The Beauty Queen of Jerusalem (33 page)

“I can't fall asleep.”

Luna sat up. “Has something happened?”

“Keep quiet, you'll wake Becky,” Rachelika whispered.

“Becky's snoring like a pig, nothing wakes her up. What's happened? Why can't you sleep?”

Rachelika told her.

“Are you out of your mind?” Luna whispered. “If Papo hears about this, he'll lock you up in the house for life. You won't even have a wedding.”

“Nobody must know! It's a secret!” Rachelika leapt out of bed and stood facing her sister. “If you tell I'll never tell you anything ever again, and I won't let you tell me anything either.” And Luna, who was scared to death by the thought of her sister not listening to her secrets, swore she would keep her mouth shut.

After classes the next day, Rachelika waited for Moshe Alalouf by the school gate. Without a word he motioned for her to walk with him. Unlike the previous day, when he hadn't stopped talking, now he was silent. They headed down King George Street, and she felt a tiny pang as they went by her former home. They passed Gan Ha'ir, continued toward the Rehavia neighborhood, and went into the garden on Ramban Street. Moshe took her elbow and led her to one of the benches. As soon as they sat down, he put his arm around her shoulders and embraced her intensely. Her heart skipped a beat. “Pretend you're kissing me,” he whispered in her ear.

“Pretend?” She was confused. “What do you—” but she didn't manage to finish the sentence because he pressed his lips to hers hard. She wanted to open her lips, kiss him properly, but the way he was pressing her mouth to his made her realize that he really was only pretending. Disappointed, she pushed him away and moved to the end of the bench. He slid over to her and whispered, “What are you doing?”

“What are
you
doing?”

“Didn't you see the kalaniot passing?” he said, and from behind a bush he took out a tube and a tin.

“These are the posters,” he whispered. “And this is paste. We're to stick the posters onto trees and buildings.”

“And what do we do with the posters and paste if kalaniot come along?” Rachelika whispered fearfully.

“We hold them between our bodies and hug each other tight. They won't notice. I've done this a thousand times!” he said in a tone meant to boost her confidence, but which only heightened her anxiety.

They didn't see any more kalaniot that night. There was no need to embrace and kiss like a couple on a park bench. When they reached the Shaarei Hesed neighborhood he said good-bye with “Only thus!” and walked off, not even offering to escort her home. Disenchanted and angry, she started toward Ohel Moshe, and only when she made it home was she able to get her breath back.

“What's the matter, querida, why are you out of breath?” Rosa asked her.

“It's dark out and I was scared, so I ran home.”

“Maybe going to your classes is too dangerous, mi alma. Perhaps you shouldn't go at a time like this?”

“Enough, Mother!” Rachelika replied in an assertive tone that left Rosa agape.

“I'm sorry,” she quickly apologized to her mother. What was happening to her? She couldn't recognize herself, kissing a strange boy, putting up posters after dark, fleeing the kalaniot, being nasty to her mother. This game wasn't for her. Starting tomorrow she wouldn't be sticking up any more posters. Basta, it wasn't for her.

But she didn't stop, not the next day or the day after that. She simply could not.

Rachelika now belonged to a group of boys and girls in the service of the underground and was increasingly absent from her classes. She didn't think about what would happen if her father found out, didn't
want
to think about it. She wanted to carry on putting up posters, work her way up through the ranks so she could be assigned the more dangerous tasks that were spoken of only in whispers and total secrecy.

As on previous occasions, this time too she hadn't known her partner for the mission. He was a bespectacled boy who said very little, and they walked hand in hand as they'd been ordered, two strangers pretending to be a pair of lovers. He held her little finger with his own crooked around it. “It's how my kibbutznik brother walks with his girlfriend” were the only words he uttered. They walked in silence until they reached Haneviim Street and stopped outside the English Mission Hospital. Opposite was a small garden surrounding the house where Rachel the Poetess had once lived, and they easily found the posters and paste under the garden bench and didn't even have to pretend to kiss. They'd been told to put up the posters in Zion Square near the cinema's box office so that the posters would be in the faces of people buying tickets. They walked quickly so they could finish the job before curfew, but they didn't make it. As they passed Dr. Ticho's house on Rabbi Kook Street, British police vehicles driving down the streets announced the start of the curfew. Rachelika had been putting up posters after classes for weeks now, but never during a curfew. She'd told her family that she was studying for exams at Temima's.

At first her father was against it. “You're not going out at that time of day!” he'd said.

“But, Papo querido, when can I study? I'm in the shop until late afternoon. When else do I have time?”

Fortunately, her father had bought her story. But what would happen when exam time really did come around? When would she study then? She knew that no one would believe that she, Goody-Two-shoes Rachelika, was the one putting up Etzel posters. But the way she felt when she was putting up posters—the adrenaline coursing through her veins, the sense of purpose—was addictive and had clouded her judgment.

A cat jumping out of a dumpster shook her from her thoughts. She clung to an outer wall of the public restroom like a shadow. In a quick decision she threw the posters and paste into the dumpster. She'd pay the price for it tomorrow, but right now she had to save herself, so she started walking home. If the kalaniot caught her, so be it. She could tell her father that she was at school until late and didn't make it home in time.
Wai de mi sola
, I'm more frightened of my father than I am of the British police! When did I start thinking like Luna? She prayed she'd be able to lie to her father's face, but before she could plan her lies, she found herself having to lie to the British policemen approaching her from their vehicle. “What are you doing out? Don't you know there's a curfew?” one shouted.

“Yes, sir,” she said, putting on the expression of an innocent lamb. “I was at school until late and didn't notice that the curfew had begun. Sir, I've got to get home, please help me. My parents must be worried sick.”

But instead of softening, the English policeman hardened and ordered her to take out the contents of her bag. Luckily, all she had were homework books and textbooks. She silently thanked Luna, who had advised her to cut the Etzel newspaper into shreds and flush them down the toilet. She thanked God that she rid of the posters and paste.

The policeman instructed her to put her books back into the bag and then ordered her into the vehicle. Quaking with fear she did as she was told, imagining being dragged to the Kishle and locked up behind bars. Papo will never forgive me, she thought. He'll imprison me in the house. And worst of all, he'll think I've become like Luna. She knew how hard life was for him and was afraid of disappointing him. She saw how he'd been aloof, ravaged with worry, bitter. But he always kept his anger bottled up, didn't shout, didn't get upset, and that was far worse.

“Address,” snapped the policeman.

Rachelika gave him the King George address and immediately corrected herself. It'd been almost ten months since they'd moved back to Ohel Moshe and she still hadn't gotten used to it.

To her horror, the driver turned on the siren. The noise sliced through her ears, and it became clear to her that they would stop at the police station and she'd be kept in a cell for who knew how long. But the vehicle passed the police station and stopped at the Ohel Moshe gate, and Rachelika was ceremoniously escorted to her house by two British policemen, one on either side.

What happened in the next hour Rachelika could never have imagined even in her wildest dreams. The policemen banged on the door. “Open up, police!” they shouted. And Rachelika, terrified, knew all the neighbors were now spying from their windows and seeing her, Senor and Senora Ermosa's quiet daughter, escorted by two English policemen, and rubbing their eyes in amazement.

Her mother opened the door. “Thank God, you've given us a heart attack again! We thought something had happened to you.” And before she asked the policemen what they wanted, she pulled Rachelika inside. “Gracias el Dio, Gabriel, Rachelika's home.”

Her father got out of his chair and turned off the radio. He staggered slightly, held on to the back of the chair, and looked questioningly at Rachelika and the two policemen. Luna and Becky came out of their room as well.

“Forgive me, gentlemen, I'm very sorry,” Gabriel said, moving heavily toward them. “The bane of raising daughters. I'm sure you know how difficult it is to raise daughters these days.” To his daughters, who were standing as if nailed to the floor, he said, “Why are you standing there like dummies? Introduce yourselves to the gentlemen.” Then he turned back to the Englishmen and with exaggerated politeness introduced the girls: “This, gentlemen, is my eldest daughter Luna, our baby Becky, and you've already met my middle daughter Rachel. She's a good girl, but a bit of a dreamer. This isn't the first time she hasn't come home in time before a curfew. I forgive her, and I hope you will too.”

The policemen smiled at the sight of the three lovely girls, and Rosa, who until then had been standing rooted to the spot by the door, suddenly came to life and offered the policemen seats at the table. She hurried to set a bowl of fresh bizcochos on the table while urging Luna to serve the guests. Gabriel went to the carved wooden cabinet, took out a crystal decanter of fine cognac, and poured it into crystal glasses. He and the policemen toasted the troubles of raising daughters.

The policemen swigged the cognac, and as soon as their glasses were empty, Gabriel refilled them. Rosa fluttered around the guests, who seemed to have forgotten they were on duty and were enjoying a lively conversation with Gabriel as if they were all old friends.

“Dio santo, they don't want to go,” Rosa said to the girls when they were alone in the kitchen.

“Why should they go? Three beautiful girls, fine cognac, why would they leave?” said Rachelika contemptuously.

“Shut up,
calabasa
, you pumpkin, they'll hear you,” Luna whispered.

“If we don't do something to get rid of them,” Rachelika went on, “they'll end up sleeping here.”

“Better they sleep here than you sleeping in prison,” Luna retorted.

“Quiet, both of you! I don't want the Ingelish hearing you. Go and serve them some more borekitas,” Rosa ordered.

The girls went back into the living room and served the policemen the oven-fresh borekitas.

“Do you have just the three girls?” one of the policemen asked.

“Three that are like thirty,” Gabriel chuckled, doing his best to make his laugh sound genuine.

“That's quite rare,” said the English policeman. “I know that Sephardi families have lots of children.”

“We had more once,” Gabriel replied. “But they died. What can you do, The Lord gives and the Lord taketh away, blessed be the name of the Lord.”

Much to his surprise, Gabriel found that he was quite enjoying his chat with the English policemen, who admitted they were homesick and missed their families. But it was getting late, and he needed them to leave so he could settle accounts with Rachelika.

Luna took advantage of their presence and asked their permission to use the privy in the yard. During a curfew they usually relieved themselves in tin chamber pots they kept under the bed. In the morning they'd empty them in the privy, wash them out, and hang them by their handles on the wall of the house, next to the iron laundry bath they also used for bathing.

God, Luna thought, where have the happy days in the King George Street apartment gone, when we had an inside toilet and tiled bathroom and brass faucets? How happy those King George days had been, and how brief. She still was in awe of the modern amenities by the time they had to return to the old neighborhood with the old neighbors and the gossiping women who to this day were
still
talking about Tio Ephraim and how he'd shot Matilda Franco.

The policemen allowed Luna to use the privy and Becky and Rachelika after her. “But one at a time, not all together,” one said, suddenly transformed from the nice man drinking cognac with their father back into an intimidating English policeman.

When the girls came back inside, the two policemen stood up, thanked Gabriel and Rosa for their hospitality, warned Rachelika about being out after curfew, and left.

“At long last, thank God,” said Gabriel with a sigh of relief. He thought the nightmare would never end and that the damned Englishmen were going to move in. They must have enjoyed the idea of three lovely girls and fine cognac. And Rosa, may she be healthy, hadn't shut her mouth the entire time. His silent wife's mouth had opened and refused to close as if her lips were stuck that way. He didn't know if she hadn't stopped talking because she was scared that something terrible would happen the moment she shut up, or because she was just proud of her good English. Thank God she hadn't said a word about having been a housemaid for the English. And lucky the damned Englishmen hadn't asked where her good English came from.

After they left, he sat down in his chair and with a shaking hand lit a cigarette and drew the smoke into his lungs. He glanced at his daughters, who seemed to be purposely zealous with the tidying up. His wife, who since the Englishmen's departure had fallen silent again, was now sitting at the far side of the room embroidering one of her tapestries, which she hung on the walls as if they were works of art, as if their house was the Louvre and not a wretched dwelling in Ohel Moshe.