No Time for Tears (29 page)

Soon the diminutive Halevi was standing in front of her, holding his heart. “Someone died?”

“A great many will … if I don’t get your horse and wagon.”

This was the Sabbath and it would be a sin to be angry before sundown, so he said quietly, “For my horse and wagon you took me from
shul?
”

“Please. While you are talking people are dying.”

“Go take the horse, already. I shouldn’t even be thinking such things, much less saying them, but you will have to put the saddle on and hitch it to the wagon.”

“God will forgive you, and bless you.” And if He doesn’t, she added to herself, I will.

When she arrived in Jaffa she found bedlam. Crowds were waiting, clamoring, screaming, fighting their way to get to the Jewish Agency.

Chavala’s size was her ally. Finding an opening, she wove her way through the throngs. When she found that she needed a ration card she refused to allow that to defeat her. She learned the grain was stored in the adjacent building.

Quickly she got back into the wagon and led it to the side of the entrance. She stood to one side of the door and watched the men heaping the sacks up one on the other. If it were possible to steal she would have no qualms, but the sacks were too heavy. To lie was her only hope, her instincts all she could depend on.

Carefully she scrutinized each man. Who would most likely respond to her? The older ones would probably be less taken in. More likely the young
chalutzim
would be more receptive to a young, vulnerable “widow.”

She approached a young, blond
chalutz.
“Please … you must help me … I
beg
you. I have lost my card and they won’t give me another.”

The
chalutz
looked at her. Chavala’s pleas didn’t exactly impress him. If he was to listen to every hysterical woman who begged there would be nothing left in the warehouse. He’d forgotten how many had tried the same tactics this very day. “Go back and wait like the others, you’ll get a card.”

“
Please
… you must believe me … I have tried but they said I had already received my allotment, but on my mother’s name, I swear it’s not so.”

He looked at her suspiciously; a woman would do anything to get what she wanted. “I can’t help you.”

“
Why?
You don’t own the flour, it wouldn’t cost you anything and I’m a widow with two starving children …” Taking the money out of her pocket, she said, “Here, take this. It’s yours—”

“Please, don’t bother me, I’m busy—”

“If anything happens to my children the curse will be on you. Do you hear? For the rest of your life you’ll be cursed.”

Before he could answer, Chavala fell to the ground in a heap. It was a convincing act.

He quickly picked her up in his arms and lay her down on a sack, then stood listening to her shallow breathing.

Chavala counted slowly to thirty. Her eyes fluttered, and when she opened them tears started.

The tears helped, as well as the feel of her in his arms when he’d picked her up. She was beautiful … a young widow … what did he have to lose if he gave her the flour? On the other hand, what did he have to gain?

His thoughts were interrupted as Chavala said, barely above a whisper, “Please … help me up. I’m sorry to have bothered you.” She stood feebly before him. “Thank you, now I must go to my children.”

She started slowly toward the door. He called out, “Wait.” She held her breath. Had the pretense worked?

“Yes… ?”

“If I give you the flour, can I see you again?”

“Oh, yes … yes … I will be grateful to you for the rest of my life—”

“Can we meet tonight?”

The world was in a state of chaos, hundreds were starving, and he wanted … it was total insanity … still, “Yes …”

“Where do you live?”

“In Tel Aviv.”

“Where?”

“You can’t come there … I have children, but on my life I promise to meet you in the park at eight o’clock tonight.”

He looked at her suspiciously. On the other hand if she wanted more flour she would be a fool not to keep their rendezvous. “All right… tonight, and
be
there.”

“I will, believe me I will.”

After he had loaded the sack into the wagon he held her close. At this moment nothing mattered, except that her family would have something to eat.

As she stepped into the wagon he squeezed her hand firmly, “You won’t forget?”

She shook her head.

As she faded into the distance it occurred to him he hadn’t even asked her name.

Chavala traveled the long, narrow road up to the hills toward Jerusalem, which bordered on the army encampments. It was dusk, and the Turkish soldiers were lying about on the ground. She felt their eyes on her. With her head held high, she whipped the horse to go faster until, thank God, she’d passed the trenches.

She had just passed beyond the gorge at Bab el Wad when she abruptly brought the wagon to a halt.

She waited. Silhouetted against the sky, a black-clad Bedouin blocked the road with his white Arabian stallion.

For a moment Chavala stayed motionless in panic, her mind darted to the body that lay buried under the cherry tree … But this time she had no weapon. And how could she overcome this giant of a man?

She watched as he dismounted, slowly came toward her. She grabbed the whip and lashed out as he came to one side.

He only laughed, then grabbed her by the hair and brutally dragged her from the wagon, down the slight incline, and threw her to the ground.

In the nightmare that followed, he lifted her dress and spread his legs over her. She struggled, kicked, scratched his face.

As he undid the sash around his waist, she inched her fingers along the ground until she found a rock.

When he was ready to enter her, she found all the strength left in her and struck him between the eyes.

The blow was sudden, violent. He rolled to one side as the blood rushed from his head.

Fighting for breath, she got to her feet, climbed up the slight incline. How she got back to the wagon she would never know … As she was about to climb into the seat she felt something beneath her foot. She looked down, and there in the dirt lay a small red-and-gold tooled Moroccan pouch. Picking it up quickly she got into the wagon, took up the reins and drove the horse with the whip until she reached Jerusalem.

When she arrived in Mea Shearim, she somehow managed to climb the stairs to Raizel’s apartment.

“Thank God you’re home safe and …”

Chavala was too tired and distraught at this moment to tell her anything. “Where is your husband?”

“Resting.”

“Get him up, if it won’t disturb him too much … I have a heavy sack of flour in the wagon. Maybe he can manage to lift it.”

While they waited for the man of the house to bestir himself, she hugged Reuven, who, after telling her how glad he was to see her, asked if now they were going home.

“Tomorrow, darling.”

The little boy was disappointed, but didn’t protest.

When Raizel’s pious husband finally appeared to lift off the sack from the wagon, Chavala ripped it open, angrily, and scooped out three ladles for herself and her family.

Raizel said, “But you’re leaving us almost the whole—”

“Don’t worry, I’ll get more … just take care of yourself and the children, I’ll be back in the morning.”

Barely able to climb the stairs, she could hardly believe she’d reached the door to her apartment.

When she crossed the threshold, Dovid was waiting, and all that had happened to her in that incredible day came crashing down on her. She collapsed in his arms, stayed motionless as he carried her to bed. She hadn’t even enough strength to talk. Dovid lay down beside her and held her, gently, lovingly.

Finally she could ask, “How did you happen to be here tonight?”

“When I got back to Athlit from Lebanon I found the note you’d sent by Guri and I came as fast as I could. I’ve been here most of the day. Now … tell me … what happened … ?”

This time she couldn’t control her tears, and as she told him what had happened to her Dovid thought bitterly to himself that he hadn’t really protected her at all by sending her away. A woman like Chavala one never protected.

When she’d finished he knew, whether Aaron approved or not, where they belonged. “We’ll go back to Zichron. We need each other, and the children need us. Whatever the future, at least we’ll face it together.”

“Yes, Dovid… thank you… will you stay the night?”

“
Yes.
”

Chavala got out of bed and went to prepare her bath water. As her garments fell to the floor the small leather pouch lay beside them. Picking it up, she brought it to Dovid. “In all the excitement I forgot about this,” she said, handing it to him.

He drew the strings apart and emptied the contents on the bed. Both gasped. Even in the dimly lit room the stones shone. It was unbelievable. A handful of small emeralds, rubies, diamonds, sapphires and opals lay clustered together. Most likely the Bedouin had waylaid a traveler and stolen them.

Chavala said, “You know what this
means
, Dovid … after the war we will have more than enough money to go to America…”

He said nothing. He would not,
could
not hurt her at this moment by telling her he could never leave. Later he would try to tell her why … When he looked at the stones, what he felt most was guilt, thinking about the circumstances under which she’d gotten them … “For now, darling, let’s only think of being together again …”

In the morning they stopped at Mea Shearim to pick up the children and to tell Raizel that they were leaving but that Raizel need not worry, Chavala would make sure that there was sufficient food. The sisters said their good-byes and held one another for a long, lingering moment.

When Chavala stepped over the threshold of her own house, with her family, she wanted to get down on her hands and knees and give thanks that they had, miraculously, all survived…

R
OBERT SILVERSTEIN’S LIMOUSINE STOPPED
in front of his jewelry establishment on Fifth Avenue. The liveried chauffeur opened the door as Mr. Silverstein stepped out. “Call for me at four. Mrs. Silverstein and I are going to the opera this evening.”

In all the years since he had inherited the business from his father this was the first morning he did not pause to look up at the sign, “Silverstein and Sons, Est. 1887.” Instead he bought the newspapers from the boy who was shouting, “UNITED STATES DECLARES WAR ON GERMANY!”

In disbelief he read the date, April 6, 1917, in the bold black print. This evening he would not be going to the opera. His only thoughts at the moment were of his three fine sons.

On the trolley, Mary Kelly was going to work for the Silverstein family, for whom she had worked as a cook for the past seven years. She sat trembling, holding the paper to her chest. Her only thoughts were for Sean and Patrick, one eighteen, the other twenty. She was very frightened.

In London at the manor house of Sir Walter Collingsworth, the household staff sat around the table in their quarters downstairs.

“What’ll it mean, Mr. Dalton … with the Yanks on our side?” the scullery maid asked the butler. “You reckon the war will be over sooner?” Mr. Dalton shrugged, said how the bloody hell would he know.

In Berlin, Frieda Hockstein said to her husband Fritz, “
Mein Gott,
what will happen now?”

“Calm yourself, Frieda, we will win the war. Remember,
Deutschland uber Alles.
The Americans are run by Jews. Everybody knows that.”

In Damascus, Jamal Pasha paced the floor. “Those
stupid
Germans. As though we weren’t having enough trouble with the British … they had to get involved with the crazy Americans, with their money, all those men …”

In Alexandria, Aaron read about the event very carefully. The United States’ involvement obviously would allow more British troops to be deployed to the Middle East. America would fight on the western front, trying to save the French.

Although Aaron had no political ambitions for himself, he realized this was an opportunity to strengthen NILI’s position. He saw this as a catalyst in bringing the problem of Eretz Yisroel to the world’s attention.

Since the exile of the Jews from Jaffa and Tel Aviv, the situation in the country had become desperate. The year had been one of hunger and disease. The locusts had destroyed the crops to such an extent that much of the land lay fallow, and those meager crops that were produced the army confiscated. Commerce was paralyzed and the Turks forbade any financial help for the Jews. All of which strengthened NILI’s determination to try and save the Yishuv.

Toward the end of April Aaron met with Sir Marc Sykes, who happened to be in Egypt, and through him sent a cable to the World Zionist Organization in London to spread the news around the world of the Jews’ deportation. The next day Aaron telegraphed the chief representative of American Jewry, whose support he was trying to gain. Along with such activities, Aaron founded a special committee for collection of funds for Eretz Yisroel. In a few days cables were sent to all the communities of the Diaspora, and Aaron’s actions started to get results. In early May, Reuters published his report on the evacuation of Jaffa, and the other press agencies copied the item and spread it around the world. Protest gatherings were held. Jews feared what happened to the Jews under the Ottomans would be the same as what had happened to the Armenians. The American Zionist Organization appealed to Holland, Spain and Switzerland to intervene at Constantinople in favor of the Jews in Eretz Yisroel. Even in Germany, Turkey’s ally, protest gatherings were held. In the face of all this, Jamal Pasha decided to ease up a little on the Jews in return for denial of the previous articles in the press. The Yishuv’s Jews, the conservative ones, were pleased.

Although the Yishuv was still unaware of NILI’s military espionage, still its social and national activities brought NILI’s whispered name to many other people who were grateful for its daring. Gradually NILI’s influence upon the Yishuv and its institutions spread, including a new wave of enthusiasm among the activists in the Yishuv. The number of NILI members grew. The Hashomer, who knew about NILI’s espionage activities, were still divided. Half still saw themselves primarily as protectors of the Yishuv and refused to be involved otherwise. The other half was determined to fight with NILI to the end….