entrance and the Central Ghetto.
One last chance to try and stop the Germans before they could reach the last remnant of his people.

Just ahead, he saw a figure dart out of the narrow passage-way between two buildings. Immediately, he shrank into the shadows
of a nearby doorway. No one should be on this street. Unless they were coming from outside the Wall and had somehow gotten
past MacLeod. He drew his pistol and checked it. Footsteps pounded toward him, echoing from the deserted cobbles, running.

Closer. Avram braced himself, cocked the weapon. Then he reached out of the doorway and grabbed the runner.

Rivka screamed.

Avram released her immediately. “Rivka? What are you doing out here?” he scolded, more angry at himself than her for the tragic
mistake barely averted. “You should be in a
malina
.“

The twelve-year-old, her heart still pounding wildly from her scare, drew herself up proudly, and announced, “I’m not a baby,
Tzaddik. I’m a fighter.”

Avram always found it impossible to be mad at Rivka’s enthusiasm. “Fine, fine, you’re a fighter. at are you doing
here
?” he asked with almost fatherly concern.

“Gutman sent me to find Miriam. It’s time to report to the unit. Have you seen her?”

“She’s at the lookout with MacLeod,” Avram answered, and then immediately regretted it as Rivka took off wildly down the street
once again. “Rivka, wait!” He started after her.

“I’m sorry, Duncan,” Miriam, her open shirtdress drawn loosely around her, nestled back against MacLeod’s naked chest and
rested her head contentedly on his shoulder. Her throat and chest glistened with the mingled sweat of their bodies under the
fullness of the moon. “I’m so sorry.”

MacLeod, clad once again in his trousers, sat on the rooftop holding her close. “Sorry for what?” he murmured, nuzzling her
ear.

“Hmmmm, that’s nice …” she purred, her eyes half-closing. She lost herself in the sensation for a moment, then remembered
what she wanted to say. “I’m sorry I acted like such a child, you know … before …”

Smiling into her ear, he idly caressed one gently rounded breast. “I don’t see any children here.” He stroked its rosy peak
with supple fingers. She inhaled sharply and let it out in a slow rolling sigh as he spoke. “I just see a beautiful woman
who knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to ask. Nothing to be sorry about.”

“Really … ?” Her voice caught, then trailed off as Miriam felt his other hand trace a silken path up her bare leg. She had
felt drained, emptied from more joy than she had ever imagined it possible to feel, and yet at the same time, energy surged
through her at his touch.

“Really,” he assured her. “Maybe I should be the one to be sorry.”

“What for?” He had absolutely nothing to be sorry for in her eyes.

“I don’t know,” he said, leaning her back into the crook of his arm, cradling her head and shoulders. She was feather-light.
He leaned over her and pushed back the folds of the open dress from her belly, exposing the blackish purple contusions, the
brand of the Pole on her fragile body. “Maybe for this.” Slowly, his lips touched the bruises and he gently covered them with
tender kisses, as if he could somehow erase them from her body.

He heard a sob escape her lips and pulled back, afraid he’d hurt her. But one look at her face, transported, told him otherwise.
“Or maybe this,” he whispered, and gently kissed the gouge beneath her eye.