Wings of Refuge (32 page)

“Josephus was a famous Jewish historian, wasn’t he?” Abby said as she accepted the book.

“Or a famous Jewish traitor,” Hannah said, laughing. “It depends on who you ask. He was born Joseph ben Mattathias, the son of a wealthy priest. When the war with the Romans broke out, he was given command of all the Jewish forces in Galilee. Of course, the Romans slaughtered his army, but Joseph somehow managed to safely surrender, then he wormed his way into the Roman general’s favor. He was technically a prisoner when he began writing his eyewitness account of the war, including the battle at Gamla. He later changed his name to Josephus.”

“When did you say you took part in that dig?”

“I was there for three summers, from 1976 until 1978.” Hannah also searched for a place to sit, then finally scooped up the papers from one of the chairs and dumped them onto the floor. “I worked at Gamla at a very important time in my life,” she said, her voice growing soft and wistful. “That dig will always be very special to me. I almost gave up archaeology—almost gave up on life, in fact—until Gamla. . . .”

JERUSALEM, ISRAEL—OCTOBER 6, 1973

H
annah sat in the synagogue pew with eight-year-old Rachel, trying to recite the prayers that were part of the ritual of Yom Kippur. Her eyes kept straying from the prayer book to her husband, Jake, seated on the raised platform in front. He had been chosen as one of the six men called to read the Torah on this, the holiest day of the year. To Hannah, he seemed even more handsome at age thirty-six than he had been when they’d met twelve years ago. She couldn’t keep her eyes off him. When Jake looked up and caught her gaze resting on him, Hannah winked. He tried to give her a stern look—she was outrageous to flirt with him during a holy ceremony—but she saw the corner of his mouth twitch as he looked away, suppressing a grin.

Yom Kippur had begun the evening before at sundown. As with the Sabbath and all the other holidays, Jake took the celebration very seriously. This was a day of repentance, a twenty-four-hour fast in which worshipers searched their hearts before approaching God to confess their sins. A deep stillness had blanketed the city as the three of them had walked together to the synagogue on this holy day, a peace that Hannah felt to the very marrow of her bones.

When the first interruption came—a messenger tiptoeing down the aisle to beckon to one of the men—Hannah thought little of it. But after four or five men had been interrupted while at prayer and handed notes, she began to wonder what on earth was going on. The atmosphere of solemnity cracked, then shattered as one by one, more and more men began to collect their families and leave. After one of the messages was brought to Daniel Ben-Ami, seated beside Jake on the platform, Jake also rose and strode down the aisle, motioning for Hannah and Rachel to follow him.

“What’s going on?” Hannah asked as soon as they stepped outside onto the sidewalk.

“I don’t know, but I think we’d better find out. I saw the papers they handed to Daniel. They were mobilization orders.”

Hannah said no more, knowing that Jake would be reluctant to voice any fears or speculations in front of Rachel. As they hurried home, she tried to recall if anything had appeared in the news yesterday that might have prompted this. She could think of nothing except an incident involving Jews somewhere in Europe—certainly nothing that would require some of Israel’s reserve troops to be mobilized.

“Abba, why are there so many cars on the street?” Rachel asked. “No one ever drives on Yom Kippur.”

“I don’t kn—” Jake’s words were drowned out by the sudden screaming wail of an air raid siren. It was so close that Rachel shrieked and leaped into her father’s arms in fright. Hannah felt her own heart leaping in her chest as they stood frozen in shock on the sidewalk.

“Do you suppose someone hit the wrong button by accident?” she shouted above the din. “They wouldn’t hold an air raid drill on Yom Kippur, would they?”

Jake shook his head, bewildered. “It’s not just one siren. Listen—they’re going off all over the city!”

He grabbed Hannah’s hand and they began to run, with Rachel still clinging to Jake for dear life. Hannah unlocked their apartment door with trembling fingers and raced inside to switch on the radio. Nothing. Stations didn’t broadcast on Yom Kippur.

“We should go downstairs to the shelter,” Jake said, “just in case it’s a real air raid.”

“Abba, I’m scared,” Rachel whimpered.

“I know, love.”

But by the time they reached the basement, the sirens stopped as abruptly as they had started. Hannah’s knees felt rubbery as she climbed the stairs again. She left the radio turned on, the static hissing like steam while they waited.

“Are we going back to the synagogue?” Rachel asked.

“No, I think we’d better stay here until we find out what the sirens were for. If everything is all right, we’ll go back this evening for
Neilah
, the closing.” He settled on the sofa to wait, and Rachel snuggled beside him.

“I thought you were the best reader in the whole synagogue, Abba,” she said. “Mr. Ben-Ami mumbles.”

Jake smiled as he smoothed his daughter’s dark hair, tangled from their wild run. “Why, that’s very kind of you to say so—but you wouldn’t be biased at all, would you?”

“What does that mean?”

“Playing favorites,” Hannah said irritably. She didn’t understand how Jake could sit there so serenely when it was obvious that something terrible was happening. She got up from her chair and started toward the kitchen, thinking she might keep busy by fixing something to eat, then she remembered that they were fasting. Jake gave her a pleading look when he caught her eye, shaking his head slightly, as if asking her to remain calm for Rachel’s sake. Hannah sat down again.

“Did you understand what the passages meant that we were reading?” Jake asked Rachel a moment later.

“Some of them. Not the part about those goats, though.”

“Let me see if I can explain it.” Jake started to rake his fingers through his own hair, then stopped when he realized that he still wore his
yarmulke
on his head. “Every Yom Kippur we rehearse for the day when we will face God’s judgment. We think about death by fasting and denying ourselves all of the usual pleasures of life for twenty-four hours. Then we confess our sins and repent—which means we turn away from them—and we promise to live better by God’s strength.

“During the time when there was a Temple, the priests would lay their hands on the two goats’ heads, symbolizing that the goats now carried all of the people’s sin. One goat was sacrificed and its blood was brought before God’s seat of mercy. The other one, the scapegoat, was set free in the Judean wilderness. By His grace, God allowed people to transfer their sins onto a sacrifice so they could be forgiven.”

“Why don’t we do the part with the goats anymore?”

“Because we no longer have a Temple.”

“What happened to it?”

“The Romans destroyed it in
A.D
. 70,” Hannah told her, “when they destroyed Jerusalem.” She rose again, too restless to stay seated, and peered out of the window at the street. There shouldn’t have been any traffic on Yom Kippur, but there was. More than when they had walked home from the synagogue.

“Can’t we build another temple?” Rachel asked.

“Not on the original site, sweetie,” Hannah said, sitting again. “The Muslims built the Dome of the Rock on our Temple Mount.” She didn’t realize how tense she was until the radio suddenly sprang to life, startling her.

“This is a special bulletin. The sirens are not a false alarm. If they sound again, everyone must go to their shelters immediately.”
The station began to play a recording of classical music—the slow, mournful strains of Beethoven.

“Why? Tell us what is going on!” Hannah shook the radio as if it were a stubborn person who refused to talk.

“Hannah . . .” Jake said gently.

She heard Rachel draw a deep breath, then slowly exhale. “Abba, is it okay to miss the rest of the Yom Kippur service?” she asked. Like her father, Rachel would try to keep her fear at bay by talking of other things. “Will we still be forgiven, even though we left early?”

“Yes, God knows if we’re really sorry for our sins, and He forgives us. Would you like me to read the part of the service that we’re missing? The
Haftara
, or prophetic portion for this afternoon, is the book of Jonah.”

Hannah felt like screaming as she listened to Jake calmly read the story of the reluctant prophet who was swallowed by a great fish. But it had the desired effect of keeping Rachel soothed and occupied while they waited.

“I never did understand why they always read the book of Jonah on Yom Kippur,” Hannah said irritably when he finished.

“Because repentance and forgiveness aren’t just for the Jews, but for the Gentiles, as well,” Jake explained. “God said that all nations would be blessed through Abraham. Do you realize that Jonah was sent to preach to Israel’s bitterest enemy, Assyria? The story reminds us that God established His kingdom in His people so that we would bring His redemption to the whole earth—even to the people who hate us.”

“Impossible,” Hannah said. “Our enemies don’t even want to admit we exist, much less listen to us.”

At exactly 3:30, the music stopped and the radio crackled with another special bulletin. Hannah held her breath while she listened.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Israel has been attacked by both Egypt and Syria. Partial mobilization has been ordered—”

It was all she heard as the air raid sirens suddenly began to wail again. Jake scrambled to his feet, pulling Rachel with him. “Down to the shelter!” he yelled above the sound of the siren, rising and falling like a woman’s scream. Hannah grabbed the radio, yanking the plug from the wall. No one spoke as they huddled in the gloomy basement with their white-faced neighbors. Ten minutes later, the all-clear sounded.

“This is nerve-wracking!” the man who lived across the hall from them groaned as they trudged back upstairs to their apartments. “When do you suppose we’ll find out what’s happening?”

“You’d better keep your radio on,” Jake told him. “I imagine our communications are in chaos because of the holiday.”

Outside their living room window, Hannah saw three vehicles packed with soldiers racing down the street. A news bulletin asked that all nonessential traffic keep off the main roads. Another announcement stated that an emergency hospital had been opened for military casualties. Hannah and Jake looked at each other. If there were military casualties, the situation must be very serious. Coded mobilization orders were being broadcast off and on, in between musical selections. The three of them huddled around the kitchen table in numb silence, waiting for the next news report, listening for Jake’s coded orders.

After what seemed an eternity, there was another bulletin at 4:20.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are receiving reports of fierce fighting in the Sinai. The Egyptians have crossed the canal at several points and are on the East Bank. There is fighting on land and in the air.”

Jake stared at the radio in stunned disbelief. “If that’s true, then our fortifications must have fallen. The only way the Egyptians could possibly be on the East Bank is if our line of defense collapsed.”

“But how could it collapse? We have the best equipment and—”

“Hannah, it’s a holiday. Nearly everyone was home on leave except for the newest recruits.”

“Oh, dear God,” she moaned. The unimaginable had happened. Egypt and Syria had declared war on the holiest day of the year.

Jake got up from the table and disappeared into the bedroom. When he didn’t come back right away, Hannah followed him. He had already put on his uniform and was packing the rest of his gear into his kit bag. He looked up. She quickly turned away so he wouldn’t see her tears.

At six o’clock that evening, Prime Minister Golda Meir came on the air to make a speech to her nation. The three of them gathered around the kitchen table again to listen.

“At two o’clock this afternoon,”
Mrs. Meir began,
“both Egypt and Syria crossed the cease-fire lines and opened hostilities on land and in the air—”
She was interrupted by a warning signal, followed by more coded mobilization orders. When Jake closed his eyes, Hannah knew that one of them had been his.

“Where, Jake?” she asked. He held up his hand, asking her to wait as the Prime Minister resumed her speech.

“I have no doubt that no one will give in to panic. We must be prepared for any burden and sacrifice demanded for the defense of our very existence, our freedom, and our independence.”

Hannah remembered what Jake had told her after the Six-Day War—how he had been terrified during the battle, how he hoped and prayed that he would never have to fight again. But he would willingly shoulder the burden of combat, making that sacrifice for her and Rachel.

“How could we not have known?” Jake asked when the speech ended. “How could we have let ourselves be taken by surprise like this? Where was our intelligence?”

Hannah reached for his hand. “Jake? Where are they sending you?” His answer was barely audible.

“The Golan Heights.”

She took a deep breath as she tried to control her tears and her trembling voice. “To fight against the Syrians with their Soviet-made equipment?” she asked bitterly.

“The Soviets are backing and supplying Egypt, too,” he said. “They’ve had six years to analyze the last war and learn from it. And this time they were the ones who used the element of surprise.” He bent to put on his boots, preparing to leave. They both knew that it was vitally important for every able-bodied man to join the fighting as soon as possible, but Hannah longed to cling to him, to beg him to delay his departure just a little longer.

“Do you think Jordan and Iraq will fight us, too?” she asked.

“It may not matter,” he said, tugging his bootlaces. “Even if no other Arab country declares war, the Syrian and Egyptian troops outnumber us six-to-one. We’re outnumbered in armor four-to-one.”

Hannah and Jake looked at each other, then at Rachel, as if realizing at the same moment that she hadn’t spoken for a long time, that they had been voicing their fears in front of her. Rachel’s eyes swam with tears.