“Two dead and two in hospital.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It was very unf
ortunate,” he said. “Our patrols managed to capture most of the group that got through, and I just received word that those detainees will be brought here, to Atlit. At least fifty of them. They will be arriving within the next twenty-four hours. I have orders to hold them in a separate barrack, under special guard. I thought you might wish to inform your superiors at the Jewish Agency about this, if only to increase the delivery of bread and such.”
Tirzah nodded, knowing as he knew that she would have found out about the incoming refugees within the hour anyway; there would be a phone call for her or a message delivered by a milkman or a volunteer “teacher” with a pass freshly stamped by the Jewish Agency. “It is quite possible that my people are already well aware of this,” she said, acknowledging their customary minuet of indirection and euphemism.
“In any case,” he said, “I wanted you to have every chance to prepare the kitchen. And one more thing: I seem to recall that your son is due to come for a visit.”
“Tomorrow.”
“It might be better to postpone the trip this time.”
A shiver ran up Tirzah’s back.
“There is talk of repatriating this particular group of refugees—and as quickly as possible.”
“You can’t be serious,” she sputtered. “It hasn’t been safe for Jews in Iraq since 1940. The Baghdad pogrom—two hundred innocent men murdered. The whole Jewish community blackmailed, terrorized. If you send back fifty avowed Zionists, they will be murdered, and it will put every Jew in the Arab world at risk, too.”
“I doubt it would come to that,” Bryce said. “Our chaps are well in command of things there at the moment.”
“At the moment,” Tirzah mocked.
“I understand your position,” said Bryce.
“Do you?”
“Yes, I do, in fact,” he said. “I believe that at some point, quite soon, the Yishuv will stage a military attack against the mandatory forces on behalf of the immigrants from Europe, in particular.”
“You think there is going to be an attack here?”
“I am not the person in this room with access to that intelligence,” Bryce said, breaking the rules of their game for good. “But given the risk, I would keep Danny away from here right now.”
Tirzah nodded.
“Very well,” Bryce announced crisply, and put on his hat. For a moment Tirzah thought he might actually lift his hand to his forehead and salute, but instead he lowered his voice and gently said, “Shalom, Mrs. Friedman.”
Tirzah watched him from the door, his shoulders back and his head high, as though he were marching in formation. The more she thought about it, the more she agreed with his suspicions. The story of the Iraqis’ capture was sure to be in tomorrow’s newspapers. The Palmach would not permit this deportation and they would have to act fast. Everything was about to change.
Tirzah folded thick brown paper around the halvah. She wondered if Danny would remember Bryce at all: the candy he brought for him, his kind green eyes. She wondered if they would ever touch one another again.
Shayndel left the kitchen confused. She had assumed that the relationship between the officer and the cook was one-sided: the besotted old colonel wrapped around the finger of a younger woman who was making a terrible sacrifice on behalf of her country. But it seemed obvious that the feeling between them was mutual. Did that make Tirzah a collaborator? Had she been passing information to the enemy?
The suspicion ran counter to Shayndel’s instincts. It was possible that Bryce could be a double agent, but not Tirzah. Poor thing, thought Shayndel, not that she would want any part of my sympathy.
As she rounded the corner of Delousing, Shayndel had the strange feeling she had walked out of a prison camp and into a theater. Virtually every inmate in Atlit seemed to be gathered, either watching or taking part in a parody of a calisthenics class.
The strongest men and boys—forty in all—were lined up in the clearing near the fence, while a dark, stocky man she’d never seen before was delivering a nonstop monologue while running in place.
He was wearing the sort of gray undershirt associated with American GI’s, and shouted, “Knees up, children,” as he lifted his combat boots high with every step. “It’s only been five minutes and we’re going to run for another ten. After that, we start the jumping jacks and it really gets hard.
“Don’t look at the man next to you,” he wheedled, switching from Hebrew to Yiddish and back. “Look at me. Watch me. I’m running and yelling at you at the same time and I could do this all day. By the time I’m done with you, you’ll be able to walk from Haifa to Tel Aviv without stopping. Hup, hup, hup.
“You are hot? Then take off the shirts, fellows. You, too, ladies.” He grinned at the dozen girls who were taking part, lined up in a back row. Leonie and Tedi were among them and called for Shayndel to join them, but she waved and headed for the shade of the corrugated awning.
“Knees up, feet up, my little Jews. No more Diaspora arms and legs,” he shouted, flexing his biceps like a circus strong-man, then grinning and mocking his pose. “Eretz Yisrael needs you to have muscles like Nathan.” The young boys mimicked him, clenching fists at the end of arms that looked like chicken legs.