Raquela Read online

  Rabin raced to the main road where Sarig was standing. “Things are not working according to plan.”

  Sarig had more bad news. “Nehemia Schein is seriously ill. He’s burning up with fever. Let’s get the first hundred or so refugees, the stronger ones who’ve already reached us, into the trucks. We’ll make a dash to Kibbutz Yagur and get Schein to the doctor. We don’t dare wait for the slower ones, or we’ll foul up the whole operation. You’ll have sixty Palmachniks to help you protect about one hundred of the weaker refugees. You’ll have to take them on foot to Bet Oren; they’ll never make it to Yagur.”

  Kibbutz Yagur, one of the largest kibbutzim in the country, lay in the eastern foothills of the Carmel Mountains, in the Zebulun Valley. It was the Haganah’s central arms cache. Most of the rifles for the raid on Athlit had come from Kibbutz Yagur.

  “What about the trucks we can’t use?” Rabin asked. “There’ll be a fleet of empty trucks.”

  “We’ll send them out in convoys on the road. Empty. To throw the British off our tracks. Good luck, Yitzhak.”

  Rabin organized his new formation of sixty young Palmach men and women. First they searched the fields to make sure not one straggler was left behind. Then, with Palmachniks protecting the people on all sides, they moved across the highway.

  “We have to move fast,” Rabin said, encouraging the slow, fragile men and women, still damaged from the war. “Crossing the highway is easy; it’s flat. We just have to slip past the British police station. But then we have to climb seventeen hundred feet up the side of Mount Carmel.”

  There were children, babies, sick people. Rabin ordered the Palmachniks to carry the children on their backs. The older people followed.

  Rabin put a little boy on his shoulders. Soon the child’s trembling legs squeezed his neck. Rabin felt a warm trickle down his back. His shirt was already soaked with sweat. This was just one more hot stream. He grinned, patting the child’s legs reassuringly.

  Slowly, grasping rocks and tree branches, holding on to one another, they began the climb up the western slope of the mountain.

  Meanwhile Sarig’s trucks lumbered to the top of Carmel range, then down the eastern slope, until they saw the lights of Kibbutz Yagur.

  The gates of the guarded perimeter were flung open.

  The entire kibbutz was awake. The kibbutzniks ran to the trucks, helped the refugees jump down, embraced them, and hurried them into their cottages, where they gave them kibbutz pajamas, cold sandwiches, and hot tea.

  Long before dawn, news of the breakthrough reached the British.

  They rushed jeeps, armored cars, and patrols on the Haifa-Tel Aviv highway. They stopped the two convoys of empty trucks moving in opposite directions on the road. They searched each truck. But they found neither refugees from Athlit nor arms.

  They waved the convoys on their way, and continued searching.

  On the western slope of the mountain, Rabin, still carrying the child on his back, shepherded the weary and terrified people.

  No one spoke. Not a child whimpered. The only sounds were the clicking of displaced rocks, the crunch of leaves, the labored breathing of the climbers.

  The young Palmach men and women moved up and down, helping, encouraging, taking the hands of those who moved the slowest. But there was no way to hurry the march. Auschwitz had sapped their strength.

  Rabin surveyed the uneven march and realized it would be impossible to reach the safety of Kibbutz Bet Oren before dawn. The path zigzagged around the mountain, with huge boulders and deep treacherous ravines below the hairpin curves.

  Just before dawn, Rabin halted the march a mile from Bet Oren. He heard British reconnaissance planes scouting for them, and he sent one of his men to reconnoiter. He was told the British had surrounded the kibbutz with armored cars, tanks, and troop reinforcements. Kibbutz Bet Oren was under siege.

  Rabin mulled over the whole new set of problems: how to secure the people from British fire in case of fighting; how to deploy his force of Palmachniks; how to enter the kibbutz.

  In a hidden wadi, a dry riverbed, he gathered the exhausted men, women, and children. Here they would be safe from shell fire. Then he organized his sixty Palmachniks in a cave, prepared for battle.

  Five A.M.

  Had the British detected them? The air was silent.

  Six A.M. He singled out two young commandos, Amos Horev and Dvora Flum, a Palmach fighter from Kibbutz Hulatah, in the Huleh Valley. Most of the members of Dvora’s kibbutz had come from Germany, parentless, with Youth Aliyah.

  “Find out what’s going on in Bet Oren,” he told the two young people. “See if there’s some secret way to get the people into the kibbutz without the British seeing us.”

  In half an hour Dvora and Amos returned. “The British,” they reported, “have surrounded three sides of the kibbutz, including the main entrance. But on the fourth side there’s no road, and no British. Just mountain and bushes and barbed wire. It’s possible to enter that way.”

  Rabin mobilized the tired refugees for the last mile to Bet Oren. His men cut the barbed wire, and one by one the people pushed into the unguarded side of the kibbutz.

  Rabin was convinced the British could see the operation, but they did not open fire.

  Inside Bet Oren, the kibbutzniks were waiting. They hurried the marchers into their homes, fed them, handed them kibbutz clothing, and put the children to bed. Kibbutzniks, Palmachniks, and refugees were all told to hide their ID cards. If the British conducted a search, no one could be identified.

  Meanwhile, the Haganah members in the kibbutz opened the slicks. Rabin and his troops carefully lowered their weapons into the underground shelter, and the slicks were resealed.

  Twice the British attempted to enter the kibbutz with armored cars but did not open fire. Each time they were forced back.

  A short while later, the British stared, confounded.

  Hundreds of trucks, buses, cars, motorcycles, and bicycles moved like armies of ants up the mountain roads toward the kibbutz. Thousands of people had come from Haifa, emptying out of nearly every office, factory, school, restaurant—even from the ships in the harbor. They found their way through the concealed passage into Bet Oren.

  By evening the British knew they had lost the battle. It was impossible to differentiate the “illegal” refugees from the “legal” kibbutzniks and the citizens of Haifa.

  The refugees from Athlit were home in Palestine. And safe.

  TEN

  NOVEMBER 1945

  Outraged by the Athlit breakthrough, the British brought in more soldiers. They searched houses and kibbutzim for arms. They made wholesale arrests. They placed ransoms—thousands of pounds sterling—on the heads of the underground leaders.

  The tougher the British became, the stronger the resistance grew.

  The Haganah joined forces with the two other national-liberation movements; the Irgun, under the leadership of Menachem Begin, and the Lehi, or the Stern group. Together they formed the Jewish Resistance Movement.

  In a united front the resistance fighters began sabotaging bridges, railways, military installations, and the British patrol boats scouring the coast for the illegal ships.

  Meanwhile, in Europe, more and more Jews were streaming into the DP camps and more and more boats were being outfitted, to carry the DPs through the British blockade to Palestine.

  President Truman, shocked by the conditions in the DP camps and the continued suffering, asked England’s foreign minister, Ernest Bevin, to allow one hundred thousand DPs to enter Palestine.

  Bevin dared not refuse. The Labour Party was sorely in need of American aid to bolster the crumbling Empire. On November 15, 1945, Bevin announced the creation of the Anglo-American Committee of Inquiry on Palestine.

  It was the eighteenth commission on Palestine since the Mandate. Meanwhile, the White Paper would remain the law of the land.

  Early in the morning of February 7, 1946, Raquela hung her student uniform away. She pu
shed the clumsy black oxfords and gray stockings to the back of her closet and drew on white silk stockings that caressed her long legs. Then she bent over and carefully laced her white oxfords.

  She trembled a little as she slipped the new white uniform over her head. Walking to her desk, she studied herself in the small mirror, turning slowly, as if she were on a pedestal. The starched uniform with its white-bibbed apron seemed to reveal her best features—her firm rounded bosom, her trim, sinewy hips, her shapely legs. She stood tall and erect.

  Señora Vavá would have approved, she thought. If only she were alive for this day.…

  She combed and recombed her hair, long and brown, like Mama’s, with glints of gold. She finally worked it into a high pompadour. Then she lifted the new cap that marked her as a graduate nurse and pinned it into the pompadour. It was a simple starched white cap with a red star of David in the center.

  She touched her lips with lipstick, fluffed some powder on her nose and chin, took one more swift survey in the mirror, and hurried through the pergola into the hospital.

  The vast entrance hall was transformed. Hundreds of people had crowded into the white-marbled lobby, talking in low excited voices. It reminded Raquela of a theater, of the mystery and anticipation before the curtain goes up.

  On the broad marble steps, ninety undergraduates in blue and white student uniforms and white starched cowls arranged themselves, looking like blue and white cornflowers.

  At the foot of the stairs, seated behind a long table, were Dr. Chaim Yassky, Director General of the Hadassah Medical Organization, Mrs. Cantor, Miss Landsmann, and Mrs. Simonson.

  In front of the speaker’s table, Raquela took her place with her class. Behind them, in rows of wooden chairs on the marble floor, sat their relatives and friends.

  A woman violinist opened the ceremonies with selections from Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto. Raquela turned her head and saw Mama and Papa sitting proudly. She scanned the rows of spectators. Dr. Brzezinski sat near the back. Their eyes met and held. She was full of happiness.

  The speeches began. Dr. Yassky spoke of this special wartime class that he knew would distinguish itself in nursing. Even their graduation day was special, held in February rather than in September, to mark the end of their three years of study.

  Mrs. Cantor made a brief speech. “These are critical days. Our country needs you as never before. I hope as you make your rounds as nurses, you will go on learning, studying. We have requests for you from all over Palestine. I hope you will accept the challenge.”

  She called each girl forward to present her with the mark of the Hadassah nurse—the large round silver pin. Raquela heard her name. She walked to the table, shook Mrs. Cantor’s hand, accepted her pin, then moved down the length of the table, shaking all the hands, and returned to her chair.

  She examined the pin carefully. The word “Hadassah” was superimposed over the star of David. Circling the edge of the pin, in tiny Hebrew letters, were the words “The Healing of the Daughter of My People” and the name “Hadassah-Henrietta Szold School of Nursing, Jerusalem.”

  She turned the pin over. Engraved on the back, under her name, were the year 1946 and the numbers 26 and 417. She understood. Hers was the twenty-sixth graduating class, and she, Raquela Levy, was the four hundred seventeenth graduate. She fastened the pin on the left lapel of her uniform. Pictures—fragments of the three years she had spent on this mountaintop—flashed through her mind. The dark tragic war years. Now what lay ahead?

  “Raquela Levy.” She heard Mrs. Cantor call her name again. “Will you please come forward?”

  Her knees shook as she walked to the speaker’s table. Mrs. Cantor was beaming. “You have been selected as the outstanding student in your class. I am proud to present you with the Elsa Sterling Award. It’s an award from America given in memory of a young woman who was president of Junior Hadassah and died an untimely death.”

  Raquela tried to control the excitement in her voice. “I—I—thank you very much for this honor.”

  Mrs. Cantor handed her two volumes. Her eyes scanned the titles. One was Medical Dictionary, and the other, The Principles and Practices of Nursing. Mrs. Cantor went on. “I hope, Miss Levy, that you will find these books useful for the rest of your life, and we hope you’ll always remember your years at our school.”

  “I know I will.”

  “There’s also a gift of money, but I’m sure you would like to donate it to Miss Szold’s favorite project—Youth Aliyah.”

  A ripple of laughter ran through the student section. Raquela looked up at them and suppressed a smile.

  “I’m pleased to give it in memory of that wonderful woman.”

  Behind her she heard the hall burst into applause. Returning to her seat, she caught a glimpse of Papa’s scholarly face wreathed in smiles. She felt a surge of love toward him and Mama. Dr. Brzezinski’s hands, high in the air, were applauding her. She sat down in her chair, her heart beating wildly.

  The ceremony was over. The people spilled out into the hospital garden set with tables of food and soft drinks under the Jerusalem pines. Raquela was surrounded by well-wishers. Mama reached up to kiss her. Papa embraced her. “You were right to fight us, Raquela. I think it was beshert—destined—that you become a nurse.”

  Arik stood at a distance, watching. Finally, as the crowd around her began to thin, he approached.

  “Mazal tov, Raquela. I was sure you’d be chosen best student.”

  She blushed, trying to hide her pleasure. The prize had seemed somehow unreal; Arik’s approval gave it reality. The hospital garden was filled with graduates in white holding little bouquets of fresh sweet-smelling violets, talking excitedly, kissing their boyfriends.

  “I’d like to help you celebrate,” Arik said. “Are you free for dinner?”

  Her heart ticked like a speeding clock. “I am free, but first I want you to meet my parents.”

  She led him to the table where Papa and Mama waited discreetly. Arik bent low to kiss Mama’s hand. Then, shaking Papa’s hand, he said, “I know your School for Boys, Mr. Levy, and your reputation as one of the great teachers of the Bible.”

  Papa smiled modestly. “I am afraid Raquela exaggerates.”

  “I have heard it from others as well.”

  Raquela slipped her arm through Papa’s. She could feel his hard muscles rippling. She remembered marveling as a child, watching him lift huge boulders from their garden with his bare hands. And how carefully he tended his delicate calla lilies. Papa was all strength and tenderness. And now, looking at Arik, she realized she had never felt so close to Papa. Was there some link between the two men? The same strength and tenderness, though they worked in different fields, lived their lives in different worlds? Was Arik another father figure?

  “Excuse me,” she said to Mama and Papa. “I’ve got to go up and change. Dr. Brzezinski has asked me to dinner.”

  Mama nodded. “We’re going home now. Good-bye, Dr. Brzezinski.”

  He bowed slightly again and kissed her hand.

  Hesse’s Restaurant was up a flight of stairs in downtown Jerusalem, near Zion Square. It was elegant, with white tablecloths and flower vases. At least half the graduates had come to celebrate with their families or their boyfriends.

  Each graduate looked up, smiling, as Raquela and Arik greeted her. A waiter in a black jacket and black bow tie led them to a table in the far corner against the wall.

  They ordered shish kebab and a bottle of red wine.

  Arik raised his glass. “To you, my dear. To a brilliant future as a midwife.”

  Raquela’s eyes shone. She clinked her glass against his. “And to you, Arik. To my teacher.”

  They sipped the wine slowly, watching each other’s faces.

  It seemed to her he was looking at her differently, now that she was a graduate. Was graduation a kind of climax? An end, and a beginning? Arik had taken a volume of Sholom Aleichem from his coat pocket and was thumbing through the pages. �
��This is the story I was looking for,” she heard him say. “Listen to this: ‘You’ve got to stay alive even if it kills you.’ That’s Sholom Aleichem’s philosophy,” he said. “And it works for me, too. It tickles my patients.”

  She laughed, watching his face radiate love for the Yiddish writer.

  “‘You may as well laugh,’ Sholom Aleichem says. ‘Even if you don’t see the joke, laugh on credit. You may see the joke later, and if not, you’re that much to the good.’”

  She chuckled.

  She wanted to tell him how she felt.

  He would always be her teacher, in everything: in medicine, literature, politics, life. She wanted to be open with him. But now he was entering her life in a new way. And she could not talk.

  Was it possible to fall in love with a man fourteen—nearly fifteen—years older than she?

  She looked again at his face. It seemed to her it was the kindest face in the world. She had a yearning to know him better.

  The next weeks gave her ample time. For whenever shootings and explosions made it too dangerous to get back to town, the doctors and nurses stayed for days on Mount Scopus. The hospital became a haven. A small city within the city, with its own special quality of life and healing.

  The Holy Land became a police state. The British brought in more troops, until there were one hundred thousand soldiers. Some of the Black and Tan policemen, who had once suppressed the Irish, were sent to Palestine to keep order.

  Jerusalem was hacked into ugly forbidden barriers, with streets and roads blocked off by great rusted coils of barbed wire. Hotels and office buildings were guarded by concrete pillboxes dubbed “dragon’s teeth.” Tanks and armored cars patrolled the streets.

  Curfew was imposed from seven at night to five in the morning. Anyone caught on the streets without permission could be arrested or shot on the spot.