Zion (15 page)

She lived quietly. Each day she left for work at eight in the morning and came home at six o’clock at night, except on
Shabbat
. In the evenings she prepared a frugal meal and listened to the radio, then read for a while before going to sleep. She seldom went out.

When she first started work at Histadruth she had received countless offers from the men there to go out to dinner, but she had made it clear to them that she was engaged to be married, and after a while the offers stopped.

She surrendered to the routine of her new life like an exhausted swimmer hauling herself on to a raft. It was safe; she had enough to eat; she had a warm bed. There was no one waiting in a queue to rape her. It felt like luxury.

The grocery shop downstairs was owned by a man named Fromberg, an old Berliner Jew who had fled Germany in 1934. Apart from the few casual friendships she had formed at the Histadruth, he was the only other person she spoke to regularly. He had a great bald dome of a head and a weeping egg-yellow moustache. He was cheerful and kind, and spoke German with her, rather than the Hebrew she was still trying to master.

“Fraulein Helder!” he shouted, as she reached the bottom stair of her flat. “Did you have a good day at work today?”

“Yes, thank you, Herr Fromberg.” Every day was much like another, of course. But even the worst of days was a day spent in Paradise when she compared it to Oswiecim.

“Hot weather we are having.”

“I don’t mind it.” She turned and went into the shop. It was crowded and dusty and smelled of dried meats and musty cheeses.

“You would like to join us for dinner tonight? My wife is making schnitzels. I’ll tell her to set an extra plate, all right?”

“It is very kind of you. But not tonight, Herr Fromberg.”

“
Ach,
but you never eat! Look at you! If you stand sideways, there is not even a shadow! You need some of my wife’s cooking.”

“Perhaps another night. I am very tired.”

“No wonder it is you are tired. There is nothing of you! When the
hamsiin
comes, it will blow you away!”

“I will wear heavy shoes.”

“My wife is always saying to me: Why don’t you get that skinny girl upstairs to come down for dinner? How will she ever get herself a husband looking like a breadstick?”

“I already have a man who wants to marry me, Herr Fromberg.”

He frowned, “
Ja, ja,
well, little Fraulein Breadstick, is there something I can get for you?”

“Perhaps two of your wonderful eggs for my tea.” Fromberg’s eggs were very popular; he bought them from the Arabs. Arab eggs were free range, but chickens on the
kibbutzim
were fed special diets and there was hardly any color or flavor in the yolks.

Fromberg fussed under the counter for the eggs. “Still no luck at the Jewish Agency then?”

“No, not yet. Perhaps soon.”

Fromberg became suddenly gloomy, as he always did when discussing Marie’s search for her fiancé. Having an unmarried and attractive woman in the flat above him made him fret. It was as if he owned an unmatched shoe.

“The Jewish Agency is inundated with people looking for lost family and friends,” Marie said. “They will find him eventually.”

Fromberg wrapped her eggs in newspaper and shouted to her as she went up the stairs that his wife would cook an extra schnitzel anyway, in case she changed her mind. Then he sat down to brood. It was not right that such a pretty girl should live alone like that, not going out, not enjoying herself . . . not eating. Sometimes he wondered if this fiancé of hers even existed. He had seen the death camp tattoo on her arm and he wondered if there was not more troubling little Marie Helder than a poor appetite.

Talbieh

There were two empty glasses on the table in the courtyard, and cigarette stubs in the ashtray. Abdollah and Hasna were conspicuous by their absence.

It was cool inside the house, a fan revolving slowly on the ceiling, one broken blade breaking the cadence. His footsteps echoed on the parquet flooring. He went up the stairs to the bedroom and threw open the door. He knew what he would find.

Elizabeth was not quite naked; she still had on most of her jewelry. She was sprawled over the edge of the bed, her feet on the floor, a pillow under her buttocks. Chisholm was not quite naked either; he had not removed his boots. Immaculately polished, Talbot noticed. He was kneeling next to the bed between Elizabeth’s legs.

He had a mouthful of ice cubes.

Elizabeth sat up, covering her small breasts with her hands. “Oh, Henry!” she said. “You must think me a terrible flirt!”

Chisholm stood up. Talbot had always believed that it was incumbent on a man caught
in flagrante delicto
with another man’s wife to grab his trousers and escape through the nearest exit, but Chisholm made no attempt to leave. He did not even look embarrassed.

Talbot could not take his eyes off his genitals. Substantial was the word that sprang immediately to mind. A major and his meat. Perhaps the 6th Airborne were issued with such weapons when they were inducted into parachute school.

Chisholm spat the ice cubes on to the marble. “Can’t you knock?”

“This is my bedroom. That’s my wife!'

“Well, I’m using her at the moment, old son. So piss off.”

The bastard hadn’t even lost his erection. “I’m going to kill you,” Talbot said.

Chisholm looked genuinely confused. “What with?”

Talbot threw himself at the larger man. Chisholm swung lazily with his fist, caught him on the jaw, and sent him spinning back across the room. Talbot landed on his back, and his head cracked on the marble floor.

“Now stop it!” he heard Elizabeth scream. “That is quite enough! Get your clothes and get out!”

Chisholm dressed. His boots echoed on the stairs and then the front door slammed and he was gone.

Talbot propped himself against a wall. Elizabeth sat on the edge of the bed, holding a cigarette in an ivory holder. She did not bother to dress.

“Do you want me to call a doctor?”

Talbot shook his head.

“It’s not very civilized, brawling in one’s own home.”

“Less civilized than screwing army officers in one’s own bed?”

“You’re so terribly old-fashioned about these things. What am I supposed to do? If you won’t do these little jobs for me, I have to call in outside help.”

“I just expect some discretion.” Talbot put his fingers to his mouth. Two of his teeth were loose. “Chisholm - why Chisholm?”

“Why not?”

“Because . . .” Talbot thought about Jaffa Gate. How could he explain that? “. . . he’s not . . . because he’s an utter bastard.”

“Men who fuck other men’s wives usually are.” She stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray next to the bed and stood up. “I’m going to have a shower.” She walked out.

Talbot hung his head, ashamed; of her, of himself. Ashamed he did not have the physical strength even to punish the man who had taken his wife, ashamed that God has so misshapen his soul that he did not even want her anyway.

He thought about Chisholm at Jaffa Gate and it seemed to him there was only one way he might recover his pride.

Chapter 11

Saturday evening: crowds milled around Zion Square, harangued by the Arab shoe-shine boys banging their brushes on boxes to attract prospective customers. The aromas of roasting coffee lured others into the boulevard cafés on Ben Yehuda and King George V streets, where the European exiles in their shiny double-breasted suits tried to recreate a lost way of life, promenading in the latest fashions purchased from shops on Princess Mary Avenue. Stilettos clipped on the pavements, music blared from Arab shops.

Henry Talbot saw Sarah join the queue outside the Zion Cinema and purchase a ticket at the booth. He bought a bagel from a Yemenite hawker and ate a few mouthfuls without appetite and gave the rest to one of the shoe-shine boys. He looked up at the hoarding:
Abbot and Costello in Hollywood.

Had the Haganah woman chosen this particular picture for any particular reason? He bought a ticket and went inside.

He waited a few moments at the back of the cinema for his eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness. There was a sudden shock of laughter at the antics on the screen, the English words subtitled in Hebrew and Arabic.

Sarah was sitting just a few feet away, in an aisle seat at the back. He ignored the usherette and slipped into the seat beside her.

Another sudden shout of laughter.

“Comedies are ideal for this sort of thing,” she said. “When people are laughing they can’t eavesdrop and they don’t shush you.”

“Ah, this is a comedy. I hadn’t realized.”

“You don’t like Abbot and Costello?”

“If I had my choice I would rather dip my head in boiling oil. But we’re here now.”

“Did you bring the chocolates, Henry?”

“Sorry, I forgot. Will the High Commissioner’s files on the Haganah do instead?”

More laughter.

“You have them with you?” Sarah said, her voice suddenly tense.

“A bit bulky, don’t you think? But I can get them for you.”

“The complete file?”

“Everything.”

Sarah took a deep breath. “Well.”

“Will that release me from my commitment to you?”

“We’ll have to see.”

“Have to see?
Have to see?
What more do you want?”

An Arab in a western suit and
keffiyeh
squeezed into the seat next to them. He stared at the screen in stony silence. Talbot watched him in the darkness. The man’s face was creased with concentration. He could have been watching King Lear.

“We start with a famine and move swiftly to a feast. I’m afraid you mystify me completely.”

“Can you get a jeep and some British uniforms?”

“Of course.”

“Of course,” Talbot said, mimicking her. “I can arrange for you to have the file for eight hours. What you do with it is up to you. At the end of that time you must return it to me intact. Is that clear?”

“It’s not much time.”

“For classified information, it’s an eternity. You’ll need two men who can impersonate British officers. In other words, a pair of arrogant bastards.”

“Where do we make the pick-up?”

“At the Hill of Evil Counsel.” Talbot passed her an envelope in the darkness. “Two sets of identity papers. They’ll get you inside. And a map of the grounds. Tell me when you’re ready and I’ll nominate the time. You’ll have one shot at this, that’s all.”

“That’s all we’ll need.”

A whoop of laughter from the audience. A Jew across the aisle was actually rocking in his seat, dabbing at his eyes with a huge white handkerchief. Talbot looked at the Arab beside him. His expression had not changed. Why should he laugh? he thought. How could he possibly understand what was funny? For the last thirty years he had been on a collision course with a culture he could not comprehend, a way of life diametrically opposed to the one he had learned as a child. The western suit and the
keffiyeh
were symbols of the dichotomy the British and the Jews had brought to his land. And here he was, still struggling to understand, still trying to laugh.

And here I am, he thought, selling you out.

But someone has to protect the Jews from people like Chisholm.

“Are you staying for the end of the picture?” he said.

“Only if I’m struck with paralysis in the next five minutes.”

“There’s hope for you people yet then.” Talbot got up and went outside. Night had fallen. Judas has met with Caiaphas, he thought. All that remains now is the final kiss.

Rehavia

“You can choose whoever you want for this operation, Asher. You know how important it is.”

Asher nodded. “Netanel Rosenberg.”

“You don’t have to decide straight away.”

“He learned English for his father’s business in Germany so he speaks it well enough. And he has a flair for acting.”

They were in the flat in Rehavia. The windows were open because of the heat but there was no breeze anyway and the room smelled of fried butter from the omelet Sarah had prepared them for supper. There was a bottle of Rishon wine open on the table.

“You are sure you can rely on him?”

“No one is more committed than Netanel - not even Ben-Gurion.”

“I’m not questioning his commitment. But the Emmerich job - that could hardly be called a success. He left Emmerich alive and assaulted the
hausfrau
.”