Pursuit (34 page)

“But what?”

“I don't know.”

He made it sound like an answer. He sat down, motioned Max to a chair, and reached into his desk for some Palestinian brandy and two glasses. He blew into the glasses in case any dust might have settled there, poured the drinks, and raised his glass in a salute.

“L'hayim.”

“L'hayim.”

The two men drank. Perez pushed the bottle across to Brodsky; Max poured himself another generous portion but instead of drinking it immediately he shoved it around in small circles on the desk, staring into its amber contents as if wondering where to begin. At last he looked up, his face reflecting his weariness. When at last he spoke his voice was flat, emotionless.

“You know, Ben Gurion is going to declare our new state on the fourteenth, the day before the British leave. As soon as the new state is declared and the British are out of here, the Arab nations have promised to attack and toss us all into the sea, and this time I think we can take them at their word. Or at least they'll do their best. Not that there hasn't been a war on here ever since the partition vote.”

“Before,” Perez said.

“Before,” Brodsky said in agreement. “Up to now, though, Ein Tsofar has been spared the attacks that many of the other settlements have suffered, but that situation isn't going to last long.”

Perez frowned. He did not doubt the accuracy of Brodsky's forecast; he was aware of the extensive Palmach intelligence operation. Still, he had a cold feeling hearing the dire prediction. He was responsible for the lives of many people, including many children.

“Who is going to attack us?”

“Local Arabs, as Mishmar Hayarden was, as all of the attacks on the settlements have been up to now. The Arab countries are being very circumspect. As long as the British are here they will not attack us directly. They'll only use the local Arabs to attack us, with all the help they can give them. It's a good way to operate if you can; I wish we had someone to do our fighting for us.” He yawned and then stretched himself awake. “Ein Tsofar will be attacked by Arabs from the area around Kirbet e-Hashem.”

Perez frowned. “Are you sure? I know Kirbet; it's a small place. How many men can they put together?”

“Plenty,” Brodsky said evenly. “They're pulling them in from Abda, Yatta, Dura, Idna, even from Hebron itself. They've decided the strongest settlement we have in the Dead Sea area is the one to attack. Wipe out Ein Tsofar and the others will fall by themselves. At least that's their theory.” He shrugged. “They may even be right. They probably are.”

“They have sufficient arms?”

“When haven't the Arabs had arms?” Brodsky sounded more curious than angry. “The Arabs ship them in like we ship out melons. The British never raid their villages looking for arms; only ours.” He suddenly raised his glass, drank, and set the glass on the table, shoving it away from him to indicate his drinking was done for the night.

“When?” Perez asked simply.

“Very soon, that's all I can tell you,” Brodsky said, and found himself yawning in the middle of it. He blinked himself awake. “Our informant didn't know the exact date; the Arabs may not know themselves. An Egyptian colonel is rounding them up. Nothing official, of course. When he's ready—” He raised his shoulders expressively to finish the statement.

“Has anyone advised the British? After all,” Perez said stubbornly, “they still have the responsibility to stop this sort of thing until they leave.”

Brodsky looked at the kibbutz manager almost with amusement.

“Joel, the sun out there is beginning to soften your brain. Our informant is in the British Army; did you think the Arabs told us? Not only do the British know of the supposed attack, but my guess is they're probably pulling their garrison out of Hebron at this moment, sending them to Haifa on rest and recreation right now, just so they won't be able to help us when we ask.” He shook his head in disgust, his weariness overcoming his normal tact. “Has anyone advised the British! Good God!”

Perez looked unhappy at both the criticism and the situation.

“So what do we do?”

“We fight, that's what we do,” Brodsky said simply. “I brought three submachine guns and as many rifles as we could spare, as well as as much ammunition as we could scrape up. I also brought a couple of men with me, an old friend from the camps named Wolf, and Dov Shapiro, who you know. Dov worked with the British during the war as a sapper and he's been training Wolf. First thing in the morning we're going to start laying some of those mines you make here—”

“Why not still tonight?” Perez asked, anxious to be helpful.

“Because it might be handy to know exactly where they're being set,” Max said dryly. “You'd like to be able to go in and out of Ein Tsofar in the future without blowing yourself up, wouldn't you?” He yawned deeply. “Besides, I'm too tired to think, now, let alone plant mines. I'd fall asleep on top of one of them.” He came to his feet and stretched mightily, a weary giant. “Lead me to a bed.”

As Perez walked him down the corridor and out into the still night toward one of the dormitory buildings, Brodsky stared at the silent blocks of cement and wondered which of them housed Ben and Deborah. And were they sleeping in each other's arms, still warm from love-making? He tried to push the thought away as he walked along beside Perez, tried to concentrate on the coming Arab attack, but his eyes kept returning to the blank windows of the quiet buildings and his mind kept returning to the same disturbing thought.

It was fine being the strong, silent type. Wonderful knowing that he could cope with problems like Arab attacks and the security of settlements. Great being a hero and standing unselfishly aside when Deborah wanted Ben Grossman instead of himself. But just possibly if he had taken Ben Grossman outside and beaten the living shit out of him for daring to even
look
at his girl, things might have been different.

He smiled to himself wryly. You've been seeing too many John Wayne movies, Max Brodsky, he told himself; but the hurt remained and he knew it would remain all his life.

Chapter 4

Morris Wolf and Dov Shapiro, pushing their material and tools ahead of them in a small wheeled cart, had begun their work as soon as the light was sufficient. Max Brodsky had accompanied them and had stayed with them until the first mine had been planted and the earth above it carefully smoothed over. Then he left them to their dangerous job and went to look up Ben Grossman, to accomplish the second stage of his mission to Ein Tsofar.

He paused at the entrance to the cave that served Ben Grossman as his workshop, letting his eyesight become adjusted to the relative dimness of the cave after the brilliance of the desert morning sun, then entered. Grossman looked up from the table where he had been painstakingly assembling a weapon. He leaned back and frowned at the unexpected sight of Max Brodsky. For several moments the two men stared at each other; then Brodsky pulled up a stool and sat down across from Grossman.

“Hello, Ben.”

“What do you want?”

“Relax,” Brodsky said quietly. “I'm not here to fight; the day I am, you'll know it. I'm not blaming you and I'm not blaming Deborah. These things happen, people fall in love. And falling in love with Deborah isn't hard. I know.”

“So what did you come here for?”

“If you'll listen, you'll find out.” Brodsky tried to see in the man across from him the thin, pitiful Benjamin Grossman he had practically nursed through Bergen-Belsen, or the broken man he had brought back in his arms from the Bodensee; but that man was gone. In his place was this strong, self-assured man. Maybe that was what Deborah had done for him, Max thought, and wondered if it had been for the best. He put the character analysis aside and got down to business. “You know, of course, the British will be out of Palestine in a few weeks. You'll be free, then, to come and go as you please.” He looked into the slate-blue eyes steadily. “Do you still dream of getting to Switzerland?”

“That's my business, don't you think?”

Max smiled faintly.

“Ben, Ben! You're still on the defensive when nobody is attacking. I asked for a very specific reason.” He looked around the small cave-shop and then gestured toward the weapon Ben had been working on. “You know a lot about guns, that's obvious. Where did you learn?”

“Why?”

“Because I asked, that's why.”

Grossman shrugged. He had had his answer to this question ready for a long time; he was surprised nobody had queried him before on his knowledge of armaments. But having answers ready was the first requisite of the planner. The answer came to his lips so automatically it even sounded like the truth to him.

“My father was in the first war—a private, of course, since even then Jews weren't made officers easily. He became interested in guns. He became a collector and he passed on his interest to me.” Enough of it was true to make it sound quite authentic. For a brief moment he wondered what Brodsky's reaction would be if he told the entire truth: that his father had been, indeed, a collector of weapons, one of which he had used upon himself. He also wondered what had brought on that sudden bitter thought, and looked at Max coldly. “Why?”

Max leaned forward, getting down to business.

“Because we need people to buy guns for us, and we want people who know something about what they're buying. We have people right now in the United States and others in Europe, but we need more. There are gun dealers we would want you to contact.” He studied Ben's face. “One of the largest dealers in used armaments in the world is in Geneva.”

Ben stared a moment and then began to laugh. “Geneva?”

Max frowned. “What's so funny?”

“You want to
send
me to Switzerland? Pay my fare there? All my expenses? After all the times you tried to talk me out of going? You don't think that's funny?”

“Times change,” Max said evenly. “Things change. Besides, while we want you to go, we also want you to come back.”

“And you're sure I will?” There was a taunting tone in Ben's voice.

Max continued to consider him stonily.

“Deborah will be here.”

“Unless she comes with me.”

“She won't,” Max said evenly. “She can't.”

“What do you mean, she can't?” Ben frowned across the cluttered table. “Who's to stop her?”

“Ben,” Max said patiently, “Deborah Assavar is a soldier in the Haganah. She is also a nurse. She goes where she is told to go, not where you might want her to go. Deborah will be here—when you come back.”

If it pleased Max Brodsky to believe that, let him believe it. The point was not whether Deborah came with him or not; the point was that he was being
sent
to Switzerland! The matter of Deborah would be resolved later, or not resolved, but the matter of Switzerland was being resolved for him. That certain God Max Brodsky was always talking about had to have a sense of humor! Switzerland! Freedom! Money to spend where and when he pleased, money to take him as far from this hellish spot as he could go!

“When would you want me to go?”

“As soon after the British leave as possible. We'll be declaring our new state on the fourteenth of the month, but there won't be time for countries to recognize us and establish diplomatic arrangements. I'll see to it you get a proper passport and documents. You'll be going with a man named Shmuel Ginzberg. He'll handle the financial arrangements. You'll be his technical advisor—”

(So I won't get my hands on your money, eh, Max? But if you should know how little I need it!)

Max was continuing, leaning forward in the damp room of the cave.

“We want you to go to Tel Aviv tonight with a man named Shapiro who knows the way; he brought me here last night. We have a place you can stay in safety in Tel Aviv until the British are gone; they're easing their security considerably now that they're about to leave. Shapiro should be ready to leave sometime this afternoon. I'd like the jeep to be through the mine field before dark.”

Grossman frowned. “Mine field?”

“Yes.” Max hesitated as if wondering how much to say, then decided to say it all. “Ben, this kibbutz is going to be attacked by the Arabs very soon. In a day or so at the most, we believe. We want you out of here. We can't afford to lose your expertise at this point.”

“You want me and Deborah to leave tonight?”

“Not Deborah,” Max said patiently. “She stays.” He saw the look on Ben's face and shook his head impatiently. “Ben, can't you get anything through that thick Geman skull of yours? There's a war on! Deborah is a nurse, she's a soldier! She stays where she's needed.”

“And you stay with her, is that it?”

“No, that's not it,” Max said wearily. He was getting tired of the conversation; there were so many things to do to prepare for the attack, and he was wasting time. “I stay because the best thing I can do at the moment is to stay and try to keep the Arabs from overrunning the place. If I were more valuable buying arms in Switzerland or anywhere else, I'd be going back to Tel Aviv with Shapiro tonight and you'd be staying here whether you liked it or not.” He looked around the cluttered interior of the cave-factory with a slight touch of distaste. “Turn everything you have in progress to someone before you leave—”

“I'm not going.”

“Not going to Switzerland?”

“I'm not going to Tel Aviv tonight,” Grossman said. “I'll go when it's time to leave for Switzerland. Not before.”

Max Brodsky shook his head, his jaw beginning to tighten.

“Mr. Grossman, let me tell you something—your heroics really don't mean much to us. I'll tell you this one more time, and that's it. There is a war on. People are getting killed. Settlements are being leveled. You will go where you're sent when you're sent.”