The Gates of Zion (3 page)

Miriam had shuffled over to the closet and begun sifting through Ellie’s clothes. “So many beautiful dresses that you have, yet never wear,” Miriam chided.

“You want me to wear an angora sweater to the dig?” Ellie had shot back defensively.

“Should we not share our abundance? If you do not wear these things, there are so many Jewish refugees at the docks. Poor women …”

“I’m not planning on rooting around Palestine forever. When I’m done here I’m going to Europe. Paris and London. Civilization, you know.” She blew her nose and sat up. Catching a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror, she groaned and sank back to her pillow.

“Look at me, Miriam. I’m death warmed over. I can’t see anybody.”

“No matter how you look. This is only Jerusalem. The men who wish to see you, only Bedouin shepherds. They are very ignorant. All day they look at goats. They will think you are beautiful.” There had been a twinkle in the old woman’s eyes as she selected a pair of khaki trousers and a shirt to match. “It is more important you look like an archaeologist right now, I think.” She laid the clothes on Ellie’s bed.

“You’re getting me up to see Bedouin shepherds? Out of bed?”

Miriam had placed a cool hand on Ellie’s forehead. “The professor shall be much relieved that you have no more fever.”

“Great.”

“If you like, I shall bring the Bedouins here to your bedside?”

Miriam suggested mildly.

Ellie sat up and swung her legs out from the covers. “This better be something, Miriam. It better be.” She had been helpless under Miriam’s firm gaze… .

As she remembered the bluff now, Ellie chuckled. Her hands moved expertly to load the film and set the light meter.

When Miriam came in with the tea, Ellie was spreading out the scroll across the large table in the center of the laboratory.

“Jesus looks out for you, my Ellie,” Miriam said, “but you got to help yourself as well. Come, have tea. And here—” She offered Ellie a box of tissues.

What I wouldn’t give right now for American Kleenex!
The toilet paper was bad enough, but the stuff these people blew their noses on was a hybrid of cornhusks and sandpaper—guaranteed to scrape away germs and skin.

“Thanks,” Ellie grunted, her tone not at all evidencing any thankfulness. But she inhaled the scent of the tea with appreciation and sat down heavily, cup in hand, to examine the scroll.

Miriam lightly touched the back of her hand to Ellie’s forehead. With that gesture, the old woman shuffled out the door and closed it behind her.

Where in the world,
Ellie wondered,
did Uncle Howard ever find
Miriam?
This Arab woman could hold her own with the best of her nation’s bargainers, yet her sharp tongue was tempered by her instinct to mother anyone who needed her care. To Ellie’s amazement, Miriam believed in God and spoke of Him as if He were real. Most of the Jews in Jerusalem had given up the hope of Messiah; those who still held on to their hope expected a military zealot. But Miriam, this ancient Arab, believed in Jesus.

Wiping her hands on her khaki slacks, Ellie gently touched the fragile scroll. Ellie believed little of religion for herself. Indeed, she had rarely thought deeply enough to even come to the right questions.

On the wall of her photo lab was a random scattering of photographs she had taken during the last few months in Palestine. She studied the faces of those she had met in the crooked streets of Jerusalem. They weren’t bad as photographs go. Professor Tierney back at UCLA might have packaged them up and sent them off to
National
Geographic
, or at least had them mounted for display in some graduate Middle Eastern history class.

All things considered, Palestine was a photojournalist’s heaven. An armed Arab dressed in flowing robes and a tarboosh was better than a picture of a sorority girl at the prom any day of the week. And the cobbled alleyways of the Old City were in every way superior to LA’s Westwood Boulevard for photographic interest. For some time now, Ellie had quietly nursed the suspicion that anyone with an ounce of ability could take fantastic photographs in this place.

Moshe Sachar disagreed. Praising her talent, he told anyone who would listen that she was the Rembrandt of the world of film—that no one had ever captured Jerusalem as she had. “Something you capture in the faces,” he would say. “There is something… .”

Ellie was flattered, of course, but she had the feeling Moshe knew about as much concerning photography as she knew about Babylonian cuneiform writing. Still, as she gazed back at the silent eyes that regarded her, there was enough life and soul in these faces to make her long to speak to the people she had seen only through the camera’s eye.

What was it they all had in common? An Arab merchant framed in the doorway of his shop; a veiled Bedouin woman with a water jug steadied on her head; an Orthodox Jew standing by the Wailing Wall; a young Jewish boy, one of the refugees, standing proudly with his first orange in hand—somehow they were all the same picture. They spoke of the same—the same
something
. What had made her snap the shutter? She stared at their eyes, and then she knew. These people all belonged somewhere. Not like her. Not like David Meyer, the American fighter pilot she had met three years earlier, in the States.

They were all like Moshe Sachar: all somehow in focus.

Moshe!
The thought of him brought a smile to Ellie’s lips as she remembered not only his praise of her work but the lovely richness he had brought to her life. Moshe Sachar was an archaeological linguist at Hebrew University in Jerusalem. Tall and slender, with rough-hewn features and a deep tan from the sun of his native land, this Jew was a striking contrast to Ellie’s fair skin sprinkled finely with freckles, copper-colored hair, and green eyes. He was at home among both the souks and the cabbies of the Old City. Arab merchants called out to him, and he answered in their native tongue while Ellie stood by bewildered and impressed by the haggling. As often as not, the bargaining centered around her. Rarely did a stroll go by without Moshe being offered twenty camels in trade for the redheaded woman who wore no veil. A deal no sane man would refuse, in the opinion of the male Arab population.

“You’re never even tempted?” Ellie had teased.

“What? For twenty camels? You’re worth at least fifty, and a couple of goats besides,” he said, dodging her playful blow.

At age thirty-two, Moshe was unmarried and absolutely devoted to his profession. He was, in fact, the most in-focus man Ellie had ever known. They had met the same week Ellie arrived in Jerusalem, when Uncle Howard had invited him to dinner to discuss the discovery of jar handles inscribed with the name of the ancient town of Gibeon.

Ellie had heard such excitement in a man’s voice only when her brothers discussed the Rose Bowl or laid odds on whether the war would end before they could enlist. For three hours Ellie sat quietly while Uncle Howard and Moshe mulled over the possibility that they had indeed found the ancient site where the men of David and the men of Saul had done battle. Ellie was about to yawn politely and excuse herself when Moshe had looked at her with the richest brown eyes she had ever seen and said, “I must apologize. For me to babble about ancient battles is sacrilege in the presence of such a beautiful woman. I am afraid I do not provide much of interest to normal conversations.”

Ellie had gazed back into the deep pools that looked at her so searchingly and felt herself melt. “Oh, no, Mr. Sachar,” she had fibbed, “I find it all extremely interesting. Please tell me more about it.” A sweet smile and fluttering eyelashes were all it took. The next few months had been filled with heavenly discussions about Babylonian cuneiform writing and the benefits of leather scrolls over copper ones. She found herself actually becoming interested in the subject as well as in her teacher.

She truly liked Moshe. Maybe their friendship was even moving toward something more lasting. Most importantly, when she was near him, she never thought about David, never daydreamed of the way he used to hold her or what he had meant in her life, never wondered what he was doing now.

Ellie’s eyes regained their focus on the cryptic writings before her.

What would Moshe think of these scrolls? Most likely I’ve just
paid five pounds for the Brooklyn Bridge.

2

The Contraband

The sharp prow of the ancient fishing boat rose and fell in cadence with the rhythmic thud of the gasping diesel engine. Moshe Sachar gripped the slippery rail and braced himself against the swells of the Mediterranean.

Standing like a living figurehead, whipped by the wind and biting salt spray, he searched the midnight darkness. They were, he knew, only a few miles from their destination, and still there was no sign of the inevitable British gunboats. Perhaps they would make it through the blockade and unload their precious smuggled cargo on the shores of Palestine. Perhaps they would be spared the bullhorns and the searchlights and the gun-toting sailors who pushed their way belowdecks to remove their treasures.

Moshe could picture in his mind the human contraband, huddled together below as they quietly endured the misery of seasickness and unbelievably cramped conditions—eighty-four human souls jammed into a space designed to carry a dozen fishermen. But these people were survivors—
the survivors
of Auschwitz, Ravensbruk, and Birkenau—places where millions of men, women, and children had died simply because they were Jews. They had faced starvation, forced labor, brutality, and torture—because they were Jews.

Ultimately they succumbed to the gas chambers, the ovens, and the anonymity of mass graves—because they were Jews.

Moshe remembered many of the faces of the eighty-four he had helped transfer in midocean only the day before. The deck of that rusting hulk of a freighter was jammed with nearly eight hundred refugees, waiting for small boats to carry them through the British blockade. Faded, silent, and gaunt, even the very young somehow seemed old and fragile as they gazed down at Moshe and the rickety fishing boat. Then, like welcoming rainfall after a drought, the cries of hope had risen from those who lined the freighter’s rail, cheering the eighty-four being lowered to this deck.

“Hey, Aram,” joked one as his friend took Moshe’s hand and stepped aboard, “did you ever learn to swim?”

“
L’Chaim!”
others exclaimed. “To life!”

“
This year in Jerusalem!”
called an old man tearfully, remembering the promise of his fathers. There were no good-byes. There had already been too many good-byes for one lifetime. In the names of those who had died without hope, the survivors would touch the soil of their ancient homeland and find new life and lasting hope— because they were Jews. That is, if they could make it past the British warships patrolling these waters in search of illegal immigrants.

Moshe’s keen eyes scanned the blackness of the night in search of a patrol boat. In the distance, the lights of Tel Aviv sparkled—so very close, but oh so far. Tonight every radio in Palestine was tuned to the news in faraway America, where the United Nations met at this very moment to decide on the partition of Palestine into two states: one Jewish, one Arab. Perhaps the British navy had taken the night off to listen to the vote that would decide the issue of Great Britain’s presence in the Middle East once and for all.

Moshe pictured the English officers lounging in their mess halls, sipping whiskey, and commenting on each nation’s vote. If Partition passed the UN, the British would withdraw and these secret trips would end. No more illegal immigration of Jews. They could come openly, permits in hand, to their own homeland. They could live in freedom and decide their own fate.

And Moshe Sachar—secret member of the Haganah, the Jewish underground organization; blockade runner by night; archaeologist and scholar by day—could be simply Moshe Sachar, archaeologist, once again. He wiped salt spray out of his eyes, prayed for the outcome of the vote, and half envied those who warmed themselves by their fires, listened to their radios, and shared coffee as the world made an end to the “Jewish Problem.”

He thought of Ellie Warne, beautiful and unconcerned. What a refuge she was to him. She never suspected the double life he led. And if indeed she had known, she simply would have asked to come along and photograph the adventure for the fun of it. With Ellie there was no politics or issues, only people and her camera. Ships of state might collide and sink, but for Ellie all that mattered was that people survived it in the end and that she had enough film to photograph the event.
A true journalist at heart.

Beyond his deep feeling for her, her companionship was the perfect cover for a man hunted by the British authorities and known as “The Kangaroo” for his expertise in smuggling. He was never seen with anyone even remotely suspected of being a member of the Haganah.

In fact, Ellie and her camera were his only contacts with other members of the organization. Her photographs of hieroglyphics and cuneiform symbols provided the codes of his movements to those who needed them. A series of Hebrew Scriptures photographed from scrolls communicated plans and intentions. Ellie took the pictures, and an Arab runner delivered them to other “members” of the archaeological community. It was all very neat and safe. Ellie never suspected a thing, and if she had, Moshe was not so sure it would have mattered to her. So, not only was her assistance convenient, she was one of the most delightful women he had known.

Sometimes he thought he might actually be in love with her. Perhaps later, he hoped, they could explore the possibility. Right now, however, there was too much else at stake—the future of a Jewish homeland. He could not afford to look or love too deeply. Love gave a man too much reason to stay alive. It turned courage away from its ability to stare at death without blinking. It made a man hesitate when risk loomed over his head. So Moshe would wait before he let Ellie have too much room in his heart. Already she had made life dangerously precious to him.