The Gates of Zion (15 page)

Archaeology.”

Grandfather nodded politely. “Ah, yes, the study of ancient things, lives that are dead and gone, is it not?”

“I guess you could put it that way.” Ellie chuckled.

“I, too, study the ancients. The living word of Him who lives forever, Omaine
.
”

“Amen,” Ellie repeated, appearing uncomfortable. “I mean, uh, sometimes we get things like that, too. Old writings and …”

Grandfather feigned interest and continued nodding as she began to open the envelope. But when Ellie pulled the stack of pictures out onto the table, the old man’s eyebrows arched with surprise. He reached out and lifted the first numbered picture of the scroll.

“A couple of Arab herdsmen brought this by the place. I don’t know really what it is all about, because the man who normally interprets is out of town. But I thought maybe you know someone who could tell me what this says … ,” she babbled as Grandfather studied the words on the scroll.

His mouth curved up in a smile; then he began to read:
“Come now,
and let us reason together, saith the Lord: though your sins be as
scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like
crimson, they shall be as wool.”
He looked up at her and placed the photograph back on the stack.

“You can read that!” Ellie exclaimed.

“Of course.” Grandfather shrugged. “You have the writings of the prophet Isaiah there, young woman.”

“Is it very old?” she asked, leaning forward eagerly.

“Hmm.” Grandfather tugged on his beard thoughtfully. “The words of Isaiah are very ancient. Your scroll? Maybe old, maybe not. The scribe had an interesting hand, but probably not so old. We have a scroll at the Hurva Synagogue over seven hundred years old. Now that is old, eh?”

Looking disappointed, Ellie sat back and shoved the photographs back into the envelope.

“Wait—” Grandfather reached out—“so what’s the hurry? Maybe you got something else in there?” He thumbed through the stack, then again began to read aloud:
“How beautiful upon the mountains are
the feet of him that bringeth good tidings, …
Hmm. Today everyone in Jerusalem should read this, eh?”

He continued solemnly:
“… that saith unto Zion, Thy God reigneth!

Thy watchmen shall lift up the voice; with the voice together shall
they sing: for they shall see eye to eye, when the Lord shall bring
again Zion. Break forth into joy, sing together, ye waste places of
Jerusalem: for the Lord hath comforted His people, He hath
redeemed Jerusalem.”

The stones of the tiny basement room seemed to echo with Grandfather’s voice.

“Whoever wrote that must have loved Jerusalem,” Ellie said finally.

“Yes.” Grandfather smiled as he placed the stack on the table. “You could say that. God wrote it.”

“God? What about Isaiah?” Ellie asked.

“Oh, he held the pen, but God told him what to write, eh?”

“After so many thousand years of men copying the words, don’t you think it has been changed?” Ellie toyed with the edge of the stack.

“You ask too many questions.” Grandfather winked at her. “It is not the age of the parchment that men should study maybe, but the principles within. I will tell you the truth. This that I have read contains the promises of the Holy One of Israel, blessed be His name forever. That has not changed, though there has been no Israel for two thousand years.”

Carefully Grandfather replaced the photographs in the envelope, then handed it to Ellie. “Study the words, and the world will be a safer place to live. And smarter, eh?”

***

As she sat in the rabbi’s tiny apartment, Ellie somehow sensed that the words he had read contained within them his every hope and dream. Rabbi Lebowitz loved Jerusalem as Isaiah had loved it.
But if there is a God,
Ellie concluded,
this would be the last place on earth He would love.
Yosemite
maybe; Jerusalem, never.
Nobody here ever seemed to see eye to eye.

“Why did you not bring the scroll itself, young woman?” the old rabbi asked.

“I had to return it to the owners. My uncle will be able to analyze some fragments and actually date the scroll. If it’s truly ancient, the school will no doubt purchase it. Anyway, thank you for helping me.”

“In any language, Isaiah is a smart fellow. So go home and read it for yourself.”

When the old man patted her head, Ellie felt a warmth she had not expected to find in the Jewish Quarter.

“I wish you good luck,” the old rabbi concluded. “May your scroll be ancient, for then you will see that the words are indeed unchanged.” He stood, indicating that the visit was over. “And you want to take Yacov back with you to talk with the policeman?”

“Yes. I’ll send him home in a taxi,” she promised.

Yacov brightened at that, and his grandfather reached out and chucked his chin.

“I’ve never ridden in a taxi, Grandfather!” the boy said hopefully.

“Nor have I, Yacov.” He smiled into his grandson’s eyes. “What’s the matter―a bus isn’t good enough anymore?”

“It’s fine, but …”

“Such an expense!” Rabbi Lebowitz looked up at Ellie. “The bus is fine. Home before dark, eh?”

***

David Meyer stood across the street from the Moniger home and continued the long debate with himself. “You should have called her first, dope.”

He stared at the windows in the square stone house, wondering which window was hers. Her parents in the States had been thrilled when he’d offered to hand deliver a letter to Ellie in Jerusalem and had provided her address and phone number. But now that he was actually in her neighborhood, he froze. It was ironic. If she looked out, she could see him sweating and pacing as he worked up the courage to go to the door and knock.

“So what are you going to say to her?
‘Hi, I was in the
neighborhood; thought I’d just drop by’
? That won’t make it, David,” he muttered. “Or,
‘I’ve got this old Jewish buddy who
happened to mention they needed somebody to fly planes over
here. It’s a legitimate job. You said I ought to quit barnstorming
and settle down.’
”

Somehow, nothing sounded right. The truth of the matter was simply that David had accepted the job because he knew that Ellie was in Jerusalem and he wanted to see her again. He just couldn’t figure out how to tell her.

David ran his fingers through his tousled hair. He unzipped his flight jacket, then zipped it again nervously as he crossed the street to the front steps. He raised his fist to knock on the door, then hesitated, waiting for the knot in his stomach to smooth out. “Good grief,” he mumbled, “I’ve been up against crack Nazi pilots and wasn’t this scared.” As if he were forcing the control stick forward into a fatal dive, David forced his hand to knock on the massive white door.

For a minute or two, to his relief and disappointment, it seemed as though no one would answer. Then, as he was about to turn and retreat down the steps, the knob clicked and the door creaked open a few inches.

An old Arab woman poked her face out and surveyed David. “What do you want?” she demanded.

“I … uh, is this where Ellie Warne lives?” He plunged his hands into his pockets.

“And if it is?” the old woman asked.

“I’m an old friend of hers. I mean I―” he noticed that his voice sounded much higher than usual— “I’m from the States and I brought this letter from her mom. Can I see her?”

“Miss Ellie is not home.”

“When is she coming back?”

“I will give her the letter and tell her you have come here to see her.” She put out her wrinkled palm.

“That’s okay. I want to surprise her.” He stuck out his hand then.

“David Meyer is the name.”

The old woman’s face was transformed when she heard his name.

“Ah, yes, I hear of you!” She shook his hand firmly.

“You have?”

“Many times. When Miss Ellie is sick, she say your name. A very good friend, indeed!” The door swung open wide and Miriam stepped aside to let David in. “So come in, young man. I shall fix tea.

Such a long way you have come to bring a letter.”

Baffled by the reception, he followed her meekly into the entryway and into a parlor filled with antiquities. “You sure can tell what the professor does for a living,” he said, admiring an ancient enameled Egyptian jar on the table beside him. “Kind of like a museum, isn’t it?”

“The dust, it is most terrible. Just wait here,” Miriam instructed as she bustled off to fix tea, leaving David alone in the room.

So she talked about me, huh?
David mused.
And all this time I
figured she wouldn’t even think about me. The old lady says she
said my name. ’Course she could have been having bad dreams
just as easy.
The knot inside tightened again, and he felt the urge to turn and run. Instead, he sat down.

It had been almost a year since he had seen Ellie. He figured after this much time he should have forgotten not only the color of her eyes, but her name as well. Now here he was, halfway around the world, playing the role of mailman to a beautiful green-eyed woman he couldn’t forget no matter how hard he tried.

In a way he hated the weakness in himself that brought him to this place, and he hated her for making him love her so much. Without her he felt like a plane without a rudder—when before he could simply glide with the wind and never care what direction his life was taking. Now he cared.

He had laughed at all the dopes in his squadron during the war who had fallen in love. He had sworn it could never happen to him.

Then he’d met the fiery Annie Galway. When she captured his heart, he thought there could never be another woman in his life.

But he had been wrong. He’d been drawn to Ellie Warne the instant he’d met her in the States.

From the beginning he had known that their relationship was important to her, but he had denied what he felt, pushed aside the noose that would fit too tightly around his neck. He denied that he loved her even as he whispered to her and held her gently against him. Even when thoughts of her crowded out the laughter of every other girl he had spent time with, he had refused to admit that there was something special about Ellie.

He knew he had hurt her. And when she realized what he was doing to her soul, she had finally told him to shove off, to “go stall his engine in a power dive.”
She has a way with words,
he thought, smiling at the memory. With a shrug he had gone, pretending that he didn’t care. After all, he was the big, tough, war ace—too hard to care anymore. The squadron called him Tinman because everyone said he had no heart, and he had almost come to believe it about himself. Now here he sat, like a teenager in love for the first time, following his girl from one end of the world to the other. And Jerusalem was sure enough the far end of the world!

He took a deep breath and caught the sweet scent of lilacs that he recognized as her perfume. The first time he had buried his face in her neck, he had told her that she smelled like his grandmother. Some compliment! He inhaled again, aware that this was where Ellie had lived for the past six months. He studied the room, wanting to touch the things she had touched. Mostly he wanted to see her face and tell her he had been wrong. Wrong about everything. He wanted her to know that he wasn’t running away anymore. That instead he was searching for a missing piece of himself … searching for his heart, like the Tin Man in
The Wizard of Oz
.

Miriam brought in tea. It was hot tea, which he didn’t like, not without lots of lemon and a couple of spoonfuls of sugar, but he remained sitting on the edge of the chair and held the dainty little china cup awkwardly in his big paw.

“Shall you like to wait, young man?” Miriam asked. “Or perhaps you will rather go find her? I worry so on a day like today. Lately any woman alone in the Old City is not safe.”

David set the cup down with a clatter. “She’s where? Alone?”

“With her camera. No doubt hoping murder will be done so she will be on hand to photograph the deed, no? I say this because you know Miss Ellie.” She was only half joking.

“Right. Looking for the Pulitzer.” He stood. “Do you know where she is? the general area?”

“She leaves an address here.” Miriam retrieved a piece of paper from the long sideboard. “The Jewish Quarter. The home of Rabbi Lebowitz. Go by way of Jaffa Gate.”

***

The Mufti’s orders to his men had been simple: The riot was to serve a twofold purpose. It would show the UN and the world how foolish they were to think that Jews could ever hold their ground against the tidal wave of the Faithful who surrounded them. Surely when they saw what bloodshed they had caused with their foolish vote, they would consider ways to change it. And, of course, violence would provide an excellent cover for the murder of the Jewish boy—the witness—and the disappearance of the red-haired woman.

The riot must appear to be spontaneous and without any connection whatsoever to the speech he had given that morning in the courtyard of the Dome of the Rock. All the Arabs of Jerusalem feared his power, but the majority did not approve of his politics or his methods. Men would not murder for the sake of politics; they must be moved by passion and revenge. This demonstration must begin as a spark that would ignite all of the Arabs against the Jews, and no one must ever suspect that it was the hot wind of the Mufti that blew the fire where he willed.

“Our leader is inspired by Allah,” commented Hassan as he and Kadar moved quickly from Arab shop to Arab shop.

The lie united men and boys into one raging, avenging mob that swept through the souks, repeating the lie until hatred simmered, then boiled over into the adjoining quarters of the Old City. When at last the lie surged through Jaffa Gate and into the Jewish commercial district, no one bothered anymore to ask if it was true. It was shouted from the lips and written on the heart of every Arab in the city.