Exodus - Leon Uris [182]
“You’ll have to forgive me,” Ari said. “I must leave after dinner for a while.”
“What about the curfew?”
“That only applies to Jews,” Ari said.
Ari left Kitty and drove from Tel Aviv to the adjoining suburb town of Ramat Gan—the Hill Garden. It was a contrast to the apartment-house city of Tel Aviv in that it was a town of individual homes set in lawns and trees and gardens. The houses were of stucco with red tiled roofs, and they ranged from cottages to huge villas. Ari parked the car and walked about for more than a half hour to make certain he was not being followed.
He came to Montefiore Street 22, a large villa owned by a Dr. Y. Tamir. Dr. Tamir answered the knock, greeted Ari with a warm handshake, and led him downstairs to the basement.
The home of Tamir was Haganah headquarters.
The cellar held munitions and arms, and a printing press which ground out leaflets in Arabic warning the Arabs to remain calm and keep the peace. In another section of the basement a girl spoke in Arabic into a tape recording machine, repeating the warning of the leaflets. The tape would later be transmitted over the secret mobile radio station, Kol Israel—the Voice of Israel. The manufacturing of hand grenades and the assembly of homemade Sten guns were also among the activities of the underground headquarters.
All activity stopped as Dr. Tamir appeared with Ari. The latter was surrounded and congratulated on the Exodus affair; questions were fired at him from all sides.
“Later, later,” Dr. Tamir pleaded.
“I must see Avidan,” Ari said.
He made his way past the stacked cases of rifles to the door of a secluded office and knocked upon it.
“Yes?”
Ari opened the door and stood before the bald-headed, squat farmer who commanded the underground army. Avidan leeked up from the papers on his rickety desk and burst into a smile. “Ari! Shalom!” He sprang up and threw his arms around Ari’s neck, shoved him into a chair, closed the door, and slapped Ari on the back with the force of a pile driver. “So good to see you, Ari! You did a first-class job on the British. Where are the boys?”
“I sent them home.”
“Good. They deserve a few days. Take a few days yourself. “
This was an impressive reward from Avidan, who had not taken a day off for himself in a quarter of a century.
“Who is the girl you came in with?”
“An Arab spy. Don’t be so nosy.”
“Is she one of our friends?”
“No, she isn’t a friend. Not even a fellow traveler.”
“A shame. We could use a good American Christian.”
“No, she’s just a nice woman who looks at Jews as though she were looking into a cage at a zoo. I’m running her up to Jerusalem tomorrow to see Harriet Saltzman about getting her a place in Youth Aliyah.”
“Something personal, maybe?”
“Good Lord, no. Now turn your Jewish curiosity somewhere else.”
The room was stuffy. Avidan pulled out a large blue kerchief and mopped the sweat from his bald pate.
“That was quite a welcome we got yesterday from the Maccabees. I hear the refinery will be burning for a week. Wrecked production.”
Avidan shook his head. “They did a good job yesterday—but what of the day before yesterday and what of the day after tomorrow? They are making three bad raids to every good one. Every time they resort to brutality or indiscriminate murder the whole Yishuv suffers. We are the ones who have to answer for Maccabee actions. Tomorrow General Haven-Hurst and the high commissioner will be at Yishuv Central. They’ll be pounding their fists on Ben Gurion’s desk demanding we use the Haganah to apprehend them. I swear I don’t know what to do sometimes. So far the British haven’t really turned on the Haganah but I am afraid if Maccabee terror continues ... they’ve even taken up bank robbery to finance their operations.”
“British banks, I hope.” Ari lit a cigarette and stood up and paced the tiny office. “Perhaps the time has come to stage a few good raids of our own.”
“No ... we just can’t risk the Haganah. We are the ones who must defend all the Jews. Illegal immigration ...