Isaac's Beacon Page 2

  He patted her arms from behind. With a kiss on the crown of her head, her father pushed Éva gently to the train.

  Chapter 2

  Éva

  November 24

  The Mediterranean Sea

  Éva hung a sheet between two bunk frames, then squatted in a basin of seawater. She splashed her calves and thighs and poured a tin cup of cool water down her back. With no soap or washcloth, she rubbed the water into her armpits.

  Outside the screen, in the warren of laundry and bunks, a late sleeper snored. A man wept softly, a woman prayed, and the ship’s spinning shaft thrummed in the hull. During the nights, the ship’s salon-turned-dormitory brimmed with every noise and odor eight hundred people could make. All the Jews in their wooden bunks were as stale as she. Another eight hundred had been stuffed into the Atlantic’s few cabins.

  Each passenger was allotted one kettle of fresh bathing water per day. Éva drizzled the last of her kettle over her hair to knead out the salt. Finished, she pulled the sheet around herself for a towel. One of the clothespins jumped at her like a grasshopper.

  She dressed inside the white tube of linen as if she were on the summer banks of the Danube. Éva tugged on her third and last pair of clean underpants, one for each week at sea. She slithered into a cotton blouse, then stepped into a wool skirt. She pulled on knee socks, laced up her mother’s shoes, and covered her hair with her mother’s yellow scarf. Buttoning on her father’s opera coat, Éva hurried up to the passenger deck.

  The fog of last night’s storm had melted away. Éva trailed fingertips along the rail through traces of the rain. The blue Mediterranean stretched as vastly as yesterday.

  At the bow, she called good morning to the regulars. In the whetted light, the women chirped replies, men touched the brims of their fedoras and caps.

  Mrs. Pappel made room at the rail. Éva nestled between her and a small Russian woman who could stand on her tiptoes for hours.

  The air nipped here at the leading edge of the liner. The people who came every dawn wore beards and greatcoats, or dark smocks, headscarves, and brocade shawls against the November chill. Children chased each other or climbed on the anchor chain. No one knew where they were on the sea, none had a map or could navigate by the stars. No one had talked with the Atlantic’s French-speaking crew. After fourteen days on the Mediterranean, how much farther could they go? With the regulars on the bow, Éva leaned over the rail, trying to be the first to see Palestine.

  The sighting happened in the middle of the afternoon.

  “Země!”

  A murmur rippled around the bow. Men slapped their palms against the rails. Mrs. Pappel stamped a foot.

  “Not fair.”

  The lone voice went up again, “Země!”

  The starboard crowd clotted around the man. He stood tall, hatless, not well-fed or groomed, in need of a shave and new shoes. He thrust one arm out; those closest to him sighted down his sleeve.

  “Tamhle, tamhle!” he hollered, “Přistát!”

  “Who is that?” Éva asked.

  Mrs. Pappel crossed her arms. “A Czech. He only comes up here to sell cigarettes. It’s not fair.”

  A babel went up as more gazed where the Czech pointed. Éva pressed Mrs. Pappel’s wrist to say she was sorry but too excited, then ran to starboard. One happy man in her way flung his cap in the air. He was lucky when the wind blew it back toward her, and she returned it to him. He beamed. “Did you see?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Here, here.” The man, stumpy and broad, towed Éva through elbows and pockets.

  Éva grabbed the rail, not to be jostled or pushed off the spot. It took only a moment to pick out a faint rumple on the turquoise rim of the sea.

  The awe of arrival made tongues buzz; the elders muttered grateful praise, the rest raised a cheer for the Carmel Mountains of Palestine. When Éva backed away from the rail, her place was filled immediately. She moved to an open spot on the broad deck, behind the exulting people.

  Éva lifted her hands high and snapped her fingers. She snapped slowly, to dance deliberately. Step, step, step then kick, she began the hora. Mrs. Pappel emerged from the crowded rail; the rotund woman clasped hands over her own head and, nimble with joy, sidestepped into the dance. She crooned “Ay yi yah yi.” Linking arms with Éva, Mrs. Pappel lifted her face to the unsullied sky.

  Their dancing pulled more people from the rail, until all the regulars on the bow joined arms and voices. Two circles formed, a smaller ring inside the larger. The outer line danced to the left; the inner, with Éva and Mrs. Pappel, to the right. Other passengers rushed to the bow; a third ring formed, a hundred more revelers. Young people came, younger than Éva, lean and bright as candles. They joined the dancing circles, moving, singing, crying.

  Joy spread around the ship. Éva slipped away from the bow to go see it. In the narrow companionways, families embraced across two and three generations. A man handed Éva a glass of schnapps; he shouted to all who might hear that he’d saved the bottle for this moment. She raised the glass in toast, then gulped. Éva returned the glass, gasping and laughing at herself. Two tall boys, twins, ran by and kissed her on top of the head. A group of black-hatted Hasidim in spectacles and beards, all soft cheeked, read from the Talmud. Women stood near, a whispering flock of linen and covered hair.

  The celebration carried on into the afternoon. The temperature climbed enough for greatcoats to come off; the flushed immigrants rejoiced hatless and in vests, bare-armed and windblown.

  At dusk, Éva returned to the bow. Mrs. Pappel and a dozen regulars kept their vigil over the Holy Land on the dimming horizon. She pointed to a twist of smoke far off on the water.

  “You have young eyes. What is that?”

  Éva said, “A ship.”

  “What ship?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Mrs. Pappel nodded at the far-off wisp.

  “I’m sorry.” She faced Éva. “I haven’t asked. No one asks. We don’t know each other so well, you and me. It seems improper.”

  “What is it?”

  The woman patted the air with her palms.

  “I have my son and his wife with me. We have what we have. Family.”

  “That’s good.”

  “And you. I think you’re by yourself.”

  “I am.”

  “So.” Mrs. Pappel crossed her palms over her breast to impart that she spoke from the heart, and that Éva could stop her. When Éva said nothing, the woman continued. “Your family?”

  “In Vienna.”

  “Mother, father?”

  “And my little sister. They’ll follow before it gets too bad.”

  “Of course they will.”

  Éva planted a peck on the woman’s cheek. Mrs. Pappel remained dry-eyed, though there was much to cry over. On the horizon, Palestine drew closer. Both looked there.

  Ahead on the cobalt water, the coil of smoke grew and blackened. The Atlantic surged on, making the mountains solid on the horizon. Mrs. Pappel lapped a protective arm around Éva’s waist.

  A warship powered into view, bristling with guns. The ship flew the white, blue, and red standard of a Royal Navy corvette. Around Éva the men chewed their beards, women pulled the little ones closer.

  The corvette pulled broadside to the Atlantic, a hundred meters off. A loudspeaker blared from the bridge.

  “Passenger ship. You are in British waters illegally. You will follow us to port.”

  The Atlantic acknowledged by blasting its horn twice.

  “What does this mean?”

  Mrs. Pappel spit on the steel deck. A man might strike something with his fist; this was an old woman’s way.

  “It means what it means. We don’t have entry certificates.”

  “But we bought passage. It was all arranged.”

  �
�Arranged?” Mrs. Pappel wagged a finger. “God’s been trying to arrange it for two thousand years.”

  “But we’re supposed to be let in. There’s a quota. That’s the rule.”

  “Listen, darling. I know the British, I lived in London a long time. There’s no great love for Jews there, trust me. Britain’s in a war right now. They’re going to side with the Arabs and the oil. The Arabs don’t want more Jews in Palestine. So the British don’t want more Jews. God doesn’t run Palestine.”

  Mrs. Pappel swept a hand toward the warship.

  “They do.”

  Chapter 3

  Éva

  Past sunset, Éva stayed on the bow with Mrs. Pappel and two hundred others; the Atlantic dropped anchor in Haifa harbor with a racket that Éva wanted to believe was final. Here we stay. Only one of the Atlantic’s smokestacks vented as the ship’s boilers banked. The liner fell still, the water lapped at her sides.

  No instructions came down from the Atlantic’s crew. The British Navy ship that had herded them to the mouth of the port left.

  Haifa lay tantalizingly close. Storehouses crowded the wharf, narrow streets and boxy buildings, cranes, and silos lined the harbor. An oil refinery spurted flame.

  Near Éva, a boy with waves of black hair peered down at the water, like he was measuring the distance. She didn’t know his name. On the voyage, she’d kept to herself; a girl alone had to be prudent. She walked over to him.

  “I’m Éva.”

  “I’m Emile.”

  “You look like you’re ready to jump.”

  “I could do it,” he said. “I could swim that.”

  Mrs. Pappel arrived between them. “No jumping. And lower your voices. Look there.”

  She pointed across Haifa harbor, at another anchored ship, painted white, bigger than the Atlantic. Gathered along her rail, bunched on her stairs and terraces, a thousand passengers gazed back at Éva and the Atlantic.

  “Éva, read me the name.”

  “Patria.”

  Mrs. Pappel repeated it, as if learning the name of an evil. She walked away.

  November 25

  In the morning, Éva slipped into her mother’s shoes and her father’s coat. She wended through the maze of bunks, away from the waking hundreds, to the staircase and the deck above.

  Across the harbor, the passengers on the Patria were awake with the sun, too. They lined the white ship’s rails in the chilly light. Éva waved but no one answered; she lowered her arm as if she’d done something unfitting.

  An announcement burst from the Atlantic’s loudspeakers. The captain spoke first in German, then in Czech and English:

  “All passengers are to pack and be prepared to be ferried to the Patria in one hour.”

  Éva found Emile on the bow, gazing again down the anchor chain.

  He said, “They’re not going to let us ashore.”

  “It’s not right.”

  “We can jump.”

  “No.”

  “They’re going to send us away.” The boy bared his teeth as though something had just jabbed him. “Do you want me to tell you what I went through to get here?”

  Éva gently squeezed his wrist. “No.”

  Emile turned to walk off. She held his arm and asked, “How old are you?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “I’m nineteen. We have time. We can make it back to Palestine.”

  “I won’t go. I’ll jump.”

  “The British will shoot you or catch you and send you to jail.”

  “You’re just scared.”

  The boy yanked to free himself. Éva hung on.

  “If you want to be selfish, you should have stayed home.” She let go of his arm. “If you’re going to risk your life, do it for more than yourself.”

  The boy put his back to Éva. A crowd began to arrive from belowdecks, many already with luggage in hand. Emile shouldered his way against the flow.

  The Jews milled about in their wooly clothes, directionless, a darker and colder people than those dancing in the sun yesterday. Éva had nothing to pack, just underclothes. Some of the grey people reached out, touching her, smiling sadly. They’d reached Palestine, even briefly. They might never see this land again. But young Éva could.

  She moved toward the stern. The people she passed shuffled in downcast steps. At midship, the Atlantic’s long gangway was being lowered. Two motor launches waited to tie up to the floating platform. British sailors at the helms of the launches smoked cigarettes.

  “Éva.”

  Mrs. Pappel struggled down a staircase, hauling a heavy valise. She teeter-tottered until she set the case beside Éva’s shoes.

  “I want to be in the first boat. I don’t like the idea of getting the dregs for living quarters on that other ship.” She toed her luggage. “Can you carry this? My son has his hands full. His wife has a bag twice this size.”

  Éva hefted the valise. “Where are they?”

  “They’ll come when they come. He’s a grown man. I can make it on my own. With a little help. Drag it over here. Let’s start the line.”

  Mrs. Pappel led the way, the first in the queue. Her son and daughter-in-law did not appear before she started down the gangway. British sailors stopped Éva from joining her; the rules were that the first four launches would be loaded with those carrying luggage or small children. Éva would be squeezed in later with others who had no baggage. Éva kissed Mrs. Pappel, then watched her wrangle the valise down the long incline. All the way, Mrs. Pappel carped and hindered the line.

  The two British skiffs shuttled back and forth across the glassy harbor to the Patria. Jews clomped down the gangway, shoulders sloped.

  In the eighth shuttle, Emile and Éva’s turn came to load in. They clambered down the gangway to cram in. The passengers carried only handbags and briefcases. She and Emile were the youngest in the boat.

  They took a bench in the center. The tall hull of the Atlantic that had brought them across the Mediterranean seemed giant.

  Éva’s motorboat passed the launch returning empty from the Patria. The pilot waved to the sailor steering Éva’s craft, like they were doing nothing of note. Closing in on the white Patria, Emile’s breathing quickened. Éva, afraid the boy might commandeer the launch or roll out of it, rested a hand on his knee.

  The Patria loomed higher even than the Atlantic. How had Mrs. Pappel made it up the gangway? Had some impatient Jew lent a hand or thrown her bag into the water?

  None of the old passengers on the Patria waved or greeted Éva’s approaching skiff, like prisoners watching the arrival of more.

  The pilot coasted to the platform. He gathered his painter to throw to the seaman waiting there, a young British sailor in shorts and tall socks.

  An explosion erupted.

  The great clap made the platform buck and tip the sailor into the water. The launch’s pilot stood in confusion; the white hull of the Patria shuddered and made a great ripple that almost toppled him, too.

  Near the stern, a froth welled in the water, churning into a boiling pool. The water rose in geysers, rocking Éva’s launch.

  The blast was not a thunder crack or a cannon, but a blast from inside the Patria, below the waterline. The harbor rushed into the ship’s ribs; air gushed out. The pilot of Éva’s launch revved his motor to speed away from the wounded liner.

  Emile shouted, “What happened?” The sailor who’d fallen in clambered back onto the platform and waved for the launch to return and fetch him. The skiff’s pilot came about, but he refused to get any closer to the ship.

  The Patria’s alarms tanged. Those people crowding the rail scrambled away. Crewmen stripped the canvas covers off dozens of lifeboats swaying from davits. Éva’s launch retreated more to avoid falling debris, casks and things spilled from the tipping deck.

  Quickly the su
spended lifeboats filled with screeching people climbing over each other. Crewmen lowered the crafts by hand cranks. In the panic, a few lifeboats lost their oars. One woman toppled out of a swaying boat and fell pinwheeling to the water.

  A suitcase splashed close. A man plummeted after it, flapping his arms, losing his hat. Another piece of luggage landed, followed by a woman holding her dress down as she plunged.

  “What do we do?” Emile asked.

  Éva clutched at Emile to stand. They were both children, the others in the lifeboat were adults. Who were they to be on their feet?

  Éva unbuttoned her father’s opera coat and kicked off her mother’s shoes; she left all she had of her parents on the bottom of the launch. Emile doffed his jacket; the sailor and the others in the boat kept their seats.

  While the Patria’s sirens shredded the air, the gigantic liner staggered onto its side; panicked people leapt and fell a long way, yelling on the way down. Twenty yards from the launch, a woman in a life vest surfaced, thrashing.

  Éva dove in, Emile behind her. He surfaced in the cold water at her shoulder and they swam to the woman.

  Éva tried to calm her while Emile towed her to the launch where two men hauled her in. The woman wailed about her mother still onboard the Patria as if there were something that could be done. Éva told one of the men to take the life vest off the woman and toss it to Emile.

  Shouts and splashes spread on the water. The listing liner lowered more rafts, but a thousand Jews still clung to the rails, afraid to jump even as their ship dipped them lower, soon to drag them under.

  Éva and Emile became separated. Several times, people almost landed on her. She swam in front of lifeboats, pulled herself over the gunwales up to her armpits and begged those who’d been saved to toss their vests to the ones in the water without them. Someone persuaded her to put one on herself.

  The Patria took on more water and continued to roll. Gouts of air bubbled from the stern. Éva swam in the froth of the Patria’s flooding; she reached dazed people and got them into vests, then lifeboats. The liner tipped more every minute. Another bellow sounded deep inside the ship. The three smokestacks belched steam; the waters had snuffed the Patria’s boilers.