The race of Jews, and those of darker color, were marked as untermenschen, “subhumans,” destined for service as slave labor to the Aryan race until they were no longer of use. Hitler himself would decide when these races were no longer of use, and even now he was planning an alternate solution for that time.
For the present, however, the untermenschen Jews were performing the greatest of services for the Third Reich. They were the issue upon which the passions of men could come together in a mutual goal. In every land on earth the hearts of men had united in their hatred of the Jews.
This same hatred had built Hitler’s personal army of Brownshirts, and then the SS This hatred had been fundamental in the collapse of Austria and the darkness that presently consumed the land in violence. And now, in the autumn of 1938, it had rolled up and over the mountains of the Sudetenland and left Czechoslovakia broken and without defense.
All these things the Führer had predicted. He was the prophet and high priest of the Aryan race. Hockman made the writings of the Führer his own bible. He lived to serve the prophecies. There was much, much yet to fulfill, and so he had been selected to come to Jerusalem where other disciples of Hitler’s hatred had reasons of their own to see the Jews destroyed and the British government driven from Palestine.
Today that purpose drew him from the vaulted souks of the Old City and propelled him with single-minded intensity down the street toward the gate of Bab es-Silsileh. The name meant “Street of the Chain.” One legend told that a chain had ascended into heaven from the site of the Dome of the Rock where the street ended. Yet another legend spoke of a Crusader king from Austria who had been hung there by a chain. The second tale made more sense to Hockman. If legends about Jerusalem taught anything, it was that this was a city of darkness and intrigue and slaughter. Nothing had changed. Nothing at all.
Spice merchants, weary of waiting for customers who would not come, closed the iron grills of their tiny shops. The scent of peppercorns and cinnamon sticks and precious saffron mingled with the cool air. Hockman inhaled, remembering that great wars had been fought over such items as pepper and cinnamon. Religion had been used as an excuse to stir up the ignorant masses of Europe, but the real reason for quests and crusades had been economics—to capture the trade routes.
Hitler himself had discussed this fact with Hockman over a late supper in Berchtesgaden. “You see, Doktor Hockman,” Hitler had said, fixing his blue eyes on him and leaning forward, “this is the lesson I have learned from history. Men will do for religion what they would not do for mere economics! Clothe one’s purpose in the robes of a religious cause, and they will gladly die for you. Ah—” he shook his finger and chuckled—“but tell them they are dying for the sake of cinnamon and peppercorns, and they will turn and kill you instead!”
For this very reason the Führer had first sent his greetings and sympathy to Haj Amin el Husseini, the Muslim Grand Mufti of Jerusalem. Haj Amin had the piercing blue eyes of his distant Crusader forebears, and he possessed a hatred for the Jews that was as great as that of Hitler himself. Blue eyes and hatred of Jews was quite enough for the Führer to decide that Haj Amin must become an ally of the Reich. From that first meeting had come a promise of financial support for armed attacks against the Jewish settlers and the British armed forces. For two years men from the small terrorist bands recruited by Haj Amin had been trained in Germany by SS officers. The results had been splendid, just as they had been in Austria, Czechoslovakia, and Spain.
Hitler was certain that the English would soon throw up their hands in despair and turn all of Palestine over to Haj Amin el Husseini. He would become king and do as Hitler wished with the Jews. Hitler would keep Haj Amin on his throne for as long as it suited the Reich, and then . . . .there were other plans in the works for Palestine. They did not include untermenschen Arabs or puppet thrones.
For the moment, however, Haj Amin was most useful. He had recruited a band of five thousand guerrillas from Syria and Iraq and Lebanon—paid mercenaries who were also promised that the cause they fought for was a holy one. Drive the infidels from the holy places! Jihad! Holy War! And if you should die in such a cause? Allah in His mercy will instantly welcome you to paradise! This was the promise of the Grand Mufti as his men were paid with German money and armed with German-made weapons for the fight.
These holy strugglers fought against the British. They killed Jews. They assassinated members of the Palestinian Arab community who opposed the madness of this cause. Over five thousand Arab Palestians had died for speaking out against the tactics of Haj Amin or for working with the Zionists. Those labeled as friend of the Jews were marked for death.
Under the tutelage of his friend and mentor, Hitler, Haj Amin had placed his own followers in positions of leadership throughout Palestine. From the lowliest clerk to the muhqtar of a large village, all were indebted to Haj Amin. As it had been in Germany, so it was now in the British Mandate of Palestine. When Haj Amin called for a general strike, no Arab dared to work on pain of death. When he shouted for vengeance and called for demonstrations in the villages and towns, it was as he willed.
The blueprint of conquest was the same here as it had been up to this moment in Europe. And that blueprint was being carried to the study of Haj Amin in Hockman’s scuffed leather briefcase.
Beneath the vaults Hockman walked, past the orange Mameluke buildings that bordered the Western Wall road. Always ahead of him was the great compound of the Dome of the Rock, where the temple of the Jews had once stood. Halfway down the vaulted section, two Jews entered a small doorway on the right. Above the doorway was a Star of David in the grillwork of the arch.
Hockman moved to the left, as though the very air would be poisoned by their breath. This was one of the Jewish soup kitchens that remained open in spite of its nearness to the Muslim Quarter. He mentally marked it as a possible target for the coming activities. The southern exposure of the soup kitchen overlooked the Wailing Wall, and there was talk that the Jews wished to make the building a shortcut to the Jewish holy site that lay in the center of the Muslim Quarter. Yes. The Führer would approve. They would make even daily prayer difficult for the Jews.
It was all so amusing, Hockman thought as the scent of cabbage soup and the sound of Jewish voices mingled to assault his senses. The Jews of Germany longed for nothing so much as they longed for Palestine! “Next year in Jerusalem!” they cried. America would not have them. That hope had died with the sinking of the coffin ship Darien. And so it had to be Palestine. So much the better. Round them up in one desolate corner of the world and eliminate them there by stirring up the passions of the Arabs. The Muslim fanatics would save the Reich the trouble.
As was fitting the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem, Haj Amin lived in the most important building on the street. A few drops of rain splashed Hockman’s cheek as he entered the small square at the end of the lane. Suddenly he was no longer alone. Ten Arabs huddled beneath the high arched portal of Tankiziyya, the residence of the Mufti. They had come, do doubt, as petitioners for one favor or another. Haj Amin would see them in due time. If he granted their favors, he would expect them, sooner or later, to return his favor with something much greater.
At the sight of Hockman, two tall black Sudanese bodyguards shoved the petitioners out of the shelter of the portals and barked orders that the doctor must be let through immediately.
Men stepped aside and watched him with a mixture of fear and awe. The question was evident in their dark eyes: Who could this man be who gains such immediate access to the Mufti?
Many watched him enter the house of Haj Amin. They whispered their knowledge of his importance to one another, but no one seemed to know what his audience was all about. And certainly no one would inform the British. If he was ever questioned by the British authorities, Haj Amin had agreed to say that the meetings had been to discuss the possibility of research in the Muslim-held area of the Dome of the Rock.
Another black bodyguard bowed in deep salaam as Hockm
an entered the foyer.
“He is expecting you,” said the man in Arabic.
Doktor Hockman replied curtly, “Good. The message I bring is most urgent. I have not had tea this afternoon.”
The servant bowed again and then knocked on a massive carved door. The indolent voice of Haj Amin answered through the wood. “Enter.”
The door was opened to reveal the diminuitive red-haired figure of the Grand Mufti. He was staring out the window as the rain began to pelt the glass. He did not look up but waved a hand for Hockman to seat himself in one of the two massive leather chairs before the desk. “Doktor Hockman,” the voice intoned disinterestedly, “my men saw you enter Jaffa Gate. I expected you some time ago. There is no need for you to purchase oranges like a peasant. Such action delays you. Which delays me.”
This Arab intelligence network was as effective as the Gestapo. Hockman tried to guess which of the new faces he had seen on the street might have passed the word along that he was coming.
“I rather enjoy bargaining in the souks,” he said lightly as he sat down.
Haj Amin spoke in perfect German, learned from the Germans who had held sway in Palestine in the Ottoman-Turkish Empire before it had been lost to Britain in 1917. “As I said, such delays also affect my schedule.” He turned to face Hockman. His blue eyes seemed faded, and he tugged his thin red beard as he sat down in a chair behind his desk.
“Then I offer my humble apology, Your Excellency.”
Haj Amin waved an effeminate hand in disregard. “I have been waiting. My friend the Führer has kept me waiting while he bargains in the souks of the world and walks away with everything for nothing. I have waited patiently for some word . . . for more than words. And now I grow impatient as Jews still manage to straggle into Palestine from Europe. What word have you brought me from the Führer?” He raised an eyebrow expectantly.
Hockman smiled. He picked up the briefcase from beside his chair. Placing it on his lap, he held it for a moment.
Haj Amin leaned forward, his gaze on the latch.
“Here is the reply from the Führer, Your Excellency.” With a flourish, Hockman opened the case and took out a manila file folder, which he placed on the desk. Then, still smiling, he removed bound stacks of bills. “Eight thousand. Nine thousand. Ten thousand pounds. It is enough to equip and train a thousand additional mercenaries.” He paused. “The Führer himself is selecting a group leader for the task of training and leading your men.”
Haj Amin silently contemplated the figures on the page Hockman slid across the desk. “This is a fraction of what we need to accomplish our goal. There are British officials to bribe. Equipment and food must be provided.”
“Just as the British provided all that to the Bedouin tribes who fought against us and the Turks in the last war?” Hockman laughed at the thought. The British had provided these Arab bands with military leadership under Lawrence and then had given them the weapons that the Arabs now turned back into the face of Britain. “Hitler will not be so foolish as the English have been with you, Haj Amin. You cannot imagine that he would give you everything all at once? Hardly. One favor deserves another.” He motioned toward the file. “Read it. The Führer has done you a favor, and now he expects one from you in return. After that, of course, there will always be enough to meet the needs at hand.”
Haj Amin lifted his eyes from the stack of bills and the lists of German-made arms and ammunition. He frowned as he picked up the folder. So here he was. Trapped in the same way he trapped the peasants who came to petition him. He did not like it.
2
The Meeting
Eli Sachar sat with his back against the rounded dome of the rooftop. He pretended to watch the haze-shrouded sun as it dropped like a coin into some giant slot beyond Jerusalem.
The trapdoor from the apartment opened, and Eli’s mother called up. “What are you doing, Eli? Come wash for dinner.”
She did not really want to know what he was doing, so the question was followed by a command.
He answered the question but refused the command. “I am praying, Mama. I am fasting tonight.”
This was followed by a long pause. “Oy! Oy! Fast and pray! Pray and fast! You will be a skinny rabbi, Eli Sachar!”
“The Torah sustains me, Mama,” he said, giving an answer that satisfied her, even though it left a gaping hole in his own soul.
In one more year Eli would be a rabbi, graduated from the Yeshiva with honors. It was a dream his parents had carried all the days of his life. But the Torah did not sustain him. His heart was hungry, his mind ravenous. His Jewish soul was torn in two as he listened to the cry of the Muslim muezzin.
The plaintive call to evening prayer echoed over all Jerusalem. It was so common that Jews and Christians paid no attention when the Muslims stopped to bow and pray toward Mecca. The sound of the muezzin was like birds in the trees. It was not meant to awaken the conscience of those who were not Muslims. Eli had lived his lifetime honoring the song. But now it had come to pierce his heart each time he heard it.
The trapdoor banged shut. Eli was alone again with his thoughts and with the melody from the minaret. He closed his eyes and let himself imagine. She will hear it now as she passes by her window. She will stop and look out and think of me. She will know that I am listening, that I am thinking of her. And then she will bow. She will pray. She will ask Allah if someday we might be together just as I ask.
Emotion flooded him as he pictured the willowy form and dark shining eyes of Victoria Hassan. This was his nourishment: The thought of her as she had smiled at him and told him that her heart would meet his at the call to evening prayer! And yet this nourishment made him more hungry.
“Victoria!” he whispered. Longing for her surged up and made it hard for him to breathe. “Victoria! My love!” And yet, how could this be? How could Eli Sachar be in love with an Arab? With a girl he had grown up with? Just like the cry of the muezzin, he had never really noticed her beauty. He had grown up playing on these rooftops with her brother Ibrahim. Arab and Jew, the two boys had barely noticed the gap between them. But always Eli had known that the sister of Ibrahim was as far beyond his reach as the moon. It was forbidden. Muslim woman. Jewish man. It could never be. Never!
And yet here he was, waiting on the roof as he had promised. Waiting for Ibrahim to come for him again and lead him to her. That which was most forbidden had now become that which Eli desired more than anything else in his life. His body ached with wanting her. His mind reeled with the forbidden possibilities.
The voice of the muezzin died away, leaving a thousand echoes to swirl around Eli. Darkness came too slowly over Jerusalem. Silence crept in, startled by the occasional clang of a shop grate or the barking of a dog. The air became cool, but Eli was sweating in his white shirt and black trousers. His sandy brown hair was damp with perspiration. He clenched and unclenched his fists as he stared out at the broadening swirl of stars above him. “Forgive me, O Eternal! I love her! More than the Law. More than my life! More than—”
“More than your Arab brother, Ibrahim?” The voice of Ibrahim Hassan laughed from behind him.
Eli leaped to his feet. “I did not hear you!”
“You never were as good as I in hide-and-seek.”
“You’re late.”
“I am early, Eli.”
“It feels late.”
“They tell me that is as it should be when a man is in love.”
“Then it feels very late!”
“That is why I allow you to see her, my Jewish brother. Such awareness of time is not the way an Arab man looks at his woman.” He stepped across the division between the close-packed housetops. “My sweet little sister deserves better in her life.”
Like a drowning man in need of breath, Eli needed Victoria. “Where is she?”
Ibrahim smiled and his white teeth glinted. It was good that the brother of his heart loved the sister of his blood. Somehow even that which was forbidden must work out sooner o
r later.
Ibrahim stepped back across the roof and easily jumped over a three-foot crevice that dropped forty feet to the stones below. Eli followed without speaking. The two young men moved effortlessly across this rooftop terrain that had once been their childhood playground. Over the vaulted souks. Above the Christian Quarter. Over the shops and homes of the shoemakers and tinsmiths and spice merchants. Finally they crossed an unmarked boundary into the Muslim Quarter.
Even in the gloom of night Eli could see the outline of the Old City wall. Ahead and to the right was the rooftop of Tankiziyya, where the Muslim Grand Mufti lived. A presence of evil hovered above that place, but Eli was not afraid. He was with Ibrahim, so there was no reason to fear. Beyond the Mufti’s residence was the great rounded mass of the Temple Mount and the Dome of the Rock. All this seemed so peaceful in the darkness and starlight of Jerusalem. Christian, Jew, Arab—all rested quietly beneath the roofs, which looked like a field of round caps scattered on the ground. Unless a man knew the borders that marked each religious group, it would be impossible to tell where Jew ended and Arab began. But the chasms were real. Invisible barriers were the most difficult walls to surmount.
“She is there.” Ibrahim pointed to the high walls of the stone house belonging to a wealthy spice merchant. “You must climb the courtyard wall. Be careful; there are bits of glass embedded in the top of the wall. She stays there tonight with a friend who also works as a secretary for the British.”
Eli studied the stones of the garden wall. Suddenly he was reminded of the gulf between his love for Victoria and the reality of his life as a Jewish rabbinical student. For one instant he almost turned back, but his doubt was smaller by far than his love for her.