Pursuit (33 page)

Benjamin Grossman sat next to Deborah, his arm about her possessively, waiting as well. A favorable vote would mean that in a short while he could leave the confines of Ein Tsofar, for with the end of the mandate and the departure of the British, all criminal charges of the British against Palestinian residents would automatically end; he would be free. On the other hand, a favorable vote would also probably mean an end to his relationship with Deborah, unless she chose to leave Palestine with him and take up life abroad. Would she? It was a difficult question to answer. He was sure she loved him, but there was also no doubt she also loved her native land. It was something he had never come to understand, this fierce love of these people for this miserable, inhospitable desert, but it was there and he knew it.

Still, an unfavorable vote would mean a continuation of his exile at Ein Tsofar, and while it would mean he would continue to have Deborah, to hold her, to sleep with her, to enjoy her in all the multiple ways he had found he was enjoying her, how long could he tolerate existence in this desolation without going insane? And how long would he continue to enjoy Deborah under those conditions? He blanked his mind to the various possibilities, deciding to wait until the vote was complete before attempting to fit the result into his eventual plans.

It seemed forever to those in the crowded room before the sound of a gavel being rapped could be heard from the radio; everyone instantly swung his head in that direction. Someone attempted to tune the radio finer, resulting in a squeal that brought instant and angry denunciation of the meddler; another hand corrected the sound just in time for them all to hear the voice of Assembly President Osvaldo Aranha of Brazil.

“… now proceed to vote by roll call on the report of the ad hoc committee on the partition resolution. Delegates will respond in one of three ways—for, against, or abstain.”

There was the briefest of pauses, then another voice took over.

“Afghanistan.”

“Afghanistan votes against.”

A general sigh swept the room. The vote had been expected but the disappointment remained. It seemed like a sign of bad luck, a poor omen, to begin with a negative vote. Why couldn't a FOR country have been alphabetically first? The children, recognizing that something extremely serious was preoccupying their parents and knowing this was not the time to fool around, kept very still, staring gravely at the radio. Joel Perez, at the blackboard, put a short mark under the AGAINST there.

“Argentina.”

“Argentina abstains.”

People bent their heads, work-callused fingers knotted together.

“Australia.”

Heads were lifted to attention. Australia was, after all, one of the Commonwealth nations, the first one to vote, and Britain had made clear to all her allies her violent opposition to the partition plan. A vote against would be understood; an abstention would be a victory.

“Australia votes in favor of partition.”

A loud cheer broke out involuntarily and was just as quickly hushed so they could continue to listen to the scratchy radio.

“Belgium.”

“Belgium votes for partition.”

The background swelling of noise from the pro-partition spectators in the great hall in New York came through the radio clearly, giving a feeling of brotherhood to the people in the lonely settlement on the border between the Negev and the Judean deserts. They were part of a community of people around the world, and the sounds from New York reinforced that knowledge. They were not alone; people knew they were there, even in their little corner of the world. It was good to know.

“Bolivia.”

“Bolivia votes for partition.”

“Brazil.”

“Brazil favors partition.”

Other than Argentina, there had been hope that the Latin American countries would be united in their support. Argentina had been a disappointment, but Bolivia and Brazil gave hope. Next to come would be a Russian satellite country, and then Canada, another Commonwealth nation; their votes could give a strong indication of where the resolution would eventually end.

“Byelorussia.”

“Byelorussia votes for.”

“Canada.”

“Canada votes for partition.”

“Chile.”

“Chile abstains.”

“China.”

“China abstains.”

The smiles that had followed the Canadian vote were gone. It had been strongly hoped that China would endorse the resolution.

“Costa Rica.”

“Costa Rica votes in favor.”

A balance with China, for there had been rumors of an attempted bribe offer to the Costa Rican delegate from one of the Arab countries. Either the rumor had been false, or more likely—as the people in the room thought—it had been offered and had been refused.

“Cuba.”

“Cuba votes against partition.”

Deep disappointment. Cuba had been counted on for a certain vote in favor of partition. Heads bent again as if awaiting a headman's ax; hands clasped themselves more tightly.

“Czechoslovakia.”

“Czechoslovakia votes for partition.”

“Denmark for …”

“Dominican Republic for …”

“Egypt.”

There was an angry outburst from the Egyptian delegate; the sharp rap of an admonitory gavel from the chair, then the expected loud vote against. In the room the people shrugged; Perez duly recorded the vote under the proper heading. The vote now stood at ten in favor, three opposed, and with three abstentions.

“Ecuador.”

“Ecuador favors partition.”

“Ethiopia.”

There was another shrug from the people in the room. Ethiopia had always voted with the Arab bloc; their vote could be calculated. At the blackboard Perez put a mark under the AGAINST even before the Ethiopian delegate could speak.

“Ethiopia—abstains …”

There was a shout of joy in the community room; they were not, after all, under the discipline of the United Nations and the gavel there demanding respect. Perez rubbed out the mark with his shirt sleeve, putting it in the proper column, grinning like an idiot. There were instant cries for quiet; people were beginning to believe in the possibility of victory for the first time.

“France.”

“France votes for.”

“Guatamala—for …”

“Greece—against …”

“Haiti for …”

“Honduras abstains …”

“Iceland—for …”

The vote stood at fifteen for partition, four against, with five abstentions, but nobody now was cheering. A two thirds vote was required for passage and the Arab states were yet to be heard from. The change in the pattern became evident as the voting continued.

“India votes against.”

“Iran votes against.”

“Iraq votes against! We will never—”

The gavel and then the impersonal voice again.

“Lebanon.”

“Lebanon votes against.”

They were below their necessary two thirds; it was not encouraging. Dry lips were dampened with tongues; desperate eyes stared at the radio imploringly.

“Liberia—for.”

“Luxembourg—for.”

“Mexico abstains.”

“The Netherlands votes for the resolution.”

“New Zealand—for.”

“Nicaragua—for.”

“Norway for.”

“Pakistan votes against partition!”

“Panama favors partition.”

“Paraguay votes—for.”

“Peru favors partition.”

Breaths were held unbelievingly. One more vote in favor of partition and they would have made it.

“The Philipines votes
for
partition!”

A roar went up in the room; nobody paid much attention to the radio after that. They had won! They were to become a nation! At the blackboard Joel Perez put a huge check mark through the FOR column that broke his chalk; he tossed the remaining piece high in the air. People were laughing and crying at the same time, congratulating each other, kissing, pounding each other on the back, shaking hands endlessly. Someone hurried out and began to bring in bottles of wine and brandy, setting them on the table; children hurried to help with the glasses, unsure of what the excitement was about but positive they would never forget the unusual celebration. Amid the noise the radio continued to give the results of the vote.

“Sweden for.”

“Turkey
against!
”

“Ukraine for.”

“South Africa for.”

“The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics favors partition.”

The sonorous voice of the secretary: “The United Kingdom of Great Britain.”

Joel Perez raised his voice. “Quiet, everyone. Quiet.
Quiet!
” There was a break in the shouting. Through it they could hear the tired, defeated voice of the delegate from Great Britain.

“His Majesty's Government wishes to … abstain …”

The roar in the room returned. It was the frosting on the cake, the admission of total defeat from their enemy of many years. The man at the radio turned it off with a wink and pushed his way to the table holding the brandy.

Deborah looked to one side at Ben, her eyes filled with tears of happiness, and reached across to grasp his hand and squeeze it. Benjamin Grossman squeezed back, but his mind was already coping with this new development, adjusting his ever-present plan to take into consideration this new factor.

In a few weeks, or months at the most, his exile in this hated desert would be ended; he and Deborah could go from this terrible place. But would she go with him? Would she leave Palestine? He hoped she would, but he knew if she didn't he would go alone. He would miss her—it suddenly occurred to him that he had fallen in love! How had it happened? When had it happened? And—a sad thought—would it ever happen again?

Because he knew that for him, at least, the power of love was only one power. There were others, older drives, older ambitions, older proddings. Deborah or no Deborah, he had to get to Switzerland!

The British announced that they would leave Palestine forever on May 15, 1948, and on May 1 Max Brodsky came to Ein Tsofar. He came in a jeep at night, accompanied by Morris Wolf and a man named Dov Shapiro, also a member of the Palmach and a man who knew the kibbutz and a relatively safe way to get there. They brought with them three submachine guns and as many contraband rifles and ammunition as could be jammed into the small vehicle. It was a dangerous trip, for the route that Dov Shapiro knew was an ancient desert track that appeared on no map of the region no matter how primitive. They came skirting deep wadis, jostling through the graveled beds of dried-up streams, laboring up steep sandy cliffs and sliding on braked wheels down the far slopes, their trip made the more perilous by having to have their headlamps muffled against discovery. Marauding bands of Arabs were increasing their activities against the settlements and also against lone travelers, seeking loot as much as political advantage, ever since the partition vote.

The jeep was heard before it was sighted, its motor growling in the night as it crept toward the kibbutz from the foot of the deep pass some miles to the south; then its weakened lights could be seen swaying from side to side as it approached the wire fence. A rifle came up in the hands of the sentry there; he waited until the jeep had come to a full stop, his aim steady on the shadow that represented the head of the driver. He called out in Hebrew:

“Who are you?”

“Dov Shapiro and two other Palmach.”

A searchlight suddenly illuminated the jeep, its brilliance momentarily blinding the three, and then as quickly was extinguished. Max had to admire the added precautions since his last visit. There was a low greeting exchanged between Shapiro and the sentry and then the gate was swung back. The jeep rolled past the wire; the gate was closed at once. The jeep took the curving road to the main compound and came to a stop before the administration building. Brodsky climbed down stiffly; Dov Shapiro took off at once, driving the jeep in the direction of the caves and the storage area for arms. Brodsky waited a moment, savoring the peace and quiet of the night, relaxing after the hard drive, and then walked into the building. He went down the corridor to the room shared by Joel Perez and his wife and raised a hand to knock, but before he could rap the door opened and he was facing Perez, his hand outstretched. In the background he could see Hilda Perez sitting up in bed, her bathrobe about her shoulders. Brodsky stared at Perez in surprise as he shook hands.

“You have signals from your outposts?”

“Your friend Grossman,” Perez said as he closed the door and led the way toward his office. “He ran some simple wires, hooked them up to plain flashlight batteries. You push a button there, a bell rings. One ring, a friendly visitor. Two rings—” He shrugged. “We have them all over the place, between the outposts and the buildings, between the buildings, between the outposts. A regular copper mine, this place is now.” He looked up at Brodsky. “And did you see the spotlights?”

“Yes.”

“He put them up and put mirrors behind them. It looks like downtown Tel Aviv when they're all lit up. He made the generator work automatically, you don't have to keep going down there to start and stop it every five minutes. He's been very helpful, even if he isn't the most friendly person in the world. Although he's certainly improved since Deborah—” He suddenly stopped in embarrassment.

Brodsky stared at him wearily.

“I know all about Ben and Deborah, if that's what's bothering you,” he said. “Deborah wrote me all about it. Actually, I think I knew about it even before they did. When I brought Deborah here the first time, when was it, last autumn? On the way home she was a different person.” He shrugged. “I hope she's happy.”

“She is,” Perez said, not knowing if that was really what Brodsky wanted to hear, but determined to tell the truth. “She's teaching Grossman Hebrew, and he's also getting quite proficient in English from one of the men.” Perez led the way into his office as he spoke. “He's a bright man, but—” He hesitated.