The Gates of Zion (11 page)

Moshe felt a rush of shame at his anger. For this young woman, perhaps death would have been more merciful.
What guilt and
memories she must have to face each day of her life!

“Look,” she said in a small voice, “the tide is out.” Then she looked at him timidly. “Isn’t it?”

“Yes.” He smiled apologetically at her. “The tide is out.”

“I thought so. All the shells along the sand. I read about tides and beaches once when I was a child. But I never sat on one.”

Moshe knew she was trying hard to make up for her unpleasantness.

“Sometimes bits and pieces of old wrecks wash up on shore.”

“Like us, eh?” She smiled at him and raised her eyebrows as though the two of them shared a secret.

“What is your name?”

Her eyes clouded once again—perhaps with the pain of a memory?

Moshe wondered—and sadness washed over her features. “I was …

I am Rachel. Rachel.” She spoke the name as if it were foreign to her.

“A beautiful name,” he said, thinking how well it fit her.
“And Jacob
served seven years for Rachel; and they seemed unto him but a few
days, for the love he had to her.”

The young woman raised an eyebrow.

“It’s from the Bible,” he finished lamely.

“Oh.” She looked away again. “Then I will tell you now I have nothing in common with her.” She tucked the tattoo tighter against her.

“Rachel,” Moshe began haltingly, wishing to comfort wounds as gaping as the crevices near the Dead Sea, “you are free now. No one here will hurt you.”

Her eyes grew dull and sullen. “There is not enough of me left to hurt,” she said flatly. “I brought my prison with me.”

Uncomfortable, Moshe cleared his throat.
I certainly put my foot in
this one
. “It is cold, isn’t it?” He shivered as he glanced down at his undershirt and boxer shorts and black socks.

“Where are we?” she asked. “Do you know?”

“Tel Aviv is about two miles down the beach, unless I miss my guess.” He stood and stretched in the morning breeze.

“You won’t get far like that,” she remarked wryly, scanning his lanky form.

Moshe did not reply. He strained his eyes in the direction of the sunrise and stood motionless.

Rachel shielded her eyes against the glare, as if checking to see what captured his attention so. “What is it?” she asked finally.

“A patrol. Coming our way fast.”

Rachel stood, looking about desperately for a hiding place. “Oh no!”

she cried. “Not when we are so close!”

“Sit down,” he commanded. “Just keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking. Act calm.” Moshe spotted his trousers, soaked and knotted, at the water’s edge. With seeming nonchalance, he walked across the damp sand to retrieve them. He heard the sound of an approaching army jeep before he saw it and glanced back at Rachel.

She remained huddled on the sand as Moshe had instructed her.

As the jeep roared across the sand, three hundred yards from them, Moshe waved his arms in an attempt to flag the soldiers down.

“What are you doing?” Rachel called in alarm.

“I said, let me handle this, will you?” Moshe said through gritted teeth. “Keep your mouth shut.”

Two men manned the jeep―one driver and a passenger. The driver steered the vehicle so close to the water that a wall of salt spray shot up and drenched the passenger. As the passenger shouted obscenities, the driver wove to drier ground for a moment, then returned to the water and repeated the scene again and again. It took a while to divert them from their game, but once they spotted Moshe waving to them, they roared straight as an arrow to them, skidding to a halt right in front of Rachel.

“Well, what ’ave we ’ere, blokes?” cried the driver as he set the hand brake and leaped out of the jeep in one smooth move.

“It’s a mermaid.” The young officer hopped out and marched toward Rachel, who tucked her head down on her knees. Moshe knew she had felt the gaze of men on the prowl before.

Moshe stepped quickly between them and Rachel and spread his hands in a gesture of harmlessness. “We’re so glad you chaps have come along,” he said in a crisp British accent. At the sound of his refined accent, the whoops and stares ceased, and the men assumed an attitude of deference.

“Right, sir,” said the baby-faced officer as he trudged toward Moshe at the front of the vehicle. He had obvious trouble concealing his amusement at the man in his underwear stranded so far from civilization. “Having a bit of difficulty, I see?”

“Thank God someone in authority is here,” Moshe barked. Then he commanded the leering driver, “Get the lady something to put around her, will you? Can’t you see we’re in distress here?”

The smirk slid off the driver’s ruddy face, and he snapped to attention, rushing to the jeep to retrieve an army-issue blanket.

“You can do better than that, Wilkes!” barked the officer. “Get her your overcoat!”

Moshe snatched the blanket from the driver and wrapped it around Rachel’s shoulders while the driver rummaged through the back of the jeep for a heavy overcoat.

A frown creased the brow of the officer. “He’s still not calmed down from last night’s celebration, sir.”

“Indeed.” Moshe found himself wondering if the celebration had been for the defeat of Partition or its victory.

“The chaps can’t believe we’ll be going home, y’know.”

“Hmm.” Moshe took the coat from the driver and helped Rachel put it on as the soldiers turned their backs. “That’s no excuse for this sort of behavior toward British subjects obviously in distress,” he spat, leading Rachel to the jeep. “Sit here, my dear,” he said, helping her into the officer’s seat. Then he wrapped the blanket around his own shoulders, realizing that the British would be going home.

Partition had passed.

“Robbed, were you, sir?” asked the officer, now suitably humbled.

“You and the lady? At the celebration, I’ll wager.”

“Well, see for yourself, man!” Moshe exclaimed in mock outrage.

“I said it wasn’t safe on the streets last night for a British subject.

Sir, you and your, er, wife?”

Moshe lowered his voice in confidence. “My wife is back at the embassy, Captain.”

The officer winked slyly. “Quite. A ticklish situation for you, sir.

Did you say ‘the embassy,’ sir?” he asked, clearly intimidated.

“You heard me!” Moshe roared. “Gads, man. Can’t you see
this
in that cursed Jewish rag of a paper? The honor of Britain is at stake!

Take your clothes off.”

“Wha … what?” The officer stepped back a pace.

“Well, you can’t expect me to go back to Tel Aviv like this, not possibly.”

“Why, no. No, sir.”

“I’ll send a driver back for you. We’ll have
his
clothes as well.”

Moshe stared down the now-humbled driver, who immediately began unbuttoning his tunic. “For the lady,” Moshe added.

“R-right, sir,” stammered the driver.

“Now see here―,” the officer protested with bravado.

“We’re looking at a major political incident, Captain, when a member of the embassy is kidnapped, robbed, stripped, and left on the beach with a young woman. Now the Jews, you may be sure, will make something of the fact that the woman is not my wife. I intend to make the incident as pro-Britain as possible, and you will assist me.

As far as you are concerned, you never saw this young woman; is that clear?”

“Yes, sir!” the officer saluted.

“Well, then, let’s have your trousers!”

Without another word the officer removed his uniform and meekly handed it over to Moshe, who rubbed himself briskly with the blanket, then dressed, down to the shoes, which were a tad small.

The dejected officer stood to the rear of the jeep in his undershorts and gartered socks with the likewise-undressed driver.

Rachel quickly pulled on the driver’s uniform, then tucked her hair under his hat. With final triumph she put the overcoat back on and, looking like a very effeminate British soldier, winked at Moshe.

Moshe knotted the tie with difficulty, asking assistance from the stripped captain.

“There you are, sir,” said the captain, giving the knot a final pat. “No one will ever know the difference.”

“Quite,” Moshe said crisply, placing the cap on his head at a jaunty angle. “I’ll need a few pounds as well, Captain.”

“Money, sir?” The officer clutched his wallet uncertainly.

“Certainly man,” Moshe said in a disgusted tone. “Of course you can expect to be repaid immediately. I’ll give you my personal note, if you like.”

“All I have is two pounds six, sir.” The officer rummaged in his wallet and pulled out two worn bills with a few coins. “Your personal note is quite unnecessary, sir. Between gentlemen, as it were.”

“Right you are. You’re quite a decent fellow, Captain. We’ll have someone back to pick you up shortly, then. Well, we’re off.” Moshe hopped behind the wheel and started the engine.

“Thank you, sir.”

“And if you’re ever at the embassy―”

“Thank you, sir! I’d be delighted.” He waved cheerily as Moshe roared away, kicking up a cloud of grit and sand.

For the first time, Rachel laughed. Throwing back her head in delight, she tore off the cap and let the wind blow through her hair.

Moshe cast a sidelong glance at her as they bounced over the dunes.

Then he, too, whooped happily at the thought of the two soldiers waiting on the beach in their stocking feet.

Rachel shook her head in wonder. “Where did you learn to speak English like that?”

Moshe shifted gears. “I went to Oxford University for a while before the war.”

“And did you study the gentle art of dramatics there? You are a convincing actor.”

“No, I learned that during the war. Smuggling Jewish children out of Europe with the Aliyah,” he added with a smile, “one must be convincing.”

Rachel touched his arm. “You are that.” She laughed again. “The embassy?” Admiration filled her face. “And what is
your
name, Ambassador?”

“Moshe Sachar, dear lady.” He stuck out his hand and they shook as though meeting for the first time.

“So pleased to meet you.” Rachel nodded, then saluted. “Sir.” The jeep rocked and bolted over the sand so that Rachel had to hold tightly to her seat. “Where are you taking me?”

“How do you feel about breakfast?” Moshe pushed harder on the accelerator and topped the dunes to a stretch of ragged, paved road that would take them to safety.

7

The Scroll

The policeman clasped his hands behind his back and paced the width of the Oriental rug in front of Ellie. “A big fellow, you say,” he mused, with a hint of a British accent tainting his Palestinian speech.

“Big,” Ellie answered. “The other one was about your height. But I didn’t get a good look at him.”

“You can describe the big fellow, though?” He stopped in front of her chair and rocked back on his heels. “If you saw him again, you would recognize him, eh?”

“Yes, easily.” Ellie felt vaguely as though she were the one being interrogated. “Large, jutting jaw. Hawkish nose and a rugged face.

Maybe about forty years old. Dressed like a European. Or an American. Only he wasn’t.”

The policeman frowned and leaned toward her. “Wasn’t what?”

“American.”

“How can you be sure of this?” he asked brusquely.

“He just wasn’t, that’s all. He didn’t
sound
American.” She was surprised at the certainty with which she said the words.

“He spoke to you, then? What did he say?” The policeman’s eyes narrowed and bored through her.

“He must’ve said something. I remember something, you know, but I don’t remember exactly what it was.”

The officer pursed his lips thoughtfully and began to pace once again. “Could you describe his accent?”

“I remember something like it in a war movie.” Ellie hesitated. “Like the Gestapo. Maybe German. I would say it was a German accent.”

The policeman ran his hand over his lips as he glared down at Ellie doubtfully. “Are you certain perhaps you did not have a bit too much to drink last night, young lady? You fell and hurt yourself, broke your camera, and—”

“Too much to drink?” Ellie stood indignantly. “The man chased me down and tried to steal my camera. He ripped it open and took my film and smashed the camera to pieces. I’ve got a witness. A boy. He was hiding in the—” Ellie’s voice broke off sharply as the policeman stepped back as though he had been struck.

“A witness?” he said gruffly. “Someone else saw this?”

“Yes. And I know where to find him, and he can tell you the whole story. Maybe even what the other man looked like, too!” she retorted.

For an instant the policeman seemed to blanch; then he regained his composure. “Then we must speak with this … witness. A boy, you say? Where shall I find him?”

“I’ve got the address,” said Ellie, suddenly cautious in the presence of this man. “I’ll get him and bring him to the station if you like. He said he didn’t want policemen nosing around his house.”

The man’s demeanor became sympathetic and kindly, causing Ellie to forget her vaguely uneasy feeling about him. “That is understandable, certainly.” He smiled, revealing a gap between his front teeth and deep lines around his eyes. “Is four o’clock this afternoon suitable? And perhaps the boy would be more comfortable meeting someplace besides the station?”

“Probably. I would think so, yes.”

“Shall we meet here, then? It is quiet and less hectic than the station.”

“Fine.” Ellie walked toward the front door, sensing a need to terminate the interview. “And Officer―I’m sorry, I have forgotten your name.

“Rausch.” He stuck out his hand. “Officer Rausch.”

Ellie shook his hand and again uneasiness settled hard on her. She quickly opened the door and stepped aside as he brushed past her onto the steps. “Four o’clock then, Officer Rausch. We’ll see you then.”

Rausch put on his cap and strode down the street as Ellie leaned on the doorjamb and watched him until he was out of sight around the corner. There was something about his manner that made her uncomfortable. She shrugged off her doubts and closed the door behind her.