Miles To Go

7. Haifa, 1947

7

Haifa, 1947

The Greek registered cargo ship, Elena Karolina, eased into its moorings. A miracle it had made the crossing safely—a rust bucket of the highest order--it listed badly to starboard. A decent gale would blow it over, where, I had no doubt, it would settle into the lovely waters and disappear forever with barely a gurgle. The Greek crew and its captain bore the seamy look and demeanour of career criminals. I’d been around enough of them in my life to know. They charged exorbitant fees to the desperate yearning for escape and gave little in return. Rancid food, oily water and comfortable sleeping quarters below deck near the bilge. I stood on deck and watched the ship slide into its berth. The jetty creaked and groaned on contact. For a moment, I thought the whole structure might collapse into the Mediterranean Sea. I turned and looked behind me at the serene, azure waters of the Bay of Haifa. Around me stood anxious men, women and children who had made the pilgrimage to Palestine in the vain hope the British authorities might let them in. Refugees fleeing the torment of Europe and the brutality of the Nazi occupation. Jews mostly but not all, some Christian pilgrims who believed in a holy land and the birthplace of Jesus. Some thieves and crooks scattered within the crowd looking for new territory and new marks. But the Jews. You could feel their wanting, see the need and desire to be in a place they could call their own having fled decimated lives. Lives that had been burned to the ground. A bizarre, unworldly concept; that of a Jewish homeland. They stood quietly, anxiously, in the reverberating heat, their clothes threadbare, meager possessions gathered around them. The fact I had arrived at all, surprised me. Arranged by Jake through his shady network of contacts, I didn’t believe it might actually happen. I’d moved in a fog the previous ten days, making connections, having whispered conversations, meeting shadowy figures in doorways or rundown bars and finally, Palestine spread out before me. I did a rough calculation in my head and realized that today was Miryam’s wedding day. My heart contracted for a moment. All the more reason to get as far away as possible. The realization certainly darkened my mood in the glare of blazing light. We parted badly, open, oozing wounds between us. Miryam. Married. To someone else.

The crowd of refugees surged toward the gangplank, funneling into a jagged stream blocked by a line of British soldiers standing stiffly on the quay, rifles at ready. Although hopeful, the refugees looked beaten, certainly malnourished and despite the open journey across the Mediterranean, surprisingly pale. They shuffled forward in silence. What belongings they carried hiked up on shoulders, as they made their way slowly toward the stoic wall of soldiers.

I hung back a bit letting the crowd fill in before me. It took time for the six hundred and fifty men, women and children to disembark, encumbered physically and emotionally. The line backed up, packing people together even tighter. The sun blazed. Children whimpered. As we waited, a few of the refugees swayed, drifting in the still air. I knew that in a moment or two, some would crumple sending waves of panic through the line.

“We need some water up here,” I called. “We’ve got thirsty women and children.”

Heads turned my way. Bleached British eyes flicked in my direction. On the quay, an officer stepped in front of the line of soldiers. He removed his hat and wiped the inside of the band with a linen handkerchief. He settled the hat back on his head, shifted his swagger stick to his left armpit and began making his way up the gangplank. The line parted to let him through. Like the others, he wore khaki shorts, knee socks and a short-sleeve tunic with epaulettes darkened at the armpits. The officer threaded his way up the gangplank like a shark swimming against the tide. I remained still and watched. Finally, he drew near and stopped, then shifted his position so that he stood above me. A lanky figure, golden moustache and liquid blue eyes. The brim of the hat shaded a ruddy face. He grimaced or smiled. I couldn’t tell.

“Now then,” he said. “I believe you made a request.”

“These people need water. If they collapse on the gangplank, you and your men will have a significant problem. I don’t think you want to start carrying bodies of women and children out of here. If I’m not mistaken, I thought I saw a few reporters on the quayside. I don’t think that sort of publicity would be particularly beneficial, do you?”

“May I see your identification, please?”

“Of course, Lieutenant. My pleasure.” I handed him my passport.

He leafed through the pages languidly as if perusing some tome in a favourite book shop.

He glanced up.

“What is your business here, Mr. Gold?”

“Tourist.” I thought of Miryam in her wedding dress and my heart turned to ice.

The officer chuckled. “You expect me to believe that?”

“It’s the truth.”

“I’ve discovered that the truth is often a very nuanced concept.”

“Well, that’s unfortunate.”

“Indeed,” replied the officer. Then he turned and barked. “Wilson. Get some water up here for these people before they pass out on this gangplank. On the double.” He turned back to me. “I’d like you to come with me.”

“What for?”

The officer had already started back down easing past the waiting, tense bodies. I picked up my rucksack and followed. I felt their eyes on me as I made my way through the line. No one spoke. I made eye contact with a young child perched on her father’s shoulders. She stared at me solemnly. It spooked me. How does a child so young live in such silence?

The officer stood by an ancient Land Rover. A taciturn driver sat behind the wheel.

“Hop in,” he said.

“Am I under arrest?”

“Not yet.”

I climbed into the back seat. The driver hit the ignition and the engine coughed into life. The English officer sat beside me. The Land Rover lurched off.

“Your first time in Palestine?” the Englishman asked.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

He didn’t say anything the rest of the way. The journey was short, barely five minutes down a series of dusty, pitted roads. The Land Rover pulled up to a gate that lifted as the driver slowed, then he punched the accelerator and we jerked forward shooting into an equally dusty courtyard. A group of battered Nisan huts sat along the perimeter.

The Lieutenant hopped out. “This way,” he said.

I followed.

He strode toward the largest hut pushing through a door with a posted sign that read, “Strictly No Admittance,” leading me into an office where men and women in uniform sat at desks answering jangling phones or typing frantically. He led me down a corridor to a glass door, opened it and waited.

“Go through.”

I went through. A large room with dual aspect windows and rickety blinds pulled down half-way. An arthritic fan stood in a corner feebly blowing hot air about.

The officer indicated a metal chair placed in front of a battered metal desk.

‘Take a seat.” I sat. “Drink?”

“Sure.”

“G and T all right?”

“Fine.”

He went to a sideboard and deftly poured some gin into some glasses and added the tonic water.

“No ice, I’m afraid,” and handed me one.

“Thanks.”

He took a gulp, then went round the desk and sat in a creaky chair on casters. He studied my passport with great interest.

“How’s the drink?”

“Fine,” I replied.

“Good. I see you’re a Canadian.”

“That’s right.”

“Passport seems in order.”

“Glad to hear it.”

He leaned back. The chair protested.

“In the service, were you?”

“Wasn’t everyone?”

He smiled coldly.

“You see, Mr. Gold, I really don’t believe you are a tourist.”

“Then you’d be mistaken.”

He smiled. “I don’t think so. You are a Jew, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Says so here.” He tapped my passport on the edge of the desk.

“I believe, Mr. Gold, that you are a mercenary. There are quite a few about. First from Canada, however.”

“Really, Lieutenant….?”

“Cartwright-Jones.”

“…Cartwright-Jones. I assure you I am not.”

“Perhaps not yet, Mr. Gold.”

“I wasn’t aware there was a war on here in Palestine.”

“There isn’t, old boy. But there will be. Only a matter of time.”

“I’m not interested in politics.”

“Where did you serve?”

“Infantry. Europe. 1939-1945. Rank, acting Lieutenant. You?”

“Similar. Infantry. North Africa. Rommel and Monty’s show.”

“Bet that was a blast.”

“It had its moments.”

“And you’re still here, Lieutenant.”

“I go where I’m posted. And that was here, unfortunately. I had rather hoped for India.”

I drained the rest of the glass.

“Thanks for the drink.” I hoped that would inject a note of finality into our chat. “Perhaps you’d be so good as to return my passport now. I think the government of Canada would be grateful.”

“Of course.” But he didn’t hand it over right away. “This is a tinderbox, Mr. Gold. Arabs and Jews poised at each other’s throats. The only thing standing between them is us, the British army. Once we leave, who knows what will happen? But I suspect it will be a bloodbath. Perhaps you’ve had your fill of all that these past few years?”

“Perhaps. I didn’t know the British army was leaving.”

“Only a matter of time, old chap. And when we do…” He grimaced then reluctantly, handed back my passport. “I expect the Haganah or the Irgun could use an experienced man like you,” he added.

“I told you, Lieutenant. I’m here as a tourist, nothing more.”

“Of course, you are, Mr. Gold.”

“What will happen to the men, women and children at the quayside?”

He shrugged. His smooth, golden looks unblemished. “An internment camp most likely. They’re here illegally. Surely, you can see that?”

“It seems to me that we fought the last war in part, Lieutenant, to save people like them, to give them a chance at freedom, not to put them into internment camps. Surely, you can see that.”

“Not my doing, I’m afraid. I just follow orders I’m given. I don’t have to agree with them.”

I nodded. “Funny, isn’t it? The Nazis said the same thing.”

The golden man’s expression hardened. “Mind how you go, Mr. Gold.” He handed me back the passport. “ My driver can drop you into town if you like. There’s a bus station if that is useful to you.”

“That would be appreciated. And again, thank you for the drink.”

He didn’t reply but I could feel his turbulent thoughts. I left the office and made my way to the courtyard. The taciturn driver leaned up against the Land Rover pulling on a fag. He didn’t move as I came abreast.

“Give you the Palestine at war speech, did he?” he asked.

“Something like that.”

The soldier nodded took a final pull then flicked the butt into the dust.

“Gives him an excuse to knock back the G and T’s, I expect.” He climbed behind the wheel. “Coming?”

I got aboard and hadn’t even sat before he gunned the engine and we took off, throwing me into the seat. The driver didn’t say anything else. Twenty minutes later, he pulled up at a curbside in the heart of Haifa. It had the feel of a fishing village under siege. He pointed to a ramshackle building across the road.

“Bus station’s over there.”

“Thanks.”

I hopped out, retrieved my rucksack from behind the seat.

“Good luck,” the driver said and darted out into traffic, U-turning raggedly, ignoring the blaring horns, to return the way he’d come.

Opposite the bus station, stood a dreary café. I went inside and ordered a cup of coffee and a roll. I paid and found a table outside facing the street. I sat and waited, sipping the coffee, chewing on the roll. I set the cup down and pushed the plate away from me. I fished a fag out of a packet of cigarettes. As I was about to light up, a tanned hand holding a lighter appeared in front of me. I looked up into an equally tanned face.

“Need a light?” he asked.

“Thanks.”

He clicked the lighter shut. A Zippo. He sat down in the chair opposite.

“I thought you were going to be arrested.”

“For being a tourist? I don’t think so.”

The fellow laughed showing yellow teeth.

“You can’t be too careful. The British have their spies also. Even Jews will inform if the price is right.”

“Good to know.”

“I saw you on the quay.”

“Well, I did come in by ship.”

The man smiled again. “We’ve been expecting you.”

“We?”

“We received a message that you were coming and that you are also a man with, certain skills and experience?”

“You don’t say.”

“So, we’ve been told.”

“By who?” I asked.

The man shook his head and smiled again.

“Where are you from?” I asked. “Poland? Hungary?”

“Romania, if you must know. Look, we are doing important work here, but we are, understaffed at the moment.”

“Your English is very good.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” I took a long pull and blew out.

“This isn’t a good place to sit. It’s too easy to be seen. The British are here frequently. Are you interested in meeting some people? Some people who would like to speak with you about your visit here?”

I thought for a moment. Jake had put these wheels in motion. Strange, how he felt some unusual sense of loyalty to Palestine. I think he figured it could be turned into one huge casino or tax-free booze can where he could run guns and rum freely and openly without restrictions. But a few things had to happen first. I was at loose ends. On temporary leave from the army and unsure what to do with myself after my imminent discharge. Now, Miryam had married. Jake had pushed me to come here, so here I came. I should have known other reasons fueled his enthusiasm for my sojourn in the Promised Land.

I ground the butt into an ashtray and stood up.

“Lead the way. What did you say your name was?”

The tanned man stood up. “I didn’t. But it’s Bruno.”

“Well, let’s go, Bruno.”

“You go first. Meet me around the back of the café.”