Fly Has a Hundred Eyes A, page 9
A small, bald man with glasses and a gray mustache opened the door. “Baruch haba. Come in. Come in.” He swept his arm in a welcoming gesture. “What was the commotion in the Old City?”
“Who knows,” Rafi said.
The man shook his head. “It’s getting so bad, I can’t even count sheep to go to sleep. In the middle of counting, someone shoots them.”
Rafi’s hand still rested on Lily’s elbow as they entered the hallway. The man looked from Lily to Rafi and winked. “This is the first time you brought a friend.”
Rafi winked back. “Lily Sampson,” Rafi nodded at Lily. “Albert Kalman.”
Kalman led them into a room with whitewashed walls and a high domed ceiling. Four blue settees were arranged around a polished brass table exactly in the center of a Persian rug. Bookcases ran the full height of two walls, the books punctuated with blown glass pitchers and vases—blue, deep red, green. Lily stopped in front of a wall hung with framed woodcuts and drawings of street scenes in Jerusalem, old Turkish houses, bearded Hassidim in the religious quarter of Mea Shearim, women shopping for vegetables among the stalls at Machneh Yehudah.
A woman came into the room, her sandals slapping on the marble floor, her loose skirt swaying with each step. “You like them?” she asked of the drawings. Her thick gray hair was pulled into a coil at the back of her neck, her cheekbones shone in the light, and her eyebrows, heavy and dark, underscored the intensity of her large brown eyes.
“Very nice,” Lily said. “They look like a Jerusalem version of Kathe Kollwitz.”
“Really? They look like Anna Kalmans to me.”
Albert Kalman came up to them, smiling. “Here you are, Anna. You met Rafi’s friend Lily?”
“Anna? I didn’t mean…”
“Of course you didn’t. Actually, I’m flattered,” the artist said, and tilted her head to look at Lily. “It’s time Rafi brought someone here.” She took Lily’s arm. “Come out to the garden. You need a bit of sunshine.” She called over her shoulder to Albert, “Two more spritzers,” and turned back to Lily. “Our holy water. Wine from the Galilee and soda water from Jerusalem.”
Steps led down to a garden shaded by Aleppo pines, filled with the sweet scent of Victorian Box and blooming roses. A dark man stood on the edge of the terrace, looking out over the garden.
“This is Rafi’s friend Lily,” Anna said. She turned to Lily. “ Yaacov is in Jerusalem to learn trauma techniques from Rafi. He’s a doctor at Hanita.”
“Hanita?”
“The new Hagganah settlement near the Lebanese border,” he said. “Built the watchtower and stockade last March.”
“I read about those settlements in the Palestine Post,” Lily said. “They’re built like Iron Age forts, inside a double wall of wood filled with rubble.”
“Exactly. We have to protect ourselves. Armed bands from across the border are killing Jewish farmers, attacking buses and trucks on the highway.”
“And they had a time building it,” Anna said.
Yaacov beamed at her. “It was quite a day. Got there before dawn. We thought we’d finish before nightfall, present the Brits and Arab villagers with a fait accompli. But…” he shrugged.
“What happened?”
“We had to leave the vehicles behind. Hill was too steep; there was no road. We hacked out a trail to carry equipment and supplies up the hill by hand. And the wind! Couldn’t even put up tents. It took longer than we planned—hadn’t finished by dark. They attacked at midnight.”
“You lived to tell the tale,” Anna said.
“Drove them off, thanks to Orde Wingate.”
“The British army captain?”
Yaacov smiled. “He trained us. Carries a Bible with him. He says he’s working for the victory of God and the Jews.”
“You see, God works in mysterious ways.” Albert Kalman said. “He gave us Rafi and Orde Wingate. And Yaacov, still a student who learns from everyone. He learns from Rafi, who learned to treat wounds in Chicago, the Sodom and Gomorrah of America where gangsters roam the streets.”
“And what did you learn from Orde Wingate?” Lily asked.
“I learned how to move in the darkness, how to whisper orders, how to shoot, how to hide, how to anticipate an attack,” Yaacov said. “In the Hagganah, I swore by candlelight, with a Bible and a revolver on the table before me. When I was a boy, growing up in Peqi’in, I never dreamt that all but one family would flee from our village.”
“Peqi’in?”
“Mountain village in the Galilee. A Jewish community since the days of the Temple,” Yaacov said. “Everyone else is just a newcomer.”
Anna sat in one of the garden chairs and pulled another closer, gesturing for Lily to sit. “So you’ve come to visit Rafi while he works in Jerusalem?” She leaned toward Lily with a conspiratorial smile. “Tell me all about it.”
“Actually,” Lily said, “we met in a sherut.”
“And since then you’ve become friends?”
Albert came toward them carrying a tray, with Rafi close behind. Rafi brought a small tiled table from the other side of the terrace, then carried two more chairs to where Anna and Lily sat.
“You’re a tourist, then?” Yaacov asked.
Lily took a sip of her drink before she answered. “I’m an archaeologist.”
“Ah, the archaeologists,” Albert said. “They flit here in the spring like flocks of migratory birds. They peck at the ground all summer long and fly away in the fall. Only three industries in Jerusalem. Hospitals, British, and archaeology.”
“I work at Tel al-Kharub.”
Anna passed a plate of orange slices. “Unpleasant, that unfortunate incident with the director. My condolences. Things are completely out of hand.” Anna shook her head.
Lily placed her glass back on the table. “What do the Arabs want?”
“Arabs?” Yaacov answered immediately. “To stop Jewish immigration, prohibit sale of land to the Jews.”
Albert reached for an orange slice. “In the end, the British may have to give in. They have to put a stop to this brouhaha before the war with Germany. And then, who knows?”
“And the Jews?” Lily asked. “What do they want?”
Albert’s sigh was deep and thoughtful. “Just a little corner of the world where we can live ordinary lives in peace.”
“Why are the British so interested in Palestine?” Lily asked. “It isn’t exactly the land of milk and petroleum.”
“The gateway to Suez,” Albert said.
“It’s the poor farmer I feel sorry for,” Yaacov said. “The fellah. He’s caught in the middle. If he obeys the law, he’s a target for the Mufti’s men. If he doesn’t, the British throw him in jail.”
“Not to mention armed brigands who infiltrate from Syria and Lebanon to steal crops and animals,” Anna added.
Yaacov nodded. “The fellah can’t sell his land for fear of reprisals.”
“It’s not all bad,” Albert said. “The Arab strike of the last two years is the best thing to happen to the Yishuv. First they closed the port at Jaffa, so we built one in Tel Aviv. Then they closed their shops. Been a stimulus for our economic development.”
“Maybe if it hurts their pocketbooks enough they’ll mutiny,” Anna said. “The Mufti’s men murder any Arab who has commercial dealings with Jews. Nobody stops them.”
Albert leaned over his wife, shaking his head. “It won’t help. German and Italian propaganda fan the flames.”
Lily picked up her glass and held it in her hand.
“More spritzer?” Anna asked.
“Not really. It’s making me a little sleepy. I haven’t had lunch.”
“Oh, dear,” Anna said, and picked up a bowl from the tray to move it closer to Lily. “Here. Have a peanut.”
Albert looked at his watch. “Time for the BBC. Maybe today we’ll be able to hear some news.”
He led the way inside. A glistening mahogany cabinet with dials for a short wave receiver stood in the corner. Albert squatted in front of the radio, twisting knobs until they heard a faint crackling. “This is BBC calling with news of the world. Today in China, the Japanese bombed…” The voice faded in and out.
“Where did they say?” Anna asked. “Nanking? Peking?”
Kalman put a finger to his lips. He sat in the chair next to the radio, listening, frowning in concentration, his eyes focused on the tip of his sandal.
“… On the streets of Barcelona…” the voice said before it faded again. “In Czechoslovakia… Konrad Henlein… the Sudetendeutsche Party… eight-point program…”
Intermittent high-pitched screeches and the dead noise of static drowned out the words. They all leaned forward, watching the loudspeaker like lip readers.
“Ah. The Italian air war,” Albert said. “They’re strafing the broadcast frequencies.”
Anna looked at her watch. “Try the BBC Arabic broadcast. They increased the signal.”
Kalman turned the dial until they heard a few words in Arabic. This time Morse code signals and the voice of a soprano singing Un Bel Di cut off the sound.
“I’ve always enjoyed Puccini,” Anna said, and glanced at the wall clock.
Albert turned off the radio. “Hopeless.” He stood up and began to pace, his hands behind his back. “The only thing that’s certain is that to the victor belong the ruins.”
“Not that the British are all that impartial,” Anna said. “Lloyd George says that Hitler is the greatest German of the century.”
“He’s a bastard,” Rafi said. “All Nazis are bastards.”
“Thank God all bastards are not Nazis.” Albert sat down and looked toward Lily. “We must be more careful of our language in the presence of the young lady.” He inclined his head in her direction. “Did we insult you?”
Lily shook her head. “Not me. Just bastards.”
“So tell me,” Albert said to Lily. “Will you remain in Jerusalem?”
“I go back to the University of Chicago when the digging season is over to work on my dissertation.”
“Just as well. No room at the Hebrew University. Since the Anschluss, the university is full, gymnasiums are overflowing, and every hospital is overstocked with physicians. Soon doctors will pay hospitals to practice instead of vice versa,” Albert said. “Every one is an exile. Strangers here, strangers there, strangers everywhere, filled with longing for the past, the familiar smells of their childhood.”
“The influx of immigrants from Europe is crowding everyone out,” Anna said. “That’s what makes the Arabs angry.”
“Arabs are no better,” Yaacov said. “They immigrate here from neighboring countries at the Mufti’s instigation. Most of the immigrants of the last fifty years have been Arabs. Last century there were about 25,000 Jews in Jerusalem and only 14,000 Arabs. Now the proportions are reversed.”
Anna looked at the wall clock again. “It’s almost five o’clock, and almost no one is here. I’m beginning to worry. Something must have happened in the Old City,” she said to her husband.
“Wait another fifteen minutes,” he told her. “If no one comes, then you can begin to worry.”
Chimes from the wall clock interrupted their conversation. Anna looked at her watch, threaded her fingers together and looked at her watch again.
“It’s getting late,” Lily said. “I have to go.”
“Stay a little longer,” Dr. Kalman said. “We hardly got to know you.”
“Besides,” added his wife, “we don’t know what’s happening in the streets.”
“I have an appointment,” Lily said. “At the King David for dinner. I still have to change.”
“Rafi won’t mind if you’re a little late,” Anna told her. “Will you, Rafi?”
“She’s not going with me.”
Lily was already in the hall when the doorbell rang. Anna opened the door to a short round woman with reddish hair and sharp features and a small dark man. Both began speaking at once in an excited mix of German, English and Hebrew.
“The ganze city is a balagan, everything is topsy-turvy,” the woman said. “We saw it. The whole thing. From Jaffa road.”
“Sorry we’re late. We were held up at check points.”
Anna leaned forward to kiss the air behind the woman’s ear. “Ma kara, Tsipi? What happened?”
“Alles is beseder. It’s all right,” Tsipi said. “This time the police were ready.”
“It started at Al Aqsa mosque,” the man said. “The Arabs were whipped up by a sermon after someone passed around fake photos of Jews attacking the Dome of the Rock.”
“Poured out of the mosque like madmen,” Tsipi said. “We saw them at Damascus gate, shouting and waving their fists, running up the hill.”
“Police surrounded them before they got to New Gate,” the man broke in.
“The police blocked the roads into the New City and the gates of the Old City.” She stopped to catch her breath. “The crowd threw stones and bottles and the police charged with batons.”
“Anybody hurt?” Rafi asked.
The woman turned to her companion. “Welche Nummer, Pauli? Ulai” she began in Hebrew, “Maybe?” she switched back to German. “Sechs? Sieben?”
“Six Arabs, five policemen,” Pauli said. “Light injuries, nothing serious.”
“This time,” Anna said.
Albert shook his head. “The Mufti hangs over Jerusalem like the angel of death.”
They stood at the crowded doorway, Tsipi’s hand on Pauli’s arm.
Lily looked at her watch. “I have to leave. Thank you both for a lovely afternoon.”
Albert walked down the steps with them. “Don’t take the bus,” he said. “Walk. Between snipers and ambushes and gelignite bombs, buses are too dangerous.” He took Lily’s hand. “It was good to meet you. Come back soon.”
“Shalom,” Rafi said.
“Shalom, shalom ve ein shalom,” Albert said. “‘Peace, peace, there is no peace.” They said that in the ancient days in Jerusalem. Little has changed.“ He pointed to metal disks hammered into the asphalt to mark the crosswalk. ”You see how bad things are,“ he said and smiled at them. ”They have to nail down the streets so that no one will steal them.“
TWELVE
It was a quarter to six by the time Lily returned to the American School. Hardly enough time to dress for a gala evening at the King David. A note from Lady Fendley, tacked on the message board under the stairs, said that Kate had called and wanted Lily to come down to Tel al-Kharub to help close the camp. I’ll call her in the morning, Lily thought, and ran up to her room to wash and put on the blue dress and high-heeled shoes she had worn at the museum reception. On the way to the mirror at the end of the hall, she glanced out the back window and saw Henderson waiting in the garden.
“Be right down,” she called to him, ran the comb through her hair, tossed the fringed scarf over her shoulders and hurried down the stairs.
* * *
“Wrong side,” Henderson said when Lily opened the door of the sleek green car. “Right-hand drive.”
“What kind of car is it?” Lily asked, looking over the polished chrome trim and leather seats.
“Jaguar. Like it?”
“Nothing is in the right place.”
“Depends on your point of view.”
Henderson turned the key and the car purred to life. The powerful motor vibrated gently. “Motor mounts need adjustment,” he said.
The Old City gleamed in the evening sun as they turned down St. Paul’s Road.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Lily said.
Henderson eyed the array of gauges that decorated the burled wood dashboard. “Not a bad car,” he said, “but expensive to keep up.”
They turned down Julian’s Way, toward the King David Hotel.
The domed bell tower of the YMCA stood against the soft glow of the evening sky, serene with its graceful proportions, its tiles and vaulted arches. The morning of the riots still quivered in Lily’s memory—the face of Dr. Stern, lax and pale in death on the sidewalk—her first glimpse of Henderson, buffeted by the mob in front of the King David.
Henderson drove past the grand entrance of the hotel, where the doorman, in a turban and galabia, unloaded cars and taxis under the porte-cochere. He turned onto the side road on Abu Sikhra Street. They pulled up in front of the ancient tomb with the rolling stone where Herod had buried his murdered relatives.
“We’ll park here,” Henderson said. “I may have to leave early.”
Inside the rotating glass doors of the entrance, tall Sudanese waiters wearing white pantaloons and red tarbooshes glided along the marble floors of the majestic lobby.
“Looks like the British Colonial Office conquered the Ancient Near East too,” Henderson said, eyeing the ornate lobby with its Assyrian decor, the dining room’s ancient Phoenician theme. “They think they own the world.”
They waited for a table in a lounge that was ornamented with Hittite motifs. A the dansant trio played the Tango de la Rose. Lily watched couples twirl, stiff-backed, on the tiny dance floor.
“What would you like to drink?” Henderson asked signalling a waiter. “Two Scotch and Coca-Colas.” He ordered without waiting for her answer, pulled out a chair at a small table and sat down.
“Is that what they drink in Cincinnati?” Lily asked.
“What?”
“Cincinnati. Your hometown.”
“Oh, yes. Of course.”
Lily picked a pretzel from the dish on the table.
“About the blue glass vial,” Henderson said.
“Amphoriskos.”
“Yes. Of course. Amphoriskos. You have any idea where it is?”
“It was on a shelf in the pottery shed when I left the camp. The day before the museum opening.”
“You haven’t seen it since?”
Lily shook her head. “What makes you think it’s missing?”
“Tell me something about it,” Henderson said.
“Dates to about 800 BC, made of sand-core glass. More opaque than the blown or molded variety.”
“How’s that?”
“Before glass-blowing was invented, a core of sand used as a mold was coated with viscous glass, and the sand was removed when it cooled.”
