Lawton finished his quiet walk, up and down, and at last came to a familiar face standing in the middle of the front row. He walked up very close to Aaron, and the two men stood staring at each other. The one face set in an expression of grim insolence, the other hard, determined and yet at the same time with a hint of reserve.
“Stein,” said Lawton at last. “I don’t have to explain to you what we are doing here. It is rather for you to explain what all this means.”
Aaron remained silent.
“It would seem from this demonstration that there is something to hide at Ras Shamir, something that you are afraid we will find out. As I saw you not long ago on the seacoast near Haifa, I can presume that it has something to do with illegal immigrants. Am I right?”
A chorus of gruff “No’s” greeted him. Lawton said:
“I am sorry not to be able to believe you. You must let us through.”
Instantly the whole line of faces kindled with resentment and determination. Lawton looked at them for a moment, then turned on his heel and walked back toward the first lorry in his convoy, calling:
“Sergeant Gregory, forward please.”
As if to a pre-arranged plan, a stretcher borne by two soldiers came forward. On it they had laid the dead man plucked from the sea an hour before. In almost ritualistic fashion, Lawton and Carstairs formed up, one on either side of the body, and walked towards the roadblock, slowly, pensively almost. They set the stretcher down at Aaron’s feet and Lawton said:
“You have five minutes to let us through, we don’t wish to use force.”
The diversion had, however, broken the psychological tension as well as the actual line. Aaron came forward and knelt on one knee to examine the face of the corpse. Others followed suit. And it was now that Lawton was able to give the signal to his troops to advance. There was no resistance. In fact, both parties mingled now as they walked in open order towards the kibbutz perimeter, the British officers leading the way, the stretcher with the dead man on it being carried by his compatriots. Something of this changed atmosphere was visible also inside the perimeter, where the sight of the dead rabbi aroused the concern, pity and sadness of the women and children. Now Lawton took over.
His troops obeyed orders with a proficiency born of habit. The perimeter of the camp was picketed, and Aaron was told to assemble all the inhabitants in the car park. Meanwhile, the two ponderous and methodical sergeants set up trestle tables and chairs in the open air, at which they dispersed themselves as if for a court martial. Lawton sat in the centre with the two sergeants on his right and Carstairs on his left. But if the inhabitants of the kibbutz showed a sullen indignation, the children showed no fear of them. They raced in and out of the crowd, teasing the troops. Carstairs made a somewhat ineffectual gesture of friendship towards them by offering them a sweet, but the child that reached forward her hand to take it was suddenly snatched away by her father.
“Just as I thought,” he said to Lawton. “The natives are somewhat hostile.” Sergeant Francis, a grizzled father of six, cocked a disapproving eye in the direction of the children and said:
“It’s dumb insolence, Sir, that’s what it is.”
Lawton looked around him with distaste and weariness, fully aware that this interrogation was only a sort of charade, and that unless the troops actually uncovered something of importance, such as arms, there would be no justification in civil law for penalizing the kibbutzniks. Nevertheless it had to be done.
“Check identities,” he said shortly, and his troops moved the Israelis one by one to the trestle tables with their papers to identify them. Meanwhile, the two officers contented themselves with a cursory glimpse at the cards and a routine question (“Who are you?”) which elicited a routine answer (“Ben Israeli” — son of Israel). This tiresome interrogation held no novelty for them and Carstairs, still sucking sweets, gazed with a sardonic indifference at the date of entry column on the card. He was not above trying a trick or two during the interrogation, at least in cases where obviously he was facing a very recent newcomer. He was not, for example, past asking what the mountain opposite the camp was called, and it was not everyone who could tell that it was Mount Tabor.
Meanwhile, the less agreeable task of house-to-house searching was going forward, also without result. There were a few anxious moments in the cellar, where the entrance to the secret armoury was almost discovered by a private, anxious to see whether the line of casks against the wall were empty or full. But here the native wit of a lance-corporal saved the day inadvertently.
“You only have to tap them,” he said, “to know if they are full or empty.” And so, in order to find out, they contented themselves with tapping on the casks and listening to the hollow empty sound they made.
One by one, the sergeants and their platoons drifted back to the officers with nothing to report, and still the long line of faces in front of the table under the weary eyes of Lawton continued.
Bill Ogilvie opened the door of a wooden barrack which was half hidden by leaning farm implements. Two privates waited for him outside. He entered the shack and, opening a second door, came upon a small group of about ten people ranging from the very old to the young. The atrocities of the concentration camp had left a marked imprint on all their features, as if all age, sex and individual differences had suddenly been melted into one unique mask — like a silent gathering of ghosts still hovering over a fresh memory of indescribable horrors.
Sergeant Ogilvie gazed at them in a long silence, then, turning his back and going outside, told the two soldiers that there was no need for a closer inspection, they could go on to the next hut.
A little boy sneaked up under the table to play with Lawton’s gaiters and pulled at his polished stick.
Lawton bent down to see the child grinning at him and, without being asked, the boy challengingly shouted the ritual words: “Ben Israeli.”
At last Aaron, too, stood before him with an expression of insolent triumph on his face. Lawton tapped on the table with his pencil and looked curiously, almost pensively, at him.
“Stein,” he said. “There are at least eight identity cards which look suspicious. I don’t want to use a ruder word, but I have taken the names of the people involved and I’ll have them checked on.”
Aaron’s expression showed clearly that he recognized this as a bluff.
“By all means,” he said. “You are only obeying orders, after all.”
Lawton added a trifle more grimly: “And if they prove to be faked, they will have to be deported to Cyprus. I’m telling you this because I know you are on the Central Committee. I hope you will repeat it to them.”
“May I have a list of the names?” said Aaron.
“I’m afraid not,” said Lawton. “It’s confidential. You may go, Stein.”
Aaron walked back to the crowd, muttering: “Trying to get us worried.”
And now it was the turn of Grete. The four pairs of blue eyes regarded her with a certain diffident admiration. Her blonde beauty of face and feature was striking in the surrounding darkness. The coloured kerchief around her head only set off to advantage the slender magnificence of her profile and the luminous beauty of her eyes. Sergeant Francis could have kicked himself for discovering that her identity card was so obviously a fake. Her own picture had been glued over that of some previous owner, and it had worked its way loose. He lifted the corner with his fingernail, where the glue had become unstuck, to reveal a passport picture of a bearded youth. He swallowed audibly and said to Lawton:
“You had better look at this, Sir.”
Lawton looked at the girl for a moment, leaving the document on the desk before him.