“Let us go into the open,” said Esther, “among the henna shrubs… . And then, what is it? To the vineyards?”
“Where did you learn that?”
“Jacob has been taking lessons from that fellow from Grodno, the one who has so many books.”
“Don’t tell me you’re letting him study with that fanatic?” Zorah said.
“He must become learned in the ways of the Torah,” said Esther.
Zorah smiled. “You are already a better Jew than I am.”
“Why don’t you teach Jacob?” Esther said. “You are learned,” she insisted, cutting off Zorah’s objection. “Don’t deny it. And you are not a fanatic. Most important, you care about him and he cares for you.”
Zorah opened her mouth, but Esther stopped her again. “It doesn’t matter what book you use.”
The ball bounded out of play and landed at Jacob’s feet. He smiled at his mother and booted it directly between two bricks that had been set up as a makeshift goal.
“Who did that?” cried the other boys. “It was Jacob? It was him? Hey, the baby can kick!”
Esther gave him a gentle push forward and he joined the game, which went on until the afternoon sun started to cool and an ancient Mercedes, coated with dust, roared up the road.
Two short, stocky men jumped out. They wore white shirts and jackets but no ties, and their hats were pulled down over their foreheads as they headed for the front gate. Goldberg met them and escorted them to the barrack where Bob and Uri were being held.
“Comrades,” Goldberg called, “I have some gentlemen from the Yishuv to speak to you.”
The door opened and all three of them disappeared inside. A few boys near the windows tried to hear what was going on, but everyone else settled in, anticipating a long wait.
Barely ten minutes later, the Yishuv men reappeared. Uri and Bob glared at the startled crowd as they marched behind their rescuers, arms stiff at their sides, fists clenched all the way to the car, which coughed and shuddered to life and raced out of sight.
By then, Francek and his friends had emerged from the barrack, packs of American cigarettes bulging in their shirt pockets.
“Look how our heroes were bought off for a carton of smokes,” said Zorah, who pushed her way forward and put out her hand. “Not at all,” Francek protested as he handed them out.
The mutineers would only smirk when asked about what they had gotten in return for the hostages. But Francek couldn’t help boasting. “Those two guys you saw, they’re big shots in the Jewish Agency. They were very sympathetic to our demands, and I could see, honestly, that I made quite an impression on them. When I get out of here, I am pretty sure there will be a commission in the army for me. Commensurate with my abilities—that’s how they put it.”
Zorah managed to keep from laughing at the double-edged message. “Good for you, Frankie,” she said as she slipped an extra cigarette out of his packet. “Let’s just hope your little stunt won’t make problems for the rest of us.”
With the breakout postponed for twenty-four hours, Tirzah had to inform Bryce about the change. Her head ached at the prospect of seeing him in his office, where everything they shared seemed distorted and dirty.
She walked through the gate, across the road, past Wilson-the-anti-Semite, and into the office, wishing she had thought to take an aspirin.
Private Gordon got to his feet. “Colonel Bryce is on a call at the moment,” he said, “let me get you some water,” pouring it before she could say no.
“Thank you,” she said. She sat down, emptied the glass, looked up at the clock. “Where are you from?” she asked.
“I am from Scotland.”
“Scotland is north of England, yes?”
“The British think of the Scots as peasants with odd accents.”
“Your Hebrew gets better every day,” Tirzah said.
“You are good to say so. And your son, is he healthy?” Gordon asked.
“Yes, thank you.”
“The colonel speaks highly of him. He is, I think, most fond of your boy.”