Isaac's Beacon Read online

  “Those cows need to be milked. Don’t they disturb your class?”

  “The children also need to learn the word for ‘moo.’ So, you grew up on a farm?”

  Rivkah smiled at the five soldiers in the door; she slipped past them to go outside. Six British gun trucks waited in the unpaved road leading up to Kfar Etzion. Soldiers filtered throughout the settlement, in and out of buildings, accompanied by residents.

  Rivkah re-entered the barn. Mrs. Pappel had one hand on her hip, the other on the officer’s wrist.

  “I was born in Austria, but I lived in Mayfair for years. My husband was in the movie business.”

  “And what brings you to this godawful place?”

  “My husband died.”

  “My regrets.”

  “He left me all his money. I used some of it to come to this godawful place. The rest I donated to the relief fund. Now, Captain, you’re welcome to return when class is over in three hours. We can talk then, if you like. I’ll tell you all the movies Morrie worked on.”

  “Three hours is a long class.”

  “English is a very difficult language. And this young lady is going to give milking lessons. There are so many words to learn about cows.”

  “We’ll be gone by then.”

  “A shame.”

  The officer bowed shallowly, donned his cap, and left.

  Rivkah whispered, “You and I will talk about this.”

  None of the students or the chicken had made a peep while the soldiers were present.

  Mrs. Pappel widened her stance on the straw, pretending to hold a rifle. “British soldier. Who can say ‘British soldier’?”

  All the young Hungarians shouted it out.

  Chapter 11

  Rivkah

  “Here.”

  Mrs. Pappel pointed at a spot on the ground no less rocky than any other patch. She made it plain she was tired of walking and sat with a wheezy sigh.

  Rivkah handed down her canteen. The western horizon dipped and rose, mistless and sharp in the light. The landscape tumbled into sere gulches and climbed to stubby white heights. Scrub did little to color the hills. Patriarchs and prophets had walked this way out of the Negev, north from Be’er Sheva, through Hebron to Jerusalem. It was easy to see why they’d kept walking.

  A kilometer away, beyond a wadi, a broad knoll cast a humpbacked shadow. Boulders made the crest look jagged and forsaken, nothing but stone and hard earth.

  Rivkah said, “They say there’s a spring running down the hillside.”

  “A life can be built around a spring.”

  “It’s not good land.”

  Mrs. Pappel swallowed from the canteen. “Not like this garden spot.” Mrs. Pappel patted her thigh. “Sit, Liebling. Put your head in my lap.”

  Rivkah stretched out on the pebbles to rest her head against Mrs. Pappel. The silence of the wastes wafted by.

  “Go ahead. Ask me.”

  “The soldiers today.”

  “Yes, dear. The soldiers.”

  “Why were they looking for weapons in the barn?”

  “Because they’d already found some under the chicken coop. Shmuel grabbed one of the hens before it could get away. Good boy.”

  “There are guns in Kfar Etzion?”

  “There are guns everywhere. We need to make sure we have ours.”

  “Are they in the dairy barn?”

  “Under the floorboards. You were sitting on them.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “It’s fairly obvious at this point. I’m in the Haganah.”

  “That’s incredible.”

  “Not so much. There’s only some kinds of work I can do. I’m too old to push rocks or pick olives. I can’t build Palestine. So I do what I can to defend it.”

  “Are you a fighter?”

  “Heavens, no. I hide guns.”

  “You’re a spy.”

  “I’m an agent.”

  “Do you report on me?”

  “Hardly, dear. Only on the Arabs and the British.”

  “How did this happen?”

  “A month ago. Remember, right after I got here, there was a Bedouin attack. A platoon of Palmach came to stay for a week.”

  “I remember the commander. A major.”

  “Ari.”

  “I remember you flirting. With Ari.”

  “Goodness, the man was gorgeous. Like Errol Flynn. He asked if I would be the Haganah’s eyes in Kfar Etzion. I said I would be glad to be more.”

  “Please tell me you’re joking.”

  “What joke? I swore an oath by a candle, with my hand on a pistol. All very exotic.”

  “Who else knows?”

  “A few who need to. Someone had to dig the holes. Now you.”

  “Are there more guns in the kibbutz?”

  “No. The British found the smaller stockpile. The bigger one is still in the barn.” Mrs. Pappel combed through Rivkah’s hair. “Don’t go looking for them.”

  “I have no intention.”

  “The weapons are going to be needed.”

  “Are you in danger?”

  “No more than you.”

  Rivkah lay under Mrs. Pappel’s hands. “Can you tell me more about Morrie?”

  “What’s to tell? Those kids from Hungary. Nothing that happened to me compares.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  Mrs. Pappel waved at the air.

  “I met Morrie back in the early twenties. He was young, good looking, trying to make movies in Vienna. We married, we moved to London, and Morrie caught on there. We started living good, Morrie and me. We could buy whatever we wanted. We had comfort; we had a boy. And this is what we did for two decades; even during the war years we were comfortable. But there’s something about comfort, darling, it tends to be because you’re inside something. So, there I am, inside this life. And all along, I’m reading about Palestine in the papers. The British, the Arabs, oil, gardens growing out of rocks. It seemed such a life. Mine was hosting dinners and making sure Morrie got his messages. Who could find time to go live in a tent and plant trees? After enough years and enough money, we got too old for Palestine.”

  One of Mrs. Pappel’s hands lifted off Rivkah’s shoulders, to quiet a sniffle.

  “The Germans bombed London, and they bombed Morrie. He had a heart attack, so, like the movies say, exit Morrie. I figured, when the war is done, go home to Vienna. Grow old there. Get your son out of London before he becomes English permanently. But I kept watching Palestine, reading the papers about Palestine. Riots one day, a new kibbutz the next. Jews spreading over the countryside, settlements in the middle of nowhere, like a gold rush. An adventure. And everywhere, children. The Nazis had spoiled Austria; the bastards set something loose wherever they went. I couldn’t trust being a Jew in Vienna again. I asked myself what good was Morrie’s money if I’m still despised? So…Palestine.”

  “What about your son?”

  “What was the little pisher going to do without my money? I told him and his pretty English wife, I’m going to Palestine. Come with me or stay in London broke. They had a choice? So, I bribed a few little nothings in the British government, got our immigration papers and some boat tickets. The rest of Morrie’s money I gave to the Jewish Agency. My son doesn’t know this.” Mrs. Pappel climbed to her feet. “Oy.”

  Rivkah joined her standing. “You’re not too old for Palestine.”

  “That officer didn’t think so either.” Mrs. Pappel pointed west, shading her eyes. “Is that it? That hilltop there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh my. That is one more sad-looking spot.”

  Both turned to face the fruit groves and terraced fields of Kfar Etzion, small homes and big storage sheds, stacked stone walls, the slow greening of the desert.


  “This place wasn’t such a winner at first.”

  Rivkah said, “Did you hear? They picked a name for the new settlement. Massuot Yitzhak. Isaac’s Beacon.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “A beacon for the survivors in Europe.”

  Mrs. Pappel lapped an arm across Rivkah’s shoulders. They stood like this gazing at the white windswept knoll soon to be the next settlement in the Kfar Etzion bloc.

  Mrs. Pappel pulled Rivkah into her arms. “I’m never leaving Palestine.”

  “I’m not either.”

  “Good. Now I have to ask you something hard. When was the last time you heard from your family?”

  Rivkah drew a deep breath as if struck. Mrs. Pappel held on.

  “I got a letter from my mother. She said the family was being sent to Terezin in Czechia.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Three years.”

  Mrs. Pappel whispered, “Three years.”

  Standing, holding Rivkah, Mrs. Pappel rocked her. The sun pressed on Rivkah’s back as if to break in on a dance. She dried her swollen eyes against Mrs. Pappel’s shoulder.

  “I’m sorry about Morrie.”

  “Me too. But honestly, he’d be useless here.”

  Rivkah laughed haltingly, snagging on her unfinished tears.

  Mrs. Pappel said, “You have me.”

  “I do.”

  “Liebling.”

  “Yes.”

  “They’re starting to gather supplies for the new kibbutz. They’ll be ready in October. I was thinking it might be good for us both to start over. Together. Let’s go be pioneers. Let’s go to Isaac’s Beacon.”

  “Alright.”

  “You can move rocks. I’ll hide more guns.”

  A kilometer away on the crest of the chosen hill, a point of silver sparkled like a mirror.

  Rivkah said, “I can see the spring.”

  Chapter 12

  Vince

  September 10

  Weimar

  Maps papered Captain Beshears’s walls. Reports and requisitions mounted on his desk; outside his door, secretaries and signal corpsmen typed more pages to dump on him and the other inexperienced administrators in their quickly-set-up headquarters. Beyond his windows, clean soldiers armed with folders strode into Weimar’s City Hall to deliver more orders, communiques, and complaints.

  Great forces were piling up around Beshears. The present and future of a sundered nation collided on his desk. Beshears tapped a newspaper on his desk, the international version of the Herald Tribune. “You write a nice column, Mister Haas.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It seems you’re pretty plugged in at Buchenwald.”

  Vince needed a shave and bath. His tunic crackled from long-dried sweat. Most nights he slept in his boots. The “P” armband had been lost two months ago.

  Behind the desk, Beshears’s starched uniform showed little wear. Only his careworn face, more than a twenty-five-year-old’s ought to be, hinted at the load.

  “What can I help you with, Captain?”

  “I asked you to drop by because I could use some advice. Maybe some help.”

  “I’m going to take notes. You okay with that?”

  “Fair trade.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I’ve been given orders for the inmates at the camp.” Beshears laid a hand on one of the stacks on his desk. “For the Italians. Belgians. Frenchmen. Dutch. Germans. Czechs. Poles. Russians.” The captain tapped a different pile. “Criminals, communists, gypsies, homosexuals; you name it, I got orders to send all of them somewhere. I’m lining up transportation and food. That’s what I do. All day. Except for one big group.”

  “The Jews.”

  “I don’t have orders for them.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because when we ask the Greeks where they’re from, they say Greece. The Estonians say Estonia. But when we ask the Jews, they just say Jews. Not Poland or Latvia or fucking Germany. I’ve got no country called Jews.”

  “Yes you do.”

  “I can’t send them there.”

  “You can’t ask them to go back to the places that tried to kill them.”

  Captain Beshears leaned across his desk, among the canyon of papers.

  “This war tore the world a new asshole. All over Europe, there’s twenty million displaced persons. There’s survivors from Nazi concentration camps, Soviet labor camps, prisoner-of-war camps, a couple million refugees afraid to go home because the Reds run their countries now. Between the Army and the UN, we’ve got to find places for all of them. I’ve got five thousand DPs left in Buchenwald. A thousand are Jews. I’ve got to send them somewhere. They can’t keep eating off Uncle Sam.”

  “Have you been to the camp yourself?”

  “A couple weeks ago.”

  “What’d you see?”

  “Honest? The Jews were demanding and uncooperative. They spoke half a dozen languages, which made it hard to understand. They bitched about the canned food because it wasn’t kosher. They insisted on bread that wasn’t cooked in lard. We gave them sardines, that seemed to make them happy. Not much else did.”

  “What can I do for you, Captain?”

  Beshears laid a hand on a tower of yellow, white, blue, and pink pages.

  “I’ve got offers. I want to know what you think.”

  “Alright.”

  “Seven different countries in South and Central America will take them in. The whole thousand of them can be on a boat next week. New homes. New lives.”

  “What about the States? Any takers?”

  “Limited availability. Washington figures we’ve done enough by winning the goddam war. We’re feeding them. We don’t have to make them Americans, too.”

  “That seems fair to you? Considering how little we did for them during the war.”

  “I don’t do fair. I do doable. Here’s what I want to know. If I take these offers to the Jews, how many do you think will sign up?”

  “Half. Maybe less.”

  “Seriously?” Beshears withdrew behind the peaks on his desk. “I’ve got no plan B.”

  Vince put away his notebook. “Let them go to Palestine.”

  “The British don’t want them there.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “You said you don’t have orders for the Jews.”

  “I don’t.”

  “So why lose sleep over where they go? You said it yourself, you just want them gone.”

  “Make your point, Mister Haas.”

  “You have no orders. That means you’re on your own; you’re expected to solve this.

  Why fight them?”

  Leaning back in his chair, Beshears spread his arms.

  “Because it’s illegal. Fifteen hundred a month, that’s all the British let in. Everyone else they catch and stick in detention camps in Cyprus. It’s my ass if I send them to Palestine.”

  “I didn’t say send them. I said let them worry about where they go. Where are you from, Captain?”

  Beshears settled his chair on all four legs. He clasped hands under his chin, as if wishing to be back home. “Teaneck. Jersey.”

  “I’m from Brooklyn. Let me put something to you. When they ask you back home what you did in the war, what are you going to say? You helped out the British? Or are you going to say you helped out the Jews? Who do you think in Teaneck is going to be asking that question? You got a lot of Englishmen back there, drinking tea in fucking Teaneck?”

  Beshears’s lower lip disappeared behind his teeth.

  “So what happens if I tell the Jews, alright, go? What are they going to do? Walk to Palestine?”

  “You line up transportation. You said that’s what you do.”

 
; “I do it for legal immigration.”

  “It’s not illegal to send them to Italy or France.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “But it’ll work. I promise you, a couple hundred will risk it and be out of your hair. Can you get a train?”

  “A train.” Beshears exhaled a long, troubled breath. “Yeah, I can get a train. And if I do. If. Where will it go?”

  “I’ll get back to you. Some port on the Mediterranean. There’s recruiters from Palestine in the camp. They’ll arrange a ship across the Med. You just take care of the train.”

  “You mean it, don’t you.”

  “Think about it.”

  Beshears stood, extending a hand to conclude the meeting. Vince shook.

  “You mind if I ask, Mister Haas, what do you get out of this? You asked me why I should care. Why do you?”

  “I’m a reporter.”

  “And?”

  “I’m going with them.”

  Chapter 13

  Hugo

  October 7

  Fulda train station

  Hugo stood in the front rank of the Buchenwald Jews. Vince kept to the back, taller than everyone.

  An Aliyah Bet recruiter stepped onto a crate, to be seen and heard by all on the Fulda platform. The pink scar running under the young man’s ear said he’d been in the war not long ago.

  “Ma’apilim.” He called them the Hebrew word for illegals. “Your odds are good.”

  A woman shouted back, “That’s a first.”

  Another woman asked, “What’s Palestine like?”

  “I’ve not been. I’ll make it soon. You go first.”

  No train idled behind him, but he pointed at the tracks where it would appear. Nothing about the Aliyah Bet man exuded doubt.

  “The train will take you to a refugee center in Leipheim. You’ll cross through the American sector of Austria, over the Swiss frontier into France. In Marseille, we will have a ship waiting for you.”

  Hugo imagined the young man standing on a pier in Marseille, pointing down at the water, conjuring up a boat and making others see it, too.

  Many of the men and women on the platform were garbed like Hugo, in cheap charity clothes. The rest were dressed to be farmers in Palestine. The Aliyah Bet had found them white work tunics and suspenders, khakis and field boots. These Jews appeared earnest, they’d lived through the camps on prayer and immense luck. They’d never stolen anything, by the looks of them, and they’d never done the Nazis’ bidding. In Palestine they would be good farmers, they’d plant their grief, cut it year after year, and never let it grow too high.