Leon Uris
Leon Uris
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO
MY DAUGHTER, KAREN
AND MY SONS, MARK AND MICHAEL
—AND THEIR MOTHER
Most of the events in
Exodus
are a matter of history and public record. Many of the scenes were created around historical incidents for the purpose of fiction.
There may be persons alive who took part in events similar to those described in this book. It is possible, therefore, that some of them may be mistaken for characters in this book.
Let me emphasize that all the characters in
Exodus
are the complete creation of the author, and entirely fictional.
The exceptions, of course, are those public figures mentioned by name, such as Churchill, Truman, Pearson, and the rest who were related to this particular period.
The space covered in my gathering of material for Exodus was nearly fifty thousand miles. The yards of recording tape used, the number of interviews, the tons of research books, and the number of film exposures and vanished greenbacks make equally impressive figures.
During the course of two years, tens of dozens of people gave me their time, energy, and confidence. I was twice blessed every foot of the way with uncommon co-operation and faith.
It is unfortunate, but the sheer weight of numbers precludes my thanking everyone here. Such listing would fill a volume in itself.
I would be less than grateful if I did not acknowledge the efforts of those two men who were truly instrumental in making Exodus a reality.
I hope I am not setting a dangerous precedent by publicly thanking my agent. Exodus evolved out of a conversation at lunch and became a tangible project because of the dogged persistence of Malcolm Stuart. He refused to give up the idea despite a dozen setbacks.
I most humbly thank Ilan Hartuv of Jerusalem. He made my arrangements, and traveled with me over every foot of Israel by train, plane, Vauxhall, and Austin, jeep and by foot. At times it was a pretty rough go. Mainly, I thank Ilan for sharing with me his vast knowledge of the subject.
BOOK 1
Beyond Jordan
Until the Lord have given rest unto your brethren, as well as unto you, and until they also possess the land which the Lord and Your God hath given them beyond Jordan: and then shall ye return every man unto his possession, which I have given you.
The word of God as given to
Moses in Deuteronomy
NOVEMBER 1946
WELCOME TO CYPRUS
W
ILLIAM
S
HAKESPEARE
T
HE AIRPLANE PLIP-PLOPPED DOWN
the runway to a halt before the big sign:
WELCOME TO CYPRUS
. Mark Parker looked out of the window and in the distance he could see the jagged wonder of the Peak of Five Fingers of the northern coastal range. In an hour or so he would be driving through the pass to Kyrenia. He stepped into the aisle, straightened out his necktie, rolled down his sleeves, and slipped into his jacket. “Welcome to Cyprus, welcome to Cyprus ...” It ran through his head. It was from
Othello
, he thought, but the full quotation slipped his mind.
“Anything to declare?” the customs inspector said.
“Two pounds of uncut heroin and a manual of pornographic art,” Mark answered, looking about for Kitty.
All Americans are comedians, the inspector thought, as he passed Parker through. A government tourist hostess approached him. “Are you Mr. Mark Parker?”
“Guilty.”
“Mrs. Kitty Fremont phoned to say she is unable to meet you at the airport and for you to come straight to Kyrenia to the Dome Hotel. She has a room there for you.”
“Thanks, angel. Where can I get a taxi to Kyrenia?”
“I’ll arrange a car for you, sir. It will take a few moments.”
“Can I get a transfusion around here?”
“Yes, sir. The coffee counter is straight down the hall.”
Mark leaned against the counter and sipped a steaming cup of black coffee ... “Welcome to Cyprus ... welcome to Cyprus” ... he couldn’t for the life of him remember.
“Say!” a voice boomed out. “I thought I recognized you on the plane. You’re Mark Parker! I bet you don’t remember me.”
Fill in one of the following, Mark thought. It was: Rome, Paris, London, Madrid (and match carefully); Jose’s Bar, James’s Pub, Jacques’s Hideaway, Joe’s Joint. At the time I was covering: war, revolution, insurrection. That particular night I had a: blonde, brunette, redhead (or maybe that broad with two heads).
The man stood nose to nose with Mark, gushing on all eight cylinders now. “I was the guy who ordered a martini and they didn’t have orange bitters. Now do you remember me?” Mark sighed, sipped some coffee, and braced for another onslaught. “I know you hear this all the time but I really enjoy reading your columns. Say, what are you doing in Cyprus?” The man then winked and jabbed Mark in the ribs. “Something hush-hush, I bet. Why don’t we get together for a drink? I’m staying at the Palace in Nicosia.” A business card was slapped into Mark’s hand. “Got a few connections here, too.” The man winked again.
“Oh, Mr. Parker. Your car is ready.”
Mark put the cup down on the counter. “Nice seeing you again,” he said, and walked out quickly. As he departed he dropped the business card into a trash basket.
The taxi headed out from the airport. Mark rested back and closed his eyes for a moment. He was glad that Kitty couldn’t get to the airport to meet him. So much time had passed and there was so much to say and so much to remember. He felt a surge of excitement pass through him at the thought of seeing her again. Kitty, beautiful, beautiful, Kitty. As the taxi passed through the outer gates Mark was already lost in thought.
... Katherine Fremont. She was one of those great American traditions like Mom’s apple pie, hot dogs, and the Brooklyn Dodgers. For Kitty Fremont was the proverbial “girl next door.” She was the cliché of pigtails, freckles, tomboys, and braces on the teeth; and true to the cliché the braces came off one day, the lipstick went on and the sweater popped out and the ugly duckling had turned into a graceful swan. Mark smiled to himself—she was so beautiful in those days, so fresh and clean.
... and Tom Fremont. He was another American tradition. Tom was the crew-cut kid with the boyish grin who could run the hundred in ten flat, sink a basket from thirty feet out, cut a rug, and put a Model A together blindfolded. Tom Fremont had been Mark’s best pal as long as he could remember for as far back as he could remember. We must have been weaned together, Mark thought.
... Tom and Kitty ... apple pie and ice cream ... hot dogs and mustard. The all-American boy, the all-American girl, and the all-American Midwest of Indiana. Yes, Tom and Kitty fitted together like the rain and springtime.
Kitty had always been a quiet girl, very deep, very thoughtful. There was a tinge of sadness in her eyes. Perhaps it was only Mark who detected that sadness, for she was joy itself to everyone around her. Kitty had been one of those wonderful towers of strength. She always had both hands on the rudder, always had the right words to say, always decent and thoughtful. But that sadness was there ... Mark knew it if no one else did.
Mark often wondered what made her so desirable. Maybe it was because she seemed so unreachable to him. The iced champagne—the look and the word that could tear a man to pieces. Anyhow, Kitty had always been Tom’s girl and the most he could do was envy Tom.
Tom and Mark were roommates at State University. That first year Tom was absolutely miserable being away from Kitty. Mark remembered the hours on end he would have to listen to Tom’s mournful laments and console him. Summer came, Kitty went off to Wisconsin with her parents. She was still a high-school girl and her folks wanted to dampen the fervor of the affair with a separation. Tom and Mark hitchhiked to Oklahoma to work in the oil fields.
By the time school started again Tom had cooled down considerably. To remain in Mark’s company one had to sample the field. The times between Tom and Kitty’s letters lengthened and the times between Tom’s dates on the campus shortened. It began to look like a strike-out for the college hero and the girl back home.