“This is just routine,” Ari whispered. “You’ll get used to it.”
The captain in charge of the detail stared at Ari’s table, then walked over to it. “If it isn’t Ari Ben Canaan,” the captain said sarcastically. “We haven’t had your picture on the boards for a long time. I hear you’ve been making mischief elsewhere.”
“Evening, Sergeant,” Ari said. “I’d introduce you if I could remember your name.”
The captain grinned through clenched teeth. “Well, I remember yours. We’re watching you, Ben Canaan. Your old cell at Acre jail is lonesome for you. Who knows, maybe the high commissioner will be smart this time and give you a rope instead.” The captain gave a mock salute and walked on.
“Well,” Kitty said, “what a lovely welcome to Palestine. He was certainly a nasty person.”
Ari leaned close to Kitty and spoke into her ear. “He is Captain Allan Bridges. He is one of the best friends the Haganah has. He keeps us advised on every Arab and British move in the Haifa area. That was all for appearance.”
Kitty shook her head, bewildered. The patrol left with two Jews whose papers didn’t appear in order. The orchestra harassed them with a chorus of “God Save the King.”
The lorry drove away and in a moment it was as though nothing had happened, but Kitty was a little dazed by the suddenness of it and astonished by the calm of the people.
“You learn to live with tension after a while,” Ari said, watching her. “You’ll get used to it. It is a country filled with angry, emotional people. After a while you won’t know what to do when you get one of those rare weeks of peace and quiet. Don’t be sorry you came just when you are getting ...”
Ari’s speech was cut off by a shock wave that ran through the restaurant, rattling the windows and jarring some dishes from the tables. In a second they saw a huge orange ball of flame push angrily into the sky. Another series of explosions followed, shaking the place to its foundations.
Shouts arose: “The oil refinery!” ... “They’ve got the refinery!” ... “
Maccabee raid!
”
Ari grabbed Kitty’s hand. “Let’s get out of here. In ten minutes the whole Carmel Valley will be crawling with British soldiers.”
The café was emptied in seconds. Ari led Kitty out quickly. Below them oil was flaming madly. The entire city screamed with the frantic siren shrieks of speeding fire trucks and British patrols.
Kitty lay awake half the night trying to comprehend the sudden violent things she had seen. She was glad that Ari had been with her. Would she get used to living with this? She was too bewildered to think about it, but at the moment she felt her coming to Palestine was a sorry mistake.
The next morning the oil refinery was still blazing. A pall of thick smoke hung over the entire Haifa area. The information spread that the raid was Maccabee terrorist work. It had been led by Ben Moshe—Son of Moses—the Maccabee field commander under Akiva, and formerly a professor at the Hebrew University before he rose in Maccabee ranks. The raid was part of a double-pronged Maccabee action. The other strike was against the Lydda airdrome in another part of Palestine, where the terrorists destroyed six million dollars’ worth of Spitfire fighter planes on the ground. The action was the Maccabees’ own way of welcoming the
Exodus
.
Ari had been able to acquire a small Italian Fiat, a 1933 model. The drive to Tel Aviv took only a few hours under normal conditions. Inasmuch as he had never known conditions to be normal he suggested they depart Haifa early. They drove down from the Carmel and took the coastal road along the edge of Samaria. Kitty was impressed by the greenness of the fields of the
kibbutzim
near the sea. Their color showed more brilliantly by contrast to the drabness of the hills and the dulling glare of the sun. A few minutes’ drive from Haifa they met the first roadblock. Ari had warned Kitty to expect it. She watched his reactions. He was apparently not at all annoyed, despite the fact that many of the soldiers knew him and taunted him with the reminder that his amnesty was only temporary.
Ari left the main road and drove to the Caesarea ruins on the sea. A lunch had been packed for them at the pension and they ate it on the ancient sea wall. Ari pointed to the Sdot Yam—Fields of the Sea—
kibbutz
where Joab Yarkoni lived and where he had spent much time with the Aliyah Bet when they beached the illegal runners during the 1936–39 riots. Ari showed Kitty how the Arabs had built their town on ruins, some Roman, some Crusader. The Arabs were experts in building on other people’s civilizations and had, in fact, constructed only one wholly new city in all of Palestine in a thousand years. Some of the magnificent Roman statuary and columns had been dragged off from Caesarea and could be found in Arab homes throughout the Samarian and Sharon districts.
After lunch they continued south toward Tel Aviv. The traffic was light. There was only an occasional bus load of either Arabs or Jews or the ever-present donkey cart. Every now and then a speeding, siren-screaming British convoy raced past them. As they passed Arab sections Kitty noticed the contrast of these villages and lands. The Arab woman toiled in the fields and the Arab fields were stony and drab. The women walked along the roadside encased in cumbersome robes with enormous loads balanced on their heads. The coffeehouses along the road were filled with listless men sitting motionless or lying down playing backgammon. Below Zichron Yakov—Memory of Jacob—they passed the first barbwire-enclosed ominous-looking Taggart fort. At Hadera, a bit farther, they came to another, and thereafter they seemed to pop up at every town and crossroad.
Beyond Hadera the land around the Plain of Sharon was even more lush and fertile. They drove between enormous archways of Australian eucalyptus trees.
“Everything you see was waste just twenty-five years ago,” Ari said.
In the afternoon they entered Tel Aviv—the Hill of Spring.
Along the Mediterranean coast arose this city so white it dazzled the eye in the afternoon sun. Tel Aviv was like frosting on a cake. Ari drove on broad, tree-lined boulevards between rows of ultramodern apartment houses. The city was alive with bustle and movement. Kitty liked Tel Aviv the instant she saw it.
On Hayarkon Street, right on the sea, Ari checked into Gat Rimon Hotel.
In late afternoon all the shops reopened after the siesta period. Ari and Kitty strolled down Allenby Road. Kitty had to change some currency, purchase a few things, and satisfy a lot of curiosity. Beyond the Mograbi Theater and plaza the road was filled with small shops, the honking and rushing of buses, cars, and people. Kitty had to see every last shop. There were a dozen or more book stores, and she paused to gaze at the cryptic Hebrew letters. They walked and walked, up to Rothschild Boulevard past the main business district. Here was the older town where Tel Aviv had begun as an outgrowth of Jaffa. The closer they came to the Arab city the more run-down the buildings and shops became. Walking along the streets connecting the two cities, Kitty felt as though she were walking back in time. The surroundings grew dirtier and more odorous and the shops grew smaller and shabbier with each step. They circled back to Tel Aviv through a market place common to both Jews and Arabs. The narrow street was a mass of haggling people crowded around the stalls. They returned down the opposite side of Allenby Road, back to the Mograbi plaza and turned into another wide, tree-lined street. This was Ben Yehuda Street and it was filled with sidewalk cafés. Each café had its own distinctive flavor and its own distinctive clientele. There was a café for the gathering of lawyers and there was a café of the socialist politicians and a café of artists and a businessmen’s café. There was a café where fellow travelers of the terrorists hung out and there was a café of old retired folk playing never-ending chess games. All the cafés of Ben Yehuda Street were filled and were bursting with chatter and arguments.
The news hawkers of the tiny, four-page newspapers shouted out in Hebrew of the Maccabee raids on Lydda and the Haifa refinery and of the arrival of the
Exodus
. There was a steady stream of people flowing by. There were Orientals in mideastern habit and there were well-groomed women in the latest of fashions from a dozen European countries. Mostly, there were native men in khaki pants and white shirts opened at the necks. They wore thin chain necklaces with a Star of David or some Hebrew pendant. Most of them sported the black mustache which was a trademark of the native born. They were a rugged lot. Many were in the blue of a
kibbutz
with sandaled feet. The native women were tall, angular, and high breasted in plain dresses or slacks or shorts. There was an aggressiveness and pride about them, even in their walk.
Then Ben Yehuda Street became quiet.
It was the same sudden quiet that Kitty remembered from the night before at the restaurant in Haifa.
A British armored sound truck inched down the middle of Ben Yehuda Street. Tight-lipped Tommies manned machine guns on the car.
“
ATTENTION ALL JEWS. THE COMMANDING GENERAL HAS ORDERED A CURFEW. ALL JEWS MUST BE OFF THE STREET BY DARK. ATTENTION ALL JEWS. THE COMMANDING GENERAL HAS ORDERED A CURFEW. ALL JEWS MUST BE OFF THE STREET BY DARK
.”
A ripple of applause and laughter broke out from the onlookers.
“Watch it, Tommy,” someone called. “The next intersection is mined.”
When the trucks had passed, the scene quickly returned to normal.
“Let’s get back to the hotel,” Kitty said.
“I told you you’ll get so that you won’t be able to live without excitement inside a month.”
‘I’ll never get used to it, Ari.”
They returned to the hotel with their arms filled with Kitty’s purchases. After cocktails in the small quiet bar there was dinner on the terrace overlooking the sea. Kitty could see the sweep of the coast line where the new city of Tel Aviv ran into the ancient city of Jaffa, the oldest port in the world.
“Thank you for a very nice day, British patrols and roadblocks notwithstanding.”
“You’ll have to forgive me,” Ari said. “I must leave after dinner for a while.”
“What about the curfew?”
“That only applies to Jews,” Ari said.
Ari left Kitty and drove from Tel Aviv to the adjoining suburb town of Ramat Gan—the Hill Garden. It was a contrast to the apartment-house city of Tel Aviv in that it was a town of individual homes set in lawns and trees and gardens. The houses were of stucco with red tiled roofs, and they ranged from cottages to huge villas. Ari parked the car and walked about for more than a half hour to make certain he was not being followed.
He came to Montefiore Street 22, a large villa owned by a Dr. Y. Tamir. Dr. Tamir answered the knock, greeted Ari with a warm handshake, and led him downstairs to the basement.
The home of Tamir was Haganah headquarters.
The cellar held munitions and arms, and a printing press which ground out leaflets in Arabic warning the Arabs to remain calm and keep the peace. In another section of the basement a girl spoke in Arabic into a tape recording machine, repeating the warning of the leaflets. The tape would later be transmitted over the secret mobile radio station, Kol Israel—the Voice of Israel. The manufacturing of hand grenades and the assembly of homemade Sten guns were also among the activities of the underground headquarters.
All activity stopped as Dr. Tamir appeared with Ari. The latter was surrounded and congratulated on the
Exodus
affair; questions were fired at him from all sides.
“Later, later,” Dr. Tamir pleaded.
“I must see Avidan,” Ari said.
He made his way past the stacked cases of rifles to the door of a secluded office and knocked upon it.
“Yes?”
Ari opened the door and stood before the bald-headed, squat farmer who commanded the underground army. Avidan leeked up from the papers on his rickety desk and burst into a smile. “Ari!
Shalom!
” He sprang up and threw his arms around Ari’s neck, shoved him into a chair, closed the door, and slapped Ari on the back with the force of a pile driver. “So good to see you, Ari! You did a first-class job on the British. Where are the boys?”
“I sent them home.”
“Good. They deserve a few days. Take a few days yourself. “
This was an impressive reward from Avidan, who had not taken a day off for himself in a quarter of a century.
“Who is the girl you came in with?”
“An Arab spy. Don’t be so nosy.”
“Is she one of our friends?”
“No, she isn’t a friend. Not even a fellow traveler.”
“A shame. We could use a good American Christian.”
“No, she’s just a nice woman who looks at Jews as though she were looking into a cage at a zoo. I’m running her up to Jerusalem tomorrow to see Harriet Saltzman about getting her a place in Youth Aliyah.”
“Something personal, maybe?”
“Good Lord, no. Now turn your Jewish curiosity somewhere else.”
The room was stuffy. Avidan pulled out a large blue kerchief and mopped the sweat from his bald pate.
“That was quite a welcome we got yesterday from the Maccabees. I hear the refinery will be burning for a week. Wrecked production.”
Avidan shook his head. “They did a good job yesterday—but what of the day before yesterday and what of the day after tomorrow? They are making three bad raids to every good one. Every time they resort to brutality or indiscriminate murder the whole Yishuv suffers. We are the ones who have to answer for Maccabee actions. Tomorrow General Haven-Hurst and the high commissioner will be at Yishuv Central. They’ll be pounding their fists on Ben Gurion’s desk demanding we use the Haganah to apprehend them. I swear I don’t know what to do sometimes. So far the British haven’t really turned on the Haganah but I am afraid if Maccabee terror continues ... they’ve even taken up bank robbery to finance their operations.”
“British banks, I hope.” Ari lit a cigarette and stood up and paced the tiny office. “Perhaps the time has come to stage a few good raids of our own.”
“No ... we just can’t risk the Haganah. We are the ones who must defend all the Jews. Illegal immigration ... that is the way we will fight them for now. One thing like the
Exodus
is more important than blowing up ten Haifa refineries.”