The silver goblet in the center of the bench was called Elijah’s cup. When the Prophet who had foretold the second coming of Israel drank from the Passover goblet, the prophecy would be fulfilled. Solomon’s ancient hands felt over the bench for the cup. He lifted it and jiggled it. It was empty, for there was no wine.
“Perhaps,” he said, “this is a way we are being told that Israel will come again. Perhaps Elijah has come and drunk.”
Someone began to sob, but one sob was melted into another. All a shimmering mass of bodies. Another sobbed, and another.
“A learned man walks through a maze searching for rooms marked ‘truth.’ Bits of the puzzle are given us in our Torah and our Mishna and the Midrash and the Talmud. But how strange that the real clues come to us at a time when we least expect them.”
“Momma ... Momma,” a child wept.
Another began praying, and another and another.
The old man’s voice cried out again. “Why are we in this place? What is God trying to tell us? Why have I been spared when all my colleagues are gone? Is there a message for us here?”
Alexander Brandel had never heard Rabbi Solomon rant like this. Why? The weeping was becoming universal. People were remembering glistening candlesticks and tables bending beneath the weight of food. People remembered the faces with smiles of tenderness and lullabies. Sister ... brother ... lover ... they remembered. ...
“Remember the stories of our people!” cried Rabbi Solomon. “Remember Betar and Masada and Arbel and Jerusalem. Remember the Maccabees and Simon Bar Kochba and Bar Giora and Ben Eliezer! No people upon this earth have fought for their freedom harder than we have. Tonight we are on the eve of another fight. Forgive an old man who told you not to use arms, for he realizes now that the truest obedience to God is the opposition to tyranny!”
The bunker was galvanized. Yes! Yes! Alexander trembled. He has found a great key to all of life—to obey God is to fight the tyrant!
The bony hand lifted Elijah’s cup. “Elijah has drunk our wine tonight. Israel will come!” He chanted a prayer of the ages, and the bunker trembled.
And then it was silent once more.
“Let us begin the seder,” he said. “Let us begin our feast of liberation.”
The youngest Fighter in Joint Jewish Forces, an eleven-year-old runner named Benjamin, opened the Hagada to ask the questions.
He asked, “Why is this night different from all other nights of the year?”
And Rabbi Solomon answered firm and unwavering, “This night is different because we celebrate the most important moment in the history of our people. On this night we celebrate their going forth in triumph from slavery into freedom.”
The Fighters in the Franciskanska bunker were tired and dreamy. Wolf and a squad of his people had just finished planting the “kasha bowl” mine in the middle of the Brushmaker’s Gate and returned in time to conduct a symbolic seder. After the seder, the not-yet-twenty-year-old commander announced a great treat.
When he had captured the Brushmaker’s he had found a case of schnapps in the office of Krebs, the disposed overseer. Wolf had hidden it for just such an occasion. Almost all of the eighty Fighters at Franciskanska had no knowledge of liquor, only passing forays with wine and vodka. It was not long before they were all suffused with a lovely, peaceful glow. Wolf, cross-legged on the earthen floor of the main room, began the song fest, playing his accordion. A squad of Communists attached to his command insisted upon singing Russian folk songs hailing victories of the proletariat. Wolf had to show impartiality to his command. He played for them and what they lacked in numbers, they made up in vigor. The Zionists answered with songs of how the pioneers in Palestine had redeemed eroded land. They played and they sang until they were hoarse, and then they hummed nostalgically. Wolf’s accordion was very beaten up and wheezed along with great effort.
The guard changed. Everyone was at peace. The phone rang.
Wolf retreated to his small three-by-six “office.” He lifted the receiver, “Haifa. Chess Master speaking.”
“This is Atlas at Jerusalem. Is the ‘kasha bowl’ in place?”
“Yes, sir.”
A pause at the end of the line. “Chess Master, the Angel has just returned from Canaan. Blue boys are all around the walls of Jericho. We expect the Rhine Maidens to come at dawn. Change the alert from blue to gray. Shalom.”
“Shalom.”
Wolf hung up. They were crowded about his office. Eighty pairs of eyes on him. “Runners. Change the alert to gray. Polish Blue Police have the ghetto surrounded. We anticipate the Germans at dawn.”
As the runners scampered off to warn the satellite bunkers, the stunned soldiers continued to stare at him. Wolf nonchalantly shrugged, picked up his accordion again, and began to play.
“Havenu shalom aleichem!
Havenu shalom aleichem!
Ve-nu ve-nu
Shalom aleichem!”
And with a snappy hora he got everyone to clap in rhythm and he passed around the last four bottles of the schnapps he had been hoarding. When the shock had passed, they became mellow again and dreamy. Wolf set down the accordion.
“We’d better get some sleep. We want to be wide awake for our house guests.”
He walked around the bunker, quietly checking last-minute details, giving looks and smiles of encouragement. In one part of the bunker he had to kneel, for he was too tall to stand straight.
The Fighters were dozing off one by one. Only emergency candles at the exits. It was still. ... Those awake were at least fighting the battle within them in silence.
Being commander had its small compensations. Wolf had his own private cubbyhole off the main bunker and a sacking curtain over it. It was large enough to contain a table for the phone, a chair, and a bed of straw.
Rachael’s rifle was propped against the wall. She unloosened her hair and let it fall. Wolf knelt in the straw, then squirmed his way close to her. With a free hand he snuffed out the candle. They had learned to lie together so tightly so that when either spoke only the other could hear.
“I’m so proud,” Rachael said. “You are so brave.”
Wolf didn’t answer. He felt icy. He crushed even more tightly against her.
“Don’t worry, Wolf. You will get us through. Everyone trusts you. ... Did you see the way they all calmed down after being so frightened?”
Even in their room, privacy was limited. At any instant a messenger could poke a flashlight in. She carefully unbuttoned her blouse enough to draw his head against her breast, and she wrapped him in her arms and soothed him. As a commander, he never showed fear before his Fighters. But now, alone with her, he was cold and he trembled and it was she who was not afraid. Wolf would get up in the morning and lead them to their positions as though he had not a care in the world. Her fingers stroked his hair and his face. ...
“I’m scared,” he said.
“Shhh ... shhh ... shhh ...”
Chapter Fourteen
FIVE O’CLOCK. THE FIRST light of day. The only movement, a snowfall of feathers cascading from the roofs.
Andrei wiggled up to his forward observation point and through binoculars scanned the intersection. His four companies were well concealed. Less than half of them were armed. Cardinal rule: take guns from the enemy or from a fallen comrade. Distant sounds beyond the wall. Andrei took a borscht bomb-fire bottle from his jacket and shook it to wet the wick. It would be the signal to open fire if the Germans came into his area.
Andrei heard movement behind him. He looked over his shoulder. A figure moved in his direction. Andrei put the binoculars on the figure. “Dammit! What’s he doing here!” he muttered as Alexander Brandel, on hands and knees, muffler straggling, crawled toward him.