Ten Years Gone полностью

"Yes," he said, regaining his voice. "And I have to say my curiosity is piqued. I'm looking forward to you telling me what this is all about. Got a pencil handy?"

I took out my notebook and pencil and told him to go on.

"The only ship that fits the timeframe you gave me is the Salonika. It set sail from the port of Piraeus, Greece, on March 2, 1939. Forty maapilim were said to be on board."

Maapilim was the term used for illegal Jewish immigrants to Mandatory Palestine. Illegal in the eyes of the British authorities who had administered the Mandate of Palestine from 1920 until 1948, when Israel was reborn. Since the 1930s, when Great Britain reneged on its promise of establishing a Jewish national home in Palestine and began severely restricting the number of Jews it allowed to immigrate there, Zionist organizations started smuggling Jews in, mostly by sea. Thousands of Jews currently living in Israel were maapilim.

"You're not certain about the number?"

"No," Birnbaum said. "There is no official number nor a passenger list. But that was the number given at the time. What the papers reported at the time, anyway. But what is more interesting is what happened to the Salonika and to the people it was carrying."

He paused, as if savoring his possession of information he knew I craved. It was like a scoop, and he lived for scoops.

"Come on, Shmuel. Spit it out."

"On the morning of March 5, while it was in the process of disembarking passengers somewhere north of Netanya, the Salonika was spotted by a British patrol ship. The British opened fire. A short battle ensued. Fourteen of the passengers died, as did two crew members. Ten maapilim were captured and taken into custody."

"And the rest?"

"Taken to safe houses around the country, I imagine. Lived here ever since."

"Who was in charge of the ship?"

"The Irgun. Which explains what happened next. Those meshuganahs were always gung ho."

The Irgun had been a right-wing Jewish militant group that fought to expel the British from Palestine and so bring about the establishment of a Jewish state there. Their methods included bombings, kidnappings, and assassinations of British personnel and soldiers. In addition, they had also striven to bring in as many Jews as they could to Palestine, regardless of British immigration quotas.

"What happened?"

"The Irgun stormed the prison where the British kept the ten captured maapilim. It was a fiasco. Six more died, though they did manage to get the other four out. They also killed five British guards."

Six dead for four liberated. Not a good trade.

"It was no great honor to be part of that raid, you can imagine," Birnbaum continued. "So it's no surprise I only managed to uncover the name of one of the Irgun members involved."

"What's his name?" I asked.

"It's a she. Mira Roth."

I wrote down the name as well as the phone number and address where she worked.

"Thank you, Shmuel," I said.

"Just remember our deal. I'm counting on a very big story from you."

I told him I would do my best and rang off. Luckily, no one was waiting to use the phone. I dialed the number Birnbaum had given me.

Female chatter and laughter in the background. A woman's voice said hello. I asked to speak with Mira Roth. She was called to the phone.

"Mira speaking. Who is this?" Her voice was strong and deep and laced with smoke. A confident voice.

"Miss Roth, my name is Adam Lapid. I'm calling for information regarding a ship, the Salonika. I—"

"Who gave you my number? How did you get my name?" She was agitated. Her voice rose somewhat in pitch.

"From Shmuel Birnbaum. You may know the name. He writes for Davar—"

"Davar!" Acid dripped over the line along with that single word. "You think I'm going to talk to anyone working for that rag? Don't ever call here again, you hear?"

She slammed the phone down so hard it hurt my ear. I was about to ring her again, but decided to obey her instructions. Besides, she never said anything about not coming to see her in person, did she?

The hair salon stood three doors west of the corner of Frishman and Dizengoff , flanked by a stationery store and a photography studio. Through the open door came a similar sound of female festivity to the one I'd heard when I called there earlier. Inside were five women. Two were seated in high chairs in front of mirrors, having their hair done, each attended by a hairdresser. The fifth woman occupied a chair at the opposite wall. She was either waiting her turn or simply enjoying the company of her friends.

My appearance in the doorway had an immediate effect on the merry quintet. Conversation abruptly ceased, and five pairs of eyes flicked my way. I got the distinct impression male visitors were rare in this bastion of womanhood.

"Can we help you with something?" said the older of the two hairdressers, a plump late-fortyish woman.

"I'm here to see Mira Roth," I said.