By the Rivers of Babylon (44 page)

“Where is Kaplan?” asked Burg, for the second time.

How Burg knew that Kaplan was gone was anyone’s guess, thought Hausner. Maybe Naomi Haber. Burg had his followers. “You know, not too far from here, at a place called Kut, a whole British army was besieged by the Turks during the First World War.” He lit a full cigarette. “The British Expeditionary Force came from India and landed on the Persian Gulf at the mouths of the Tigris and Euphrates. They were going to wrest ancient Mesopotamia from the Turk. The Arab populace—the desert Arabs and the marsh Arabs—were like vultures. After every clash between the two armies, they would strip the dead and finish off the wounded. They harassed both armies and killed stragglers for their clothes and equipment. There’s a lesson there and the lesson is, don’t go out on the mud flats. If we do and the Ashbals don’t get us, marauding Arabs will.”

Burg pulled a scarf closer around his face and stuck his pipe into a fold and drew on it. He looked at Hausner. “I absolutely agree with you there. We’ll tell the Foreign Minister that story later. Meanwhile, where is Kaplan?”

“This story has another part and another lesson to be learned, Isaac.”

Burg exhaled his smoke on a sigh of resignation. “All right.”

“Well, after a large battle with the Turks, the British had to hole up at this town called Kut. They had outrun their supplies. The Turks laid siege to the town, and the siege lasted for months. The relieving British force actually got within a kilometer of Kut, but the Turks drove them back again and again. The British
in Kut finally had to surrender when their supplies ran out. One of the most severe criticisms of the British commander—this was stated in the War Office report—concerned his lack of forays and sallies from Kut into the encircling Turkish ranks. The report called for an end to static defenses and recommended mobile and fluid defenses. No more walls. Fire and maneuver. Military science has accepted that now. Why don’t you?”

Burg forced a laugh. “I hardly see the parallel in your parable. Where is Kaplan? Downslope?”

“There
is
a parallel, and it is that good tactics are good tactics whether it is at Kut, Khartoum, or Babylon. And speaking of Khartoum, Burg, don’t forget that the British relief force was only one day late in arriving
there.
But that didn’t make General Gordon and his men and the civilians any less dead. If outside help does not reach us in the next few hours, we will suffer the same fate, Burg. While we sit here and no one is trying to hack us to pieces we lull ourselves into a false sense of security. But when that slope comes alive with screaming, bloodthirsty Ashbals, we will all be saying, ‘Why didn’t we try this?’ or, ‘Why didn’t we try that?’ Well, I’m telling you now, Burg that any desperate method to buy more time is worth the risk.”

“Where did he go? The Ishtar Gate?”

“No. Only down to the outer city wall. That will be the route they take.”

“How can you be sure?”

“All field problems have only a finite number of solutions.”

“I’m going to get you a job at the War College when we get back.”

Hausner lay back against the side of the trench and closed his eyes as he smoked.

“When are we trying Bernstein and Aronson? Before or after
your
court-martial?”

Hausner had had enough of humility and deference. It didn’t suit him. He didn’t like sharing anything, least of all his authority. He sat up quickly and tapped Burg on the chest, “Don’t push me, Isaac, or it will be you in the dock, not me. If it goes to a vote, they will pick the genuine bastard to lead them out of the wilderness, not the ersatz bastard like you or the statesman like Weizman. They can trust a real bastard to drive them on. They know they can’t trust you or Weizman to make unpopular decisions or to enforce them. So back off. I’ll be out of your way—and out of your life—soon enough.”

Burg stared down into the glowing bowl of his pipe. “I don’t trust you, Jacob. Anyone who thinks victories and disasters are very closely related is the kind of man who calls for another card when he already has twenty points on the black-jack table. That’s not the way we play it in intelligence. We accept minimum gains in exchange for minimum losses. We never go for the big gain if there’s a chance of a big loss. That’s the way all armies, intelligence services, and foreign ministries play the game today. You’re the last of the big gamblers. But you shouldn’t do it with other people’s lives. Even the life of one man—Moshe Kaplan—a brave man—shouldn’t be gambled away—thrown away—on the outside chance that the loss of his life may do us some good.”

“You know damn well that one life is considered a small risk. By the rules of your own damn game theory, that was an acceptable loss for a possibly large gain.”

“It’s very subjective, I suppose. I don’t consider the loss of one life a small loss.”

“You’re a damned hypocrite, Burg. You’ve done worse than this in your lifetime. And don’t pretend that you weren’t glad I asked Dobkin to go. That mission is almost certain death, you know, and you didn’t seem so goddamned upset about that.”

“That was different. Dobkin is a professional. A man like that knows that a time like this comes at least once in his life.”

“That doesn’t make it any easier for him or any easier for me. Do you think I enjoyed sending either of them down there?”

“I didn’t say that. Lower your voice. I’m only playing Devil’s Advocate here.”

“I don’t need any more devils or their advocates, Burg. I do what I think I have to do. And I hope to God that the people in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv forget about their game plan theories, because if they’re not willing to take that big gamble on us, if and when they find out where we are, then we are all dead.”

Burg looked off downslope and spoke in an offhand manner. “Well, better dead than that we should be the cause of another war or that our rescue should jeopardize the Peace Conference.”

Hausner saw it all in a flash of insight. Burg was willing to sacrifice them all for what he thought was a higher good. He would rather they die bravely—and quietly—than see them used as an instrument to put Israel in a difficult position. It was a matter of degree, if you thought about it. He, Hausner, was willing to sacrifice Kaplan, himself, or anyone else for higher
goals. But where did the sacrifice stop? If Israel were being overrun, would she refuse to use her atomic weapons “for the sake of humanity and the higher good”? Did anyone, nation or citizen, have the right to say, “Higher good, my ass. I deserve to live and I’ll kill anyone who tries to put an end to my life”?

But people did make sacrifices for higher goals; Kaplan was doing that now. Kaplan, lying so very alone in the dark—he could count his remaining time on earth in minutes. And Burg was willing to let them all—including himself—die rather than force Israel to make a decision.

Hausner thought about it. He was willing to sacrifice his life. But that was because fate had put him in a position where to continue to live might be worse than dying. And he had put Kaplan in that position. Kaplan could never have lived a normal life after refusing Hausner’s kind of invitation to lay down his life. But it wasn’t the lives or the deaths that bothered him, he realized. It was the principle of aggressive intervention that was at stake. The Jews of Israel couldn’t let themselves slip into that passive role that had been the cause of the death of European Jewry.

It went against Hausner’s personality to accept Burg’s argument. If he, Hausner, were asked directly by the Prime Minister, he would say, “Damn right I want you to blast your way in here and get us. What the hell is taking you so long?” Certainly Burg believed that, too. Burg was only playing Devil’s Advocate again. Burg was speaking like the Foreign Minister— and Miriam—would speak. Burg, the spy, had many personalities and spoke many tongues. But if Burg really believed what he said, then Burg was wrong. Burg would have to be watched. Burg might have to go.

Hausner sat alone in the trench. The dust and sand sifted into the slit and began covering his legs. The place where Burg had sat opposite him was already obliterated. Soon everything that they had constructed would also he obliterated. The Concorde, too, would be covered someday and only its vague outline would remain. Their bones would lay buried in the dust and all that would remain of them and their deeds would be another written record of suffering and martyrdom to go into the Jerusalem library. He grabbed a handful of dust from his leg and flung it into the wind. Babylon. He hated the place. He hated every square centimeter of its dead dust and clay. Babylon. Corrupter
of men. Killer of souls. A million acts of moral depravity had been committed here. Massacres. Slavery. Illicit couplings. Blood sacrifices. How could his love for her have flowered in such a place?

He’d sent for her, but there was no guarantee that she would come. His heart beat heavily in his chest. His mouth, already dry, became sticky, and his hands trembled. Miriam, come quickly. The wait became insufferable. He looked at his watch. Five minutes since Burg had left. Three minutes since he had sent a runner to the Concorde. He wanted to get up and leave, but he couldn’t bring himself to move from the place where she would come looking for him.

He heard two voices and saw two silhouettes. One figure pointed, turned and walked off. The other came toward him. He licked his lips and tried to steady his voice. “Here.”

She slipped into the trench and knelt beside him in the dust. “What is it, Jacob?”

“I . . . just wanted to speak to you.”

“Am I free?”

“No. No, I can’t do that. Burg—”

“You can do anything you want here. You are King of Babylon.”

“Stop it.”

She leaned toward him. “A little bit of you is in complete agreement with Burg. A little bit of you is saying, ‘Lock the bitch up and keep her locked up. I’m Jacob Hausner and I make the tough decisions and I stick to them.’”

“Don’t Miriam . . .”

“Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not concerned about me—or Esther, for that matter. I’m concerned about
you.
Part of you will die if you let this farce continue. Every minute you allow it to go on you become less of a human being. Take a stand for kindness and compassion for once. Don’t be afraid to let everyone know the Jacob Hausner I know.”

Hausner shook his head slowly. “I can’t. I a
m
afraid. Afraid things will fall apart here if I show mercy. Afraid—”

“Afraid
you
will fall apart if you show mercy.”

He thought of Moshe Kaplan. How could he have done such a thing to that man? He thought of other Moshe Kaplans over the years. He thought back on Miriam reciting the Ravensbrück Prayer.

As if she read his mind, she said, “I don’t want to he your victim, your nightmare, your shuddering ghost. I want to be your help.”

He drew his legs up and rested his head on his knees. It was a posture he hadn’t assumed since he was a child. He felt himself losing control. “Go away.”

“It’s not that easy, Jacob.”

He picked his head up. “No. It’s not.” He stared at her through the darkness.

He looked so lost, she thought. So alone. “What did you want with me?”

He shook his head. His voice cracked. “I don’t know.”

“Did you want to tell me you love me?”

“I’m shaking like a schoolboy on his first date and my voice is an octave higher.”

She reached out and ran her hand across his temple and through his hair.

He took her hand and brought it to his lips.

Hausner wanted to kiss her, caress her, but instead he only took her in his arms and held her tightly. Then he moved her away gently and knelt on one knee. He reached into his shirt pocket and removed something. He held it out toward her in his open palm. It was a silver Star of David. It was fashioned from two separate triangles riveted together. Some of the rivets had apparently broken off and the triangle had shifted. He tried to sound nonchalant. “I bought it in New York on my last trip. Tiffany’s. Drop it off for me and have it fixed. All right?”

He handed her the Star of David. She smiled. “Your first gift to me, Jacob—and you have to pretend it isn’t even a gift. Thank you.”

Suddenly her expression became very serious. She knelt in the bottom of the trench and stared down at the silver star in her open hand. “Oh, Jacob,” she whispered, “please don’t throw your life away.” She made a fist over the star and clutched it to her breast. The points of the star dug into her hand until it bled. She lowered her head and fought back the tears until her body shook. “Oh, damn it. Damn it!” She pounded her fists against the ground. She shouted into the wind. “No, damn it. I won’t let you die here!”

He said nothing but there were tears in his eyes, too.

With unsteady hands she removed a silver chain from her
neck. On the chain were the Hebrew letters
—life. She clasped the chain around his neck and pulled his head toward her. “Life,” she said, through her sobs. “Life, Jacob.”

Moshe Kaplan lay in a small ravine and scanned with the starlight scope. The moonlight was weak and the dust was thick, but he had no trouble seeing the file of Ashbals in tiger fatigues against the low wall less than twenty meters away. He was reminded of a nineteenth-century print called
The
Gathering of
the Werewolves.
It showed grotesque semi-humans gathering against the wall of a churchyard cemetery in the moonlight. It was a frightening picture, but far less frightening than the greenish picture in his scope.