Mitla Pass - Leon Uris [143]
What happened took place in the blink of an eye. Natasha Solomon, dressed as a belly dancer, was across the room, looking like she was ready to be eaten in layers.
I stood next to Gideon, who was immediately trapped by two women, and in that instant Natasha’s and Gideon’s eyes made contact across the room. I could almost swear the entire place had turned silent and they were the only two people left in it. If anyone had passed through the beam between their eyes, they would have been fried.
“Her name is Natasha Solomon,” I said. “She works in the P.M.’s office. You want an introduction?”
“I’ll introduce myself,” Gideon answered and took off in her direction. I trailed behind out of morbid curiosity. Gideon pushed into the circle around Natasha, took her by the arm, and led her to a quiet corner.
“You’re Natasha Solomon. I’m Gideon Zadok.”
“Yes, I know,” she said. “Can I have my arm back?”
As he let her arm go, he saw the tattooed number that denoted a concentration camp inmate. He stared at it for ever so long; then he looked into her eyes and tears fell down his cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I can’t get used to it.”
“That’s all right, I’m in Israel now,” Natasha answered. “Here now, no need to cry.” And she put her arms about his neck so naturally, drew him close, and held him and let him finish his tears.
I, Shlomo Bar Adon, who rarely lies, could swear that I felt the walls of the Old City shake at that instant.
“Lunch, Hesse’s at one o’clock tomorrow, all right?” Gideon asked.
“I’ll be there,” Natasha answered.
That was it. I don’t know what I started by taking him to that party. At the very least, it looked like I had stirred up a couple of dormant volcanoes.
THERE WAS A great deal of activity at the command post, so I went over. A new radio was in working order! Our operator was receiving the end of a long message from the Southern Command. He handed it to the major.
“Para 202 ran into heavy resistance at Thamad. Outside air support has failed to develop. That would mean the British and French. If the situation is not better by morning, we are going to attempt to evacuate.”
“God in heaven, how are we going to get out of here?” a young officer asked.
“Don’t worry, don’t worry,” the major said, “Zechariah will break through to us ... don’t worry.”
JERUSALEM
February 1956
THE HUGE STONE VERANDA in the rear of the King David Hotel offered a taunting view over the Kidron Valley to the Ottoman walls of the Old City. A gash of barbed wire ran through the valley, dividing the city and the country in half. One could almost reach out and touch the Jaffa Gate, it was so close. It had become an obsession with the Jews, for inside the Old City stood the most sacred place in all of Jewry, the Western Wall of Solomon’s Temple.
Gideon was no exception. The sight of the Old City jolted his imagination to the threshold of pain. It was more than cruel for the Jordanians to deny access, he thought.
“Hello, cowboy,” Natasha’s voice said behind him.
“Hi,” Gideon said coming to his feet. “You look great.”
“Even out of costume?”
“Don’t leave me an opening like that,” he said.
“Hi there, it’s me, Natasha.”
“What?”
“You seem to be in a trance.”
“Sorry. It’s the Old City over there. It seems that every night I’m in Jerusalem, I dream about crossing over and going to the Western Wall. It can drive you crazy, I guess, if you live here.”
“Yes, it does. We may yet live to see it.”
Four days had flown by since the party. Four lovely evenings together. Fink’s, a tiny five-table bistro, was the only place one could get a decent steak or Polish vodka and whisper romantic nothings. It had become their “in” place.
Gideon and Natasha hadn’t done much about probing into each other’s history or volunteering details of their pasts. They spoke in the abstract, gazed at each