The Gates of Zion (38 page)

David studied his own hands. How he wished that his life would matter, that he could make a difference in a world whose reality seemed so barren and hopeless. He thought of his father, whose faith seemed to reach far beyond his existence to touch the lives of those around him.

And what of Ellie? David’s own selfishness had left wounds in her heart and soul as deep as those on the land he now passed through.

He stared down at the weeds growing high between the ties of sabotaged rail lines. The very men who bombed them would now have the task of rebuilding. It seemed to David that his life had been one endless Blitzkrieg, and now he, too, was faced with the seemingly impossible task of rebuilding what he had nearly destroyed. He only hoped that it was not too late for him and Ellie.

The train shuddered and clacked into motion again, passing slowly through a village where olive-clad U.S. Army engineers directed civilians as they bulldozed through the rubble of a bombed building.

The train then passed a muddied field, frightening a flock of blackbirds that rose and banked against the gray sky.

In the distance David saw the tall brick smokestacks of the Dachau crematoriums, their thick haze now dissipated, absorbed into the land surrounding them.
The very air of Europe has become a
cemetery,
David thought,
and every human breath is tainted by the
guilt of the smokestacks.
“I want to make a difference,” he whispered.

He leaned back against the seat and smiled at Michael, who still slept with the rocking of the train. Finally David reached over and tapped his friend on the top of his head. “Hey, Scarecrow, wake up.”

Michael opened one eye and scowled. “Yeah? What d’you want?”

He sat up and rubbed his face with both hands.

“I just wanted to say I’m glad I’m here, y’know?”

Michael screwed up his face and rolled his eyes. Then he sighed and settled back against the seat once again. Moments later his head nodded and his chin rested against his chest as the train clacked on toward Prague.

***

Smoke curled lazily upward, creating misbegotten halos above the heads of the men at Son of Mohammed Coffee House in Latrun.

Hassan smiled disarmingly across the table at the two British army deserters who leered at the dancing girl on the small stage before them. Their bloodshot eyes danced with the sound of pulsating music. Hassan hid his contempt for these traitors of their own kind and poured more coffee into their cups, which they fortified with whiskey.

“A drop, mate?” A soldier held out a silver hip flask toward Hassan’s cup.

He covered the cup with his hand. “Followers of the prophet do not drink alcohol.”

“Temperance League got to you, too, huh?” the soldier answered drunkenly.

Hassan merely shrugged and sipped his coffee, waiting until the dance ended with a flourish and the two soldiers hooted and applauded wildly. Then they slurped their coffee and wiped their mouths.

“You like our entertainment, eh?” asked Hassan.

“I ain’t seen anything this good since Paris in ’45. You think you can introduce me to ’er?”

“This girl or a dozen others, my friend. A few days from now you shall be heroes among my people―as Lawrence who led the Bedouins to victory against the Turks.”

“All I say is, where’s the money?” The more surly of the two men held out his hand, palm up.

“A minor detail,” Hassan assured. “Shall we say thirty pounds now and another thirty when the deed is done?” He reached for his money pouch and counted out thirty pound notes on the table before them.

“So where do you want the stuff delivered?” asked the other soldier.

“I told you,” Hassan warned. “You simply keep your mouth shut and drive the trucks. We shall tell you when you have reached your destination.”

“Christmas morning, eh? An end to those Christ-killers, I say, and good riddance!” The two deserters raised their cups in a toast to death, then drained their drinks in one swallow.

24

Shabbat

Rabbi Lebowitz rocked slowly back and forth among the other worshippers gathered for morning services.

“
Accept, O Eternal, our God, Thy people Israel and their prayers.

Restore the service to the oracle of Thy house, and the burnt
offerings of Israel and their prayers, in love, accept with favor.”

His head was covered with the blue-and-white tallith that had served as the prayer shawl of his father and his father’s father in the priestly line of the cohanim.

“
… and may our eyes behold when Thou returnest unto Zion in
compassion. Blessed art Thou, the Eternal, who restoreth His
divine glory unto Zion.”

Even as he prayed, an overwhelming sorrow pressed down on his stooped shoulders. Today was Shabbat―the day of rest, when a man could not so much as carry a handkerchief to worship, but instead wore it sewn into the sleeve of his coat. This was the day when it was forbidden by law to travel, and yet this was the only day that the Mufti had granted permission for the Jews of the Old City to leave, with the stipulation that they must return before sundown or be shut out of their homes and the sacred places of learning and worship.

The old rabbi opened his eyes and gazed up at the dome of the synagogue as the light of early morning streamed through the latticed windows. “Oh, Eternal, ever-merciful God,” he whispered, as the men around him continued to bob and pray in uneven cadence. He tugged his whiskers. “I know that Shabbat is Your day. The Mufti knows this, too, and he has mocked You by daring us to break the laws of the Torah. But we know better,
nu
? Today especially it is our mitzvah to speak Your Word. Maybe Yacov has no one who will read Torah to him today, God forbid. So Lord, I know You understand this; today I have to ride the bus.”

Voices of the other worshippers surrounded him, reciting the Hallel:
“Out of trouble did I call upon the Lord, and the Eternal answered
me with enlargement. The Eternal is for me. I will not be afraid.

What can man do to me?”

“So, You will go with me today? Even if I ride the bus to the hospital on Mount Scopus? And You will see me safely home again as well?” Tears filled the old rabbi’s eyes as he thought about seeing Yacov once again. He sniffed, then quietly added, “You know, God, the boy is all I have.” Just the thought of seeing Yacov relieved the pain in his chest and let him breathe easier than he had in weeks.

Rabbi Lebowitz was ringed about by the final prayer and benediction of the cohanim. The great dome of Nissan Bek echoed with the last “Omaine” of the service, and he felt in his heart that the Eternal had indeed heard his prayer. He kissed the hem of his tallith and, for the first time in his life, consciously prepared to break the Sabbath.

“
Shalom
, Reb Lebowitz,” a young, scarcely bearded Yeshiva student greeted him as he hurried past.

“Good Shabbat, Yosi,” he returned, his eyes avoiding those of elderly Rabbi Eilan, moving toward him through the cliques of worshippers standing in the sanctuary.

“Reb Lebowitz!” came the cracked voice of the rabbi, falling in step behind Yosi. “A word with you please! Oh, Reb Lebowitz!”

Yosi frowned and crowded close on the old rabbi’s heels, stepping sideways around various discussions and debate concerning the Scriptures. “Reb Lebowitz, I wish to speak with you concerning the laws of Hashavat Aveida, the return of lost property, as we studied in the Talmud and Mishnah. Baba Mezi’a 2. If another’s property is found … ,” he began, prepared for a discussion that would normally last for hours.

He did not slow his pace. “Yes, yes, Yosi. Perhaps another day. Just remember Leviticus 19:18 and all will be well. Now I must hurry, or I shall miss my bus.”

The student stopped in his tracks, dumbfounded as Rabbi Eilan plowed into his back. “Your
bus
, Reb Lebowitz?” his voice called after the old rabbi as he greeted others and scurried out the massive doors of the Great Synagogue.

The shrill, high voice of Rabbi Eilan followed him into the street, where other black-coated men stood about and discussed points of the law as well as the Mufti’s edict banning all travel in and out of the Old City except on the Sabbath.

“A word, Reb Lebowitz!”

“Tomorrow! I must not be late!” he insisted.

He hurried through the crooked corridors of the Jewish Quarter to the outskirts of the Armenian Quarter, where the promised escort waited to take him to Zion Gate and the No. 2 bus. The streets were crowded with faces he had known his entire life. Heads nodded and eyes followed him curiously as he raised his hand slightly in greeting.

Just ahead he saw the narrow Mendelbaum Gate that marked the end of the Quarter. He looked up and over his shoulder. “So, God, are You coming?” He sped up his pace the last fifty yards until he passed beneath the archway into a small group that waited behind the line of British Highland Light Infantry.

A tall, ruddy-faced officer with a handlebar mustache examined the collection of a dozen Jews. He frowned as Rabbi Lebowitz approached. “Good Shabbat, Rabbi.”

The old rabbi looked behind him to see if perhaps the English officer was addressing another rabbi. “Good Shabbat,” he said hesitantly.

“A beastly thing, this, isn’t it?” the officer continued.

Again Rabbi Lebowitz hesitated as the officer lowered his chin and gazed directly at him. “You are addressing me, sir?”

“Yes, of course. It is beastly, this edict against leaving the Old City except on the day of rest, and even then you need an armed escort.

The Mufti’s trying to break the spirit of the Old City Jews, and there’s an end to it.”

The old rabbi tugged his beard. “I do not believe I have had the pleasure of meeting you.” Inwardly he smiled at this Gentile’s indignation against the Mufti.

“Captain Luke Thomas,” the British officer said, extending his hand.

“And you, sir?”

“Rabbi Shlomo Lebowitz.” He shook hands with the officer, ignoring the nagging pain in his chest.

“I could see you are a rabbi.” The captain twirled his mustache and rocked back on his heels.

“And I could see you are an officer.”

“Yes.” Captain Thomas cleared his throat. “Quite. Must be urgent business for you to travel on the Shabbat.”

“I have a grandson at Hadassah Hospital.” He squinted and adjusted his wire-framed glasses as the officer frowned, then fumbled in his pocket for a leather-bound notebook.

“I have it here somewhere.” The officer searched the pages. “That would not be a young lad by the name of Yacov Lebowitz?”

He nodded. “The very same. But how could you know that?”

“He’s a good lad. I have had the pleasure of speaking with him. He mentioned having a grandfather in the Old City. It could be no one but you.”

Delight warmed the old rabbi. This was surely a sign that God was watching. “I have received no word of his condition of late, and I felt I must go to his side.”

“Quite. Even on the Shabbat.”

“It is only men like the Mufti who think God would have such a heart as to keep me from Yacov’s side on Shabbat. True? Of course true!”

“Omaine,” said a middle-aged woman in a long black-wool dress.

“And may the Mufti’s brains be turned to steam!”

“Omaine,” repeated two young Ashkenazi students simultaneously as they spit to emphasize their point. “Well spoken, Rebbe.”

The captain threw his head back and laughed loudly. “A noble sentiment.”

“A worthy prayer,” said Rabbi Lebowitz as the group clustered nearer to one another now, drawn by mutual distaste for Haj Amin.

“And when do we move to Zion Gate?”

“We still have quite a bit of time until the bus comes.” The captain glanced at his watch. “We would not like to leave anyone behind.

Five minutes more.”

The old rabbi raised his arms. “If this were just any Shabbat, we would now be arriving home from the synagogue, would we not?”

Heads nodded in unison. “And we would sing”―he lifted up his voice in the street―“so that the Mufti would hear us: “When from life’s dark dream we awaken

When tired breast God sets free,

Hearts that here with grief were shaken,

Flutter then with ecstasy;

So from the wan brow

All grief is gone now

For sorrow departs, and joy enters instead… .”

The other travelers joined in, their voices echoing off the stone buildings to make a thousand other voices in the canyons. And when they finished and the last echo died out, he turned to the captain.

“You see, even the angels have joined us in our celebration of the Lord’s Shabbat. The Mufti’s edicts cannot steal our joy.”

“Well spoken, Rabbi,” replied the Englishman with a grin.

“Omaine!” exclaimed the two Ashkenazi as they spit on the ground again.

Introductions were made all around, and a bond of camaraderie formed within the little group. Each had his own reason for traveling to the New City, and as they explained to Rabbi Lebowitz, who was the only rabbi in the group, he reassured them with words from the Torah that there were at times special exceptions to the Law.

Luke Thomas stood a short distance from them, listening to every word. He clasped his hands behind his back, and when the old rabbi would make a particularly interesting point, he would nod thoughtfully.

Finally the old rabbi could stand it no longer. “You see,” he told the captain, “the men of Israel sit in the gates and discuss the holy books.

You are goyim, an Englishman, and yet you listen like a Yeshiva boy.

It is most interesting.”

The little crowd of Jews peered intently at the tall Englishman. He twisted the end of his mustache self-consciously as they waited for his reply. “It’s just that I find what you say quite similar to, uh …”

He paused. “That is, you sound like a Christian.”

“Ha!” The old rabbi laughed loudly and was joined by the reluctant laughter of those around him. “The thing you say makes me sound like a Christian would make me say you sound like a Jew!”