Джеймс Миченер - The Source

Beneath his towel the mutasarrif wheezed approvingly. Uncovering his face he stared at Tabari with huge drooping eyes and said, “It’s good for an Arab to think that way. This morning the mufti tried to tell me that you had gone over to the reformists.”

“That swine!” Tabari was outraged by the treachery yet pleased that his assessment of the mufti had been correct.

“Normally I’d not have listened to him,” the flabby mutasarrif continued, “but two days ago your brother-in-law was hung in Beirut. Conspiracy.”

Tabari sagged as if the tense ropes in a torture chamber had been relaxed. The old bullfrog had nearly trapped him. Had he given the wrong answer, he might now be on his way to death, but it was not this escape that caused his body and his conscience to sag. He realized that in masking his slowly developing opinions in order to protect a possible promotion he was surrendering them forever. Other men would lead the Turkish reformers, not he. Shmuel Hacohen would ride with the future, not he. Perhaps this was why he had saved the Jew that night, to serve this purpose. His limp hand reached for the towel and now it was he who covered his face, for at this moment he wished no one to see him.

“You were wise, Ibn Ahmed,” the old man said, “to resist your brother-in-law. Never again will the sultan allow any constitution foolishness. What we must do is permit no change and hope that things work out for the best.” At that moment his desk was heavy with petitions covering matters of health, schools, Catholic missionaries and an ingenious plan for clearing the harbor of silt, but during his remaining tenure none would be moved forward.

The old bullfrog shifted his enormous belly so that steam could work its way into a new set of folds, then, unexpectedly, grabbed the towel from Tabari’s face and stared at him, saying, “When I leave Akka you’re getting my job.”

Tabari sighed. Somehow the flavor had vanished from the promotion.

“Promise me one thing, Ibn Ahmed. Keep things as they are. We have a happy city here. Be sure that Christian pilgrims are allowed to visit their holy places without molestation and keep the Bedouins away from towns. But above all, when the wali comes down from Beirut be certain that things are in good shape. Spend money to fix them up, your own salary if necessary. Because in a place like Akka you can always get it back later, one way or another.”

The silent Negro slipped in to suggest that perhaps the two officials would like to move into another room for their massage, but the mutasarrif refused: “Let’s stay here a little longer, Ibn Ahmed.”

Later, as they were dressing, Tabari sought to deliver the gold coin, only to discover that he had lost it, and as he vainly searched his belongings he became aware that the fat old man was irritated and suspected him of some kind of double dealing. If this suspicion were allowed to persist, Mutasarrif Hamid might change his mind about the promotion, for the old bullfrog could be vengeful. So feigning generosity and love Tabari cried, “Excellency, I’ve lost your coin. But here are some funds I’ve collected for another purpose.” And he handed over the money which he had extorted that day from the incoming Jews.

As soon as he was free of the mutasarrif he dispatched two horsemen to Makor with instructions to search for the gold coin which he must have dropped there, but it was not found.

LEVEL

I

Rebbe Itzik and the Sabra

Bullet manufactured in New Haven, Connecticut, February, 1943 C.E., and intended for use in World War 11. Fired from a rifle manufactured in Manchester, England, April, 1944 C.E., and also intended for use in World War II. Deposited at Makor sometime past midnight on the morning of Friday, May 14,1948 C.E.

The three had this in common: that each loved the land passionately as a man loves a woman, joyously as a child loves the dawning of a day when there is to be a picnic on the land; the sabra loved Galilee as the soil from which her people had sprung through generations uncounted; the soldier loved Palestine as a refuge after years of fighting; and the little blue-eyed rebbe loved Israel as the land that God had chosen as a site for testimony. It was during the turbulent spring days of 1948 that their three loves came into contact.

To Isidore Gottesmann, the soldier, the instructions of Moses our Teacher were clear beyond necessity for debate: “When thou goest out to battle against thine enemies … the officers shall speak unto the people, saying, What man is there that hath built a new house? … let him go and return to his house, lest he die in the battle … And what man is he that hath planted a vineyard? … let him also go and return unto his house, lest he die in the battle …” Gottesmann especially liked another commandment: “When a man hath taken a new wife, he shall not go out to war … but he shall be free at home one year, and shall cheer up his wife which he hath taken.”

Thinking ruefully of his own situation, Gottesmann looked up from the almanac on which he was working and reflected: I have a new house. I’ve planted a vineyard. And I’ve a new wife. Moses Rabbenu must have had me in mind specifically, and I want to stay at home lest I die in battle.

Then he laughed nervously: And I’m particularly covered by this injunction. Here Moses surely had me in mind: “And the officers shall speak further unto the people, and they shall say, What man is there that is fearful and fainthearted? let him go and return unto his house …”

He leaned back from his desk, where he had been compiling data from the almanac, listened to the sounds coming from the kitchen as his wife prepared supper, and shook his head. He was a tall, thin, ascetic Jew with sunken cheeks and deep-set eyes peering out from beneath dark eyebrows. He did not seem an unusually sensitive man; he was rather more reserved and self-directed than most, and he had the habit of biting his cheek and drawing his lips back from even teeth. When he quoted the Torah he used Hebrew, but his personal reflections were in German, for that had been his native tongue. He also spoke an excellent English with only a slight German-Yiddish accent: And God knows that on that last command I qualify, because I’ve grown quite cowardly. “Fearful and fainthearted” describe me exactly.

He shook his head and called, in a heavily accented Hebrew, “Dinner about ready, Ilana?”

From the kitchen of the new white-walled house came a hearty, almost masculine cry: “Tend your figures. Leave the kitchen to me.”

Gottesmann returned to his almanac and completed his calculations, placing them meticulously within the columns he had ruled in his notebook: Tonight, April 12, 1948, sun sets at eight minutes past six. Tomorrow morning, April 13, 1948, sun rises at thirteen minutes after five. Now, if we allow an additional forty-five minutes of visibility both after sunset tonight and before sunrise tomorrow, we have left … He paused to do some subtracting, then noted the critical answer: We have about nine and one half hours of darkness in which to do whatever needs to be done. Carefully he put his pencil down and slumped over the almanac. He could guess what needed to be done and who would be ordered to do it.

It was some time before he raised his head, and then he did so wearily: Moses our Teacher could have summed it up in one simple command. “What man is sick of war? Let him return to his house.” He bit his cheek and muttered, “I’m fainthearted and fearful and can do no more.”

As a sensitive boy of eleven in Gretz he had watched the great madness of 1933 sweep the Rhine, and had understood when his father shipped him to Amsterdam in 1935. When the war started he had joined a hit-or-miss Jewish underground that operated along the German border rescuing refugees. English agents, penetrating into Holland, had stumbled upon the group and had provided a hard-core leadership, giving them the job of blowing up bridges. These English had quickly spotted Gottesmann’s ability and had pushed him through their underground to Antwerp, from which he was ferried across to Folkestone and a good English education. In 1942 he had joined the British army as a stores corporal, handing out Lysol for latrines, but soon he was switched to a secret unit headed for Syria to keep Damascus out of Vichy and German hands. Later, when the fear of Rommel had evaporated, he fought in Italy; and there, meeting for the first time members of the Jewish Brigade from Palestine, he acquired their vision of a free Israel and volunteered to work in the smuggling of illegal immigrants. For nine years, 1939 through 1947, he had been at war, and now he had had enough. He was beginning to lose his nerve—if he had not already lost it—and he wanted only the creative relaxation of tending his vineyards at Kfar Kerem.