Zion (12 page)

“The papers have exaggerated what happened out of all - ”

“You think it’s just a few little kikes acting up. Is that it? It must be a bore for you. But we’re fighting for our survival and
anything
is allowable now.”

“What if I told you to go to hell?”

Sarah leaned back in her chair. “But you won’t, will you?”

“What are you going to do?”

Sarah reached into the breast pocket of her khaki shirt and produced a small envelope. She pushed it across the table. He opened it. Inside was a postcard: the black and white photograph was grainy and poorly defined but he was clearly identifiable. The caption underneath read:
Strange Bedfellows. The British in bed with the Arabs in Palestine.

“Unless you agree to help us, we’re going to send a copy to the High Commissioner, and then distribute the rest on the street. Your career and your marriage will be finished. If you return to England you will live the rest of your life in disgrace, the butt of contempt and ridicule.
That’s
what we’re going to do.”

The card trembled in Talbot’s fingers. “Majid, you little shit,’ he murmured. He tore the card into small pieces. “Jesus Christ!”

“I’m sorry, Henry,” Sarah said, more gently. “Personally, I think what people do in private is their own affair.”

Talbot screwed the pieces of cardboard into a tiny ball and threw them on the floor. He put his head in his hands. Sarah waited, concerned. She had not expected him to make a scene here in the coffee house. He was not going to be much good to them if his nerves were already shot.

She felt sorry for him. What she had said to him was true; she was not proud of herself. But what choice was there? If they did not save themselves, no one else would. Hitler had proved that.

When Talbot finally spoke, his voice was hoarse, like he’d been shouting. Perhaps he had, inside. At me or at himself? “What do you want me to do?”

“You’re on the High Commissioner’s staff.”

“Yes.”

“Then I should think our demands are obvious.”

He nodded. “Not enough that nature makes me a queer. You want to make me a traitor as well.”

“We are all traitors, Henry. Some betray their country, the rest of us betray our principles.”

He sneered. “A pretty little speech. Who are you trying to convince?”

“Just do it, Henry. Meet me here again next Friday. We want to know everything the British are thinking, everything they’re planning. If we don’t get tangible results we’ll destroy you. Am I clear?”

He rose to leave. “You know, you ought to recruit my wife. She would enjoy your job. In fact, I think she’d be rather good at it.”

He went out and was soon lost among the Friday evening crowds around the Gate.

Katamon

Katy Antonius was the widow of the most famous Arab historian and writer of his century, while she herself was the most celebrated socialite and hostess in Arab Jerusalem. Guests to her Friday night
soirées
included the most prominent members of the British and Arab communities. Henry Talbot accepted a gin and water from the white-jacketed Arab waiter and joined a group that included the Anglican Bishop of Jerusalem and the High Commissioner’s Private Secretary. The Haganah had blown up a bridge in Galilee and it was all anyone could talk about it, it seemed.

He found it hard to concentrate on the conversation. He kept replaying his conversation with the Shai agent in his mind.

If we don’t get tangible results we’ll destroy you.

His attention wandered. Polished parquet floors, the clink of ice, dinner suits, the sparkle of a bracelet, soft ripples of laughter. And over there Elizabeth in a black cocktail gown, her father’s emeralds glittering at her throat, offering her snow white neck as she laughed. A new predator moving in for the kill tonight. Who was it now? Ah, of course, Chisholm, erect and martial in his red-braided khaki uniform and Sam Browne.

“I think it’s about time we imposed martial law. What do you think, Henry?”

The Private Secretary was addressing him. Talbot turned back to the group with practiced ease. “I should say it’s about time we showed them what we’re made of,” he said. In his experience, such opinions covered lapses in most conversations. “Now if you’ll just excuse me, I must have a quick word with my wife.”

She had moved outside onto the balcony. The night was pleasantly cool, a faint breeze stirred the trees carrying with it the scent of pine and rosemary. A bell tolled dolorously in the Old City.

Elizabeth and Chisholm were locked in whispered conversation, their hands almost touching. Talbot coughed to signal his presence.

“Ah, Henry!’ Elizabeth said. ‘Just in time. Major Chisholm and I were just discussing the Jewish problem.”

“Have you found a solution?”

“Our feeling is there should be a little more intercourse between the two sides. Don’t you agree?”

Chisholm grinned wolfishly. How wonderful if he fell backwards off the balcony right now. “The most important thing is that people don’t get hurt,’ Talbot said.

“You’re too soft, Henry.” She grinned wickedly. “That’s always been your trouble.”

“I just think negotiation is better than confrontation.”

“Well I’m for anything that brings people closer together.’

The little tramp.

“Are we still talking about the same thing, Lizzie?” he said, using the diminutive she detested.

Chisholm deflected the conversation back to his favorite topic. “I think these kikes have been allowed to go too far. If I was in charge of the army I’d do things a little differently, I can tell you. Hitler had the right idea about some things, in my opinion.”

“Are you serious?”

“Like your wife says, Talbot. You’re too soft.”

“Almost flaccid, in fact,” Elizabeth said.

“Looks like it’s time to eat,” Chisholm said. “If you’ll excuse me.”

He brushed past him on his way back to the dining-room.

Talbot looked at his wife. On heat, he thought. I can smell her. “Not quite your type, is he?”

“I don’t know. I quite fancy a bit of rough, occasionally.”

“Do you have to be so brazen about it?”

“What’s the point of pretending anymore?” She put her glass on the balustrade and took his arm. “I shan’t embarrass you, old thing. I promise not to fuck him until after dinner. Shall we eat?”

They started with Arab
mezze
; tiny dishes of
hummus
, brain salad, eggplant, and stuffed vine leaves. Chisholm dominated the conversation, expressing the view that the Jews should be brought to order by the use of greater force. Talbot saw the Anglican bishop flush with embarrassment while the Private Secretary concentrated on his food, appalled at such indiscretion.

Talbot was unable to adopt the same diplomatic silence. “But surely,” he said to Chisholm, “we must accept part of the blame.”

Chisholm’s face was a portrait of derision. “The only mistake we’ve made is letting our bayonets get blunt.”

“You sound like Himmler.”

“What’s your solution, then? Let them walk all over us?”

“When this trouble started in 1936, the Jews exercised commendable restraint while the Mufti of Jerusalem was exhorting the Arab population to even greater feats of violence. As a result he got his way. I am afraid both sides learned a very grave lesson from us: that violence would be rewarded.”

“Even more reason to show them that’s not the case now.”

“I believe it is incumbent on us to find a just and equitable solution. You won’t find one on the end of a bayonet.”

“But Henry,” another voice said, and to Talbot’s dismay he realized it belonged to his own wife, “surely we cannot be seen to tolerate these dreadful Haganah people. I’m only a woman, of course, but it seems to me they are making us look quite ridiculous.”

The other army men flushed and found something of great interest on their plates. This unfettered criticism of their best efforts had all but rattled the windows.

Chisholm grinned at Talbot in triumph. “Your wife has hit the nail on the head, Henry. After all, we let them come here in the first place, and now they’ve turned on us. What’s the old saying about biting the hand that feeds you?”

It was pointless to argue further. He had already said too much. Besides, it was not the Jewish problem that weighed on him tonight; it was his personal failure. A traitor and a cuckold, he thought. The absurdity of it all! I have betrayed the two things I no longer love - my wife and my country. Both have shown me they are harlots yet still I cling to them. I was always taught that the very essence of a gentleman was to be British, and to be respectable. I have tried to be both these things but I am ruled by fools and married to a tramp.

What am I going to do?

The Hill of Evil Counsel

First Secretary Reginald Chandler waved Talbot to a seat. “Come in, Henry. Sit down, sit down. Take the weight off.” He fussed with the papers on his desk, then sat back, entwining his fingers over his ample paunch. Sunlight from the window at his back shone on the pomander in his thick grey hair.

Chandler was one of the old school; he had received his first overseas posting when Queen Victoria was still on the throne. Talbot sometimes imagined he could see dust in the creases of his face. He was due to retire in just four more months and some of Talbot’s colleagues joked that he was to be crated up and shipped back to the British Museum - as an exhibit. “Getting warmer, I do believe,” Chandler said.

“Yes, sir. Summer’s on its way.”

“Well, Henry, what can I do for you?”

“I wanted your advice, sir.’

‘My advice?’

‘Something has come to my attention, and I’m not quite sure what I should do about it.’

‘Continue.’

“As you know, my wife Elizabeth plays bridge with some of the women from Katy Antonius’s set. One of the women let slip that her husband had come across a former SS officer, here in Jerusalem.”

Chandler’s bluff good humor evaporated. “I see.”

“I don’t know how much credence to give such a rumor, but I thought I should report this immediately so we can check its veracity.”

“Have you told anyone else about this?”

“No, sir. Of course not.”

“Good. That’s the way we’ll leave it then.”

“Sir?”

“Look, Henry, I don’t like this any more than you, but … well, I’m afraid we’ll have to keep this under our hats.’

“I don’t understand.”

“Don’t be an ass. You understand perfectly well. We can’t upset the Arabs.”

“You mean it’s true? We’re harboring German war criminals?”

“Harboring isn’t exactly the word I would have chosen.”

“Which word would you choose?”

Chandler’s tone was sharper. “As I said, Henry, it’s the three monkeys on this one.’

“This man might be a mass murderer! Do you know what the SS were-”

“-We have to look at the big picture. It is imperative we retain our influence here - if we don’t, then we leave it open to the Russians or, God help us all, the Americans. It behoves us to examine carefully every slice of bread that comes our way and see which side the butter’s on.”

“It’s intolerable!”

“For your information, there’s scores of SS and Gestapo officers in Palestine, maybe hundreds. They’re here at the invitation of the Arabs but in the present climate, we cannot and will not do one damned thing about it. But you didn’t hear that from me.”

Talbot was speechless.

“Don’t look at me like that, Henry. It’s not my fault and it’s not yours. We’re here to carry out government policy.”

“Is this official government policy, sir?”

“Of course it isn’t. It’s a fact of life. Now is there anything else?”

“No, sir. Thank you for your advice.”

Talbot got up and went out. He felt ill. He heard the sound of children’s voices coming from the chapel long ago in Guildford Grammar School:
Till we have built Jerusalem, in England’s green and pleasant land . . .

Well, if the High Commissioner and his Private Secretary weren’t interested in former SS officers, he knew someone who was.

Rehavia

The block of flats was within walking distance of the Jewish Agency where he worked but that was before the British shot half his leg away. Today he found that by the time he got there his leg was aching so badly it was an effort just to stand. He gritted his teeth and limped up the stairwell to the sixth floor. It seemed to take forever.