Джеймс Миченер - The Source

Immediately after the parting two things happened. The tired Englishman said to one of his assistants, “It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Jews ready to fight back. They’ll last three days. Pray for the poor bastards.” And an Arab sniper, seeing Gottesmann neatly framed in an alley, fired at him, but the bullet missed and the final battle for Safad was engaged.

… THE TELL

In the dining hall one clear October morning Cullinane asked, “What did a Jew who had served with the English think of their behavior in 1948?”

It was an ugly question which most people avoided, for if the British had succeeded in their plan for turning Palestine over to the Arabs, Jews would have hated them forever; usually the topic was side-stepped. But Eliav had often considered it and had developed certain generalizations which he was willing to discuss.

“Normally,” he began, puffing at his after-breakfast pipe, “I don’t mention the matter, so I’m not sure my thoughts are consistent, but the English did represent a goodly portion of my life and I’d be stupid not to have acquired some ideas. Briefly, when the English picked me up I was a rough, uneducated tyke and they made a man of me. During their war against the Germans they treated me with dignity, and I grew almost to love them. During our war against them they behaved with notable crassness, and I had to fight them. Looking back on everything, I’m perplexed.”

“Let’s take your ideas one by one,” Tabari suggested. “First, they gave you manhood.”

Eliav nodded. “You could make it stronger. They gave me life. They rescued me from Europe. Educated me, gave me this Oxford accent which helps me so much in impressing American archaeologists. Imagine what you could do with it in Chicago, John!”

“I do very well with a fake Irish brogue, thank you,” Cullinane observed. “Remember, Chicago is an Irish Catholic city, not an English one. But tell me this, did the English ever admit you to full partnership?”

“I’ve thought about that. You know, some Jews have risen to positions of great power in England. Disraeli reached the top. Sir Herbert Samuel did pretty well. Leslie Hore-Belisha. It’s remarkable, really.”

“But did they accept you?” Tabari asked bluntly.

“For a few moments during the war, I thought so. But I was fooling myself.”

“Rather curious,” Tabari reflected, “because we Arabs who went to Oxford always considered ourselves full-fledged English gentlemen. Still do.”

“You didn’t fight them later,” Eliav said.

“Correct. We fought on their side, so our feeling was strengthened. There was another curious factor …” He was about to offer an obiter dictum but apparently thought better of it and pointed to Eliav. “Your second point. That during the war they treated you well.”

“They did,” the Israeli said. “They taught me how to fight a guerilla war, how to organize a military unit … everything. In the War of Liberation I had to do some fairly ugly things against the English, but I always said, ‘Tommy, old boy, you taught me how to do this.’ And I found that they had taught me right.”

“You’ve no bitterness?” Cullinane asked.

“None,” Eliav said. Then, after drawing on his pipe, he added, “And I suspect I speak for most Israelis.”

“Wait a minute!” Cullinane protested. “I’ve been reading some Israeli books and their scorn for the English pro-Arab policy … Why do you suppose a bunch of Jews blew up that lorry full of English soldiers at Tiberias?”

Eliav took a deep breath, studied his pipe which now rested between his palms, and said, “Let’s talk about that lorry. It was blown up, as you may recall, in retaliation for English blundering at Akko. I don’t believe you should leap to the conclusion that the lorry could have been destroyed only by Jews who hated Englishmen. The men who did the job may have respected England very much.”

There was a clatter of dishes as the kibbutzniks cleared away the tables, then Tabari resumed: “You said that during World War II you grew almost to love them. That’s a funny statement for a Jew.”

“I meant that after my escape from Germany … When I appreciated what horrible things were happening …” Eliav paused, then added matter-of-factly, “We were a large family. Few survived.”

Cullinane gripped his chair and thought: Sooner or later it smacks you in the face. I’ve known Eliav for all these months and now he tells me that he lost most of his family. In a restaurant you start to give a crude waitress hell. Then you see tattooed on her arm a Bergen-Belsen number. He bit his lip and said nothing.

Tabari, possibly because he had been educated in England, was not affected by Eliav’s last statement. “So everyone has a sorrowful story. What’s it got to do with the discussion?”

Eliav, like most Israelis, appreciated this impersonal reaction and said, “This. In the worst days of the war, when I was serving here in Palestine …”

Tabari interrupted. “You’re one of the few Jews I know who calls it ‘Palestine.’ I thought that was frowned upon.”

Eliav smiled. “When I’m speaking as a member of the British army I use their name. As an Israeli I’ll take it most unkindly if you call my homeland ‘Palestine.’ Well, anyway, when I served here and watched Rommel’s Afrika Corps coming at us through Egypt, and other Germans trying to reach us through Syria …” He stopped, puffed his pipe and said with great reserve, “If the British had not held desperately—you might also say heroically—six hundred thousand Jews would have been gassed to death in Palestine.” He relaxed and added lightly, “I rarely pray, and when I do I usually leave God and Moses out of it. But I have frequently asked blessings for Field Marshal Montgomery. I’m sure neither of you can imagine how I feel about him.” He tapped his pipe and said, looking at the floor, “It was a very near thing, gentlemen.”

Cullinane asked, “Then you’re able to differentiate between Englishmen who fought with you and Englishmen who fought against you?”

“Of course. Because I must differentiate between my two selves. The Jew who learned all he knows from the English and the Jew who later fought them with all his dedication.”

“You’re able to keep your many selves straightened out?” Tabari asked sardonically.

“You go nuts if you don’t,” Eliav laughed. “How do you keep your various responsibilities as an Arab Israeli …”

Cullinane interrupted. “It’s good hearing a Jew speak of these matters. As an Irishman I feel just about as you do. I must acknowledge that in the world at large the English have accomplished wonders, but in Ireland …” He threw up his hands. “I’m sounding like an Irish politician in Chicago, but what I mean is, in Ireland they never had a clue. They operated from an entirely different intellectual base.”

“You’ve made my speech,” Eliav said, “and now let’s heckle Tabari.” He relit his pipe.

“One more thing,” Cullinane protested. “I know why they went wrong in Ireland, but why did they go wrong here?”

The Jew finished lighting his pipe and in the interval Tabari leaned forward as if he were going to speak. Eliav, noticing this, deferred, but Tabari bowed and said, “Hyde Park is yours.”

“To understand the English in Palestine,” Eliav reflected, “you’ve got to understand which Englishmen came here. Then you’ve got to study those Englishmen against the Arabs they met, and against the Jews.”

“Precisely,” Tabari said with malicious pleasure. “Point is, Cullinane, we saw two types of Englishmen in Palestine. The poor, uneducated second-raters who couldn’t be used at home and who weren’t good enough for important posts like India. Don’t forget, our little Falastin was truly a backward place of no importance, and we got the dregs.”