‘Ruth Stein, Eli Mankowski.’

The young man sitting alone at the table in the far corner of the cafe looked up as if he’d only just noticed them, although he’d seen them as soon as they’d stepped through the door.

‘Eli, this is my cousin Ruth.’ David concluded the introduction with his usual easy charm, but Ruth registered the exchange of looks between the two men. David had obviously told Mankowski all about her, she thought, just as she had been told of the great Eli Mankowski, the Polish freedom fighter who, though not yet thirty, was one of the leaders of Lehi.

‘He fought in the Warsaw ghetto uprising, Ruth,’ David had said. ‘He’s a hero and one of our top unit commanders. He’s also one of my best friends,’ he’d added boastfully.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Mankowski.’

He made no attempt to rise, she noticed, but his nod was courteous and he offered his hand. They shook and she sat opposite him. ‘David has told me a great deal about you,’ she said.

Eli was impressed by the directness of her manner. Her eyes told him that she knew he was also aware of her past, and that she expected no sympathy. She spoke Hebrew fluently too, he noted; so many of the European newcomers spoke only Yiddish. He’d expected a broken woman – she had, after all, lost her husband and child to the Nazis – and he’d been prepared to offer his condolences and dismiss her as a possible recruit. But he changed his tack. David had been right, he thought, she was promising.

‘You have been attending meetings, David tells me.’

Mankowski was studying her keenly, but not in the way men usually did – there was none of the customary deference to beauty in his manner. He was appraising her as a potential fighter and, refreshing change as it was to Ruth, she found it daunting.

‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘I’ve been receiving instruction for two months now.’

‘Tell me about Lohamei Herut Israel.’

‘Lohamei Herut Israel was founded by Avraham Stern in 1940 as an offshoot from Irgun Tsvai-Leumi …’ Ruth recited what she had been taught of the Fighters for the Freedom of Israel group into which she had been accepted on a trial basis. Her meeting with Eli Mankowski was the first step to her acceptance as a full active member of Lehi.

To a casual observer, the three sitting at the table in the corner could have been any of the university students that frequented the cafe. They were young, vital, good-looking, and deep in conversation as university students always were. The girl’s natural beauty, of which she appeared unaware, shone like a beacon, and the handsome young man with whom she’d arrived bore the easy air of one who had a way with women. The third member of the group, dark-haired, thickset and heavy-browed, was not handsome in the conventional sense, but the supreme confidence of his demeanour made him an arresting figure.

As Eli Mankowski tested Ruth’s knowledge of Lehi, the Jewish Nationalist group considered by many to be terrorist and radical, he lounged back in his chair, adopting the manner of an arrogant student, his guise for the day; it was why he’d chosen the cafe. Eli was always careful with his body language. He was a chameleon. If they’d been meeting in one of the training centres, his manner would have been that of the fanatic he was.

Fifteen minutes later, satisfied with her schooling in Lehi history and doctrine, his line of questioning became more personal. Where did she live? Were those with whom she lived sympathetic to their cause?

Before Ruth could answer, David interrupted. ‘She lives with me and my family, Eli, I told you, remember? My father’s apartment in Beit Yisrael.’

Ruth noticed the steely glint in Mankowski’s eyes, but David was oblivious to it as he gave a light laugh and continued.

‘Poor Ruth, she knows Father would be furious. She’s had to resort to the same subterfuge I’ve suffered for two years, but she’s managed very well …’

‘Let Ruth answer for herself, David.’ Eli’s tone was not unpleasant but patronising, that of a teacher to an over-talkative child.

‘Oh.’ David, unbothered by the reprimand, gave an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry.’

‘Do you feel guilty, deceiving your uncle, Ruth?’ Eli would have preferred to put him more firmly in his place. He didn’t particularly like David, but it was to his advantage to maintain the semblance of friendship. Despite his rather frivolous facade of ‘young man about town’, David was committed to the cause and extremely useful. Well-educated, from a good family, his father a respected goldsmith and a pillar of society, David Stein’s background and considerable charm were impressive to many, and he had proved an excellent recruiting scout.

‘Yes, I do feel guilty.’ Ruth wasn’t sure if it was a trick question. Was it wise to admit to her guilt? But she decided to answer in all honesty. She’d hated the lies over the past two months. Stealing off to the meetings with David each Shabbat when her uncle and aunt thought they were at the synagogue. Lying to fourteen-year-old Rebekah when her young cousin had asked why she wasn’t attending Rabbi Yeshen’s service with the family. ‘David and his university friends attend a different synagogue, darling,’ she’d said, ‘and I promised I’d go with them.’ It had been loathsome, but easy. Her aunt and uncle were trusting, and David, a highly accomplished liar, had been paving the way for the past two years.

‘Your uncle is not sympathetic to our cause, I take it?’

Eli cast a glance at David, warning him not to answer for his cousin, and David maintained an obedient silence, although he wondered why Eli should ask such a question – Eli Mankowski knew Walter Stein’s stance on the Zionist movement.

But Eli was testing Ruth’s loyalty, both to her uncle, and to the doctrines of Lehi. She didn’t disappoint on either count.

‘My uncle is a good man, and he has strong Zionist beliefs,’ she said, ‘but he is conventional. He disapproves of the tactics employed by Lehi and Irgun, particularly following the bombing of the King David Hotel last year. He believes we must follow the Haganah’s official policy of restraint.’

‘And you, Ruth?’

‘The Haganah have served the Yishuv well with their support of illegal immigration and the protection of new settlements,’ she said, referring to the underground military organisation the Jewish community had formed in the 1920s. ‘But they have become too complacent, too cooperative with the British and their non-aggression policies.’

‘And when the British leave …?’

Ruth realised she was being tested not only on her knowledge but on the depth of her commitment. ‘We will need a force more aggressive than the Haganah offers,’ she said. ‘We will need Irgun Tsvai-Leumi and Lohamei Herut Israel.’

She said what she knew Eli Mankowski wanted to hear, but as she looked into the intense black eyes, she felt a passionate desire to serve. She yearned to belong somewhere, to be useful. Lehi offered her a purpose for her life.

Eli smiled. She was quoting her instructor perfectly, but there was something far more important in Ruth Stein than her aptitude as a student. She was malleable. Perfect material, he thought. And he would enjoy moulding her, he decided, noticing all of a sudden how extraordinarily attractive she was.

‘Your training will begin one month from now,’ he said, ‘in late January at Kibbutz Tsafona.’

David’s jaw dropped in disbelief. He’d been a member of Lehi for two whole years. He’d scouted for recruits, distributed propaganda leaflets, pasted posters on public bulletin boards, all of which could have had him arrested by the British. He’d even attended light-weapon practice at Ra’anana’s orchards where a training base was established. Like every Lehi member it had been his dream to participate in military action, but whenever he’d begged to be sent to one of the kibbutzim that served as secret guerrilla training camps, Eli had told him he wasn’t ready. Why then was Ruth so instantly acceptable?

‘Just a minute, Eli, that’s not fair …’ he said petulantly, but he was cut short.

‘Don’t worry, you’ll be going too.’ There would be fewer questions asked in the Stein household if Ruth were to make the transition to the kibbutz with her cousin. Two committed young Israelis working the land together – Walter Stein would approve of that. The man would entrust the care of his niece to his son, although why, Eli couldn’t imagine. David was a spoilt child with no thought for anything but his own pleasures. But then, Eli reminded himself, children seeking pleasure made very good soldiers when their bloodlust was up.

‘David, my dear friend,’ he grinned, attractively boyish, the heavy-browed face transformed, ‘I wouldn’t send Ruth off to war without you beside her. Cousins fighting side by side, blood protecting blood like Spartan brothers.’ He turned his smile upon Ruth. ‘Poetic, don’t you agree?’

 

Eli Mankowski was right. Walter Stein was in favour of his son and niece working on the kibbutz, particularly his son. It might toughen David up a bit, Walter thought – the boy was spoilt. Sarah pandered to him too much.

‘For twelve months,’ he said, ‘it will do you good. Then I hope you will apply yourself to your work with a little more discipline.’

The previous year, David had completed the accountancy degree he’d reluctantly started at Mount Scopus Hebrew University, but Walter had found his son’s commitment to the family business – in proud anticipation of which he’d named Stein and Son – sadly lacklustre.

As for his niece, Walter considered the kibbutz would do Ruth the world of good. The hard physical labour of farming would distract her from her terrible preoccupation with the past.

Walter’s wife, Sarah, did not agree with her husband, particularly where Ruth was concerned.

‘But Moshe is going to propose any day now, I’m sure,’ she said. ‘Ruth will have a far better future with him than with any of the young men she’s likely to meet on a kibbutz. Moshe’s wealthy, he has his business in Haifa and he’s talking of retiring to his orchard soon. It would be the perfect life for her.’

‘She doesn’t love him.’

‘She can learn, Walter. Love takes time.’

Walter shook his head wryly. The remark was so typical of Sarah. She had always been eminently practical and ruthlessly honest. She had said very much the same thing to him twenty-five years ago in Berlin when she’d agreed to become his wife.

‘I’m very fond of you, Walter,’ she’d said. ‘And I respect you; you’re a successful man. I shall be a good wife to you, and I shall come to love you in time.’

He’d had to be satisfied with that, despite having been desperately in love with her. There had been other eligible suitors – Sarah was of good family, intelligent and beautiful – and he’d found some comfort in the knowledge that she’d chosen him.

He smiled now as he looked at her, approaching fifty and still beautiful. She’d been true to her word in every way. She’d devoted herself to his comfort, his children and his business. And she loved him with a deep, unquestioning loyalty.

‘Why don’t you suggest to Moshe that he make his move within the month,’ he said, ‘and we’ll leave the decision in Ruth’s hands?’

Walter was of the personal opinion that his business associate and friend, Moshe Toledano, was far too old for Ruth, but Sarah had been dismissive of that argument too. Age was immaterial, she maintained, Moshe was an honourable man and would be a fine provider.

Life’s choices were clearly defined for Sarah, Walter thought. He had the feeling they were not quite so simple for his niece.

Ruth was aware of her aunt’s well-intentioned meddling. Subtlety had never been Sarah’s strong suit and she’d been singing the praises of her husband’s friend, Moshe, for months.

‘Such a successful man,’ she’d said from the outset, ‘so sad that his wife died five years ago. The sooner he marries again the better, in my opinion. Every man needs a good woman to help shoulder his burden in life, and he’d certainly make an ideal husband.’

Ruth hadn’t been sure whose case her aunt was championing at first, hers or Moshe’s, but she hadn’t taken the matter seriously – Sarah was a compulsive matchmaker. Besides, she’d thought, Moshe was old enough to be her father; indeed his manner towards her seemed more paternal than anything. She was sure that he, too, would pay no attention to Sarah’s heavy-handed hints.

For the first month or so after her arrival in Palestine, Ruth had enjoyed Moshe Toledano’s company. A Palestinian by birth, he and his brother ran a family import-export business inherited from their father, based in Haifa. Moshe made weekly trips to their agent in Jerusalem, always dining with the Steins when he did so. He’d offered to show Ruth the city and the surrounding countryside which he knew so well, and she’d found him not only an informative companion, but a welcome distraction from her troubled state of mind.

‘I was born here in Palestine, Ruth,’ he’d told her. ‘So was my father and my father’s father. We are part of this land.’

He’d taken her on an excursion to the Dead Sea, and during the drive back to Jerusalem he’d expounded upon the beauty of the harsh landscape which he fervently loved. He’d also talked of his sympathy for the plight of the Arabs.

‘I have many Arab friends, I grew up with them. We Mizrahi Jews have lived in peace with our Arab brothers for centuries. We have shared the same love for this land.’

She’d become accustomed to Moshe’s rather dry history lessons and his tendency to lecture. The passion with which he’d spoken that day had seemed intriguingly out of character.

‘I welcome my brothers, the Ashkenazim, in their return to their spiritual homeland,’ he’d said, referring to the European Jews who had continued to flood into Palestine following Britain’s Mandate to govern after World War I. The flood of immigration had become a torrent after Hitler’s rise to power. ‘And I welcome the creation of the State of Israel. But the creation of an Arab State is not being given equal attention; the Partition of Palestine is an empty promise. The money and the might of America supports Israel, and the Arab State of Palestine is simply words on paper. The Arab will be forced from his land and he will no longer live in peace with the Jew. There are fearful times ahead for us all.’

He’d told her that he intended to escape the conflict. He was contemplating an early retirement to his citrus orchard half an hour from Jerusalem, he’d said.

‘I have no wish to take sides; the thought of it saddens me. The orchard is a place of peace, a haven from the hate that already invades this country.’

Ruth had wondered why he was sharing his views and his plans so intimately with her, but she had found the man interesting.

Moshe Toledano and his views had ceased to be of interest, however, when, at her cousin David’s suggestion, Ruth had started attending meetings and had become immersed in the study of Lehi.

Conversely, Moshe’s visits to the Stein house had increased in regularity – he was there every second day. He had business in town, he said, he was staying at the King David Hotel. That was when Ruth had realised that, with the endorsement of her Aunt Sarah, Moshe had come to look upon her not as a friend at all, but as a potential wife.

Now, less than a month before she was to start her training at the kibbutz, the man’s intentions were evident, and his company stifling. They had nothing in common, Ruth thought, and his views, which she’d initially found interesting, now offended her. How could he be a Jew and sympathise with the Arabs? Even in the early stages of her Lehi conditioning, Ruth found the notion traitorous.

 

‘The cholent is good,’ Moshe said.

‘It is only as good as the guests,’ Sarah responded.

Walter and young Rebekah smiled, acknowledging the compliment and the response, but Ruth didn’t. She pretended not to hear them and concentrated instead on the stew of meat and beans and sweet potatoes, although she wasn’t hungry.

The cholent received the same compliment and the same response every Friday night. It was the normal polite exchange between guest and host. But since when was Moshe a guest? she thought. He’d been devouring cholent at the Stein house every Friday night for months – surely that made him one of the family. Ruth wished she could have avoided the tedium of the evening meal and Moshe Toledano, but David hadn’t allowed her the easy escape route when, having announced he was dining out with friends, she’d privately asked if she could join him. ‘Sorry, it’s men only,’ he’d said, and she’d known from the smirk on his face that he’d arranged an assignation with one of his many girlfriends.

‘I’ll clear the table.’ She bounded to her feet the moment the meal was over.

‘No, no, dear.’ Sarah rose. ‘Rebekah and I will do that, you entertain your uncle and Moshe.’

It was the same every time, Ruth thought, sinking back into her chair. She tried to look interested as Walter and Moshe chatted, and she tried not to notice that Sarah and Rebekah were clearing the table at breakneck speed. Thank goodness only two weeks to go, she thought. She couldn’t wait to be at Kibbutz Tsafona, serving the cause, away from this empty existence.

Then, suddenly, the dishes had been cleared, her aunt was placing before her a tray with a kum kum of Turkish coffee, milk and sugar with, ominously, two cups, and her uncle was rising from his chair.

‘If you’ll excuse me, Moshe, Ruth my dear, I have some business to attend to in my study.’

But her uncle never went to his study straight after the meal, Ruth thought, and where was Rebekah? She’d disappeared from sight.

As Walter was ushered out of the dining room, Sarah was unable to resist a meaningful glance over her shoulder, and Ruth realised that this was the moment she’d been dreading.

‘May I?’ Moshe asked, picking up the kum kum.

‘Thank you.’ She watched as he poured the coffee. ‘Milk and …’

‘… no sugar,’ he said. ‘Yes, I know.’

There was a proprietorial air about him that she found irritating.

He carefully poured just the right amount of milk – he knew that she liked her coffee strong. Then he handed her the cup, his craggy face grave.

‘I’ll get straight to the point, Ruth,’ he said, and she steeled herself for what was coming next.

Moshe himself was feeling uncharacteristically nervous. He wouldn’t have been two months ago, he thought. Two months ago, he would have been hopeful of his chances. She’d been a lost young woman then, interested in learning about him and his country, and he’d wanted to protect and nurture her. First as a friend, then he’d fallen in love, and with Sarah’s encouragement, he’d believed that he might have some hope. But Ruth had changed, he’d noticed. She seemed stronger, and he was thankful for her sake, but her attitude towards him was different these days. She was remote, disinterested, and he didn’t know why.

‘As you know, I’m anticipating an early retirement to my orchard …’

‘Yes, you want to escape taking sides.’ She hadn’t been able to help herself.

‘I’m sorry?’ he asked, bewildered.

‘You’re a Jew but you want to escape the commitment of being one.’

‘I don’t understand you, Ruth.’

‘The reclaiming of our historical and spiritual homeland, Eretz Yisrael – you don’t believe in fighting for it.’ She hadn’t intended to sound so belligerent, but his complacency annoyed her.

So that was it, he thought. He was relieved to discover that her change in attitude towards him was not personal. She’d been influenced by some radical set, he told himself, probably David and his university friends who sat around in cafes talking intensely and doing little else. Moshe didn’t take them seriously, particularly David, whom he found superficial.

‘I leave the fighting to the fanatics,’ he smiled, picking up the kum kum. ‘I am a confirmed pacifist, and always will be.’

‘Yes. I know.’ She wondered if it was intended as a joke, but Moshe never joked. What an arrogant statement, she thought.

He didn’t notice the coldness of her gaze as she watched him pouring his coffee.

‘It is a peaceful life I should like to offer you, Ruth,’ he continued, adding milk and sugar to his cup, ‘a life free of the conflict that surrounds us.’ Methodically he stirred the coffee with his teaspoon, feeling self-conscious, aware of the disparity in their ages and hoping he wasn’t making a fool of himself. ‘I wish to offer you a life with me on my orchard.’ He knew that he sounded stilted and formal, but he didn’t know how else to voice himself. Finally, he looked up from his cup to meet her eyes. ‘I am asking you to be my wife.’

She found his manner pompous, and felt an intense desire to shock him. She would have liked to have yelled, ‘I don’t want a peaceful life. I don’t want a life free of conflict. I intend to fight for our homeland, like every Jew should, and I’ll kill if I have to!’

But she was courteous instead. ‘You do me a great honour, Moshe, but I cannot accept.’ She was thankful to see him finally stop stirring his coffee. There was the tinkle of silver on china as he replaced the teaspoon on the saucer. ‘I do not love you.’

He hadn’t thought that she did. But in time perhaps she would. Many a successful marriage had been based on affection and respect. He was about to say as much, but before he could do so, she quite firmly terminated any further discussion.

‘I thank you for your proposal and the honour you do me, but I cannot become your wife, and I cannot live with you on your orchard. I am sorry.’

‘I see.’ He picked up his cup and sipped at his coffee. Cannot meant will not, he thought; she had no wish to accept the life he offered her. But he was grateful for the courtesy of her reply, and thankful that she hadn’t made him feel like a self-deluding old fool.

‘Well, we’ll say no more on the matter,’ he replied. ‘And I trust that we will remain always good friends.’

‘Of course.’ She breathed a silent sigh of relief.

‘As your friend, Ruth, I hope you know that you can call upon me at any time should you be in need of help.’

‘I know.’ She was glad now that she hadn’t given way to the outburst that had threatened. Misguided as she found his views, he was a kind man, and a man of dignity. ‘Thank you, Moshe,’ she said.

 

Kibbutz Tsafona, twenty minutes’ drive east of Haifa, housed a thriving community of two hundred. The surrounding landscape, arid as it appeared, was surprisingly fruitful, yielding healthy orchards of citrus fruit, figs, and groves of olive trees.

Wooden-framed buildings with tin roofs, tiled floors and white painted interiors formed the accommodation, with separate barracks for men and women, smaller huts for married couples, and a nursery where children over the age of three were brought up communally. There were outlying buildings that housed workshops, garages and store depots, and in the middle of the commune stood the largest structure, the chadar ochel. The chadar ochel, where the workers gathered for their daily meals, was more than a dining room – it was central to the community’s social existence, often doubling as a recreation space or lecture hall.

Kibbutz Tsafona, although relatively newly established, was self-supporting. Along with its orchards, it maintained vegetable gardens and livestock in the form of goats and sheep, and the work was constant and hard. But no-one minded. The majority of the community were young, mainly in their twenties and thirties, and they considered themselves chalutzim, pioneers, like those original settlers of the Hashomer Hatzair kibbutzim in the 1920s. And, like those before them, they too were working the Land of Israel and creating a new society based on social justice and equality.

But, among the chalutzim who farmed the land, another breed of Israeli resided at Kibbutz Tsafona. A breed accepted by the young farmers as their future protectors, but whose activities were conducted at a camouflaged camp a few miles from the settlement. At the kibbutz itself, there was no evidence that close to fifty of its members were Lehi, most of them new recruits, secretly training in guerrilla warfare. They wore no distinguishing uniforms, they carried no weapons, and the American jeeps and soft-top GMC cargo trucks known as ‘Jimmies’, which transported them to their training camp, were identical to those used by the settlers themselves. The jeeps and trucks were largely donated by American Jews eager to assist their Israeli brothers and sisters in the reclamation of their ancient homeland; in fact, American Jews did much to fund the kibbutzim and, indirectly, Lehi.

Under the command of Eli Mankowski and his lieutenant, Shlomo Rubens, Lehi Unit 6 comprised a communications expert, an acquisitions officer, an engineer specialising in explosives, and two squads of twenty fighters. Ruth Lachmann and her cousin David Stein were among the latest recruits.

Ruth embraced her new life from the moment she arrived at the kibbutz. She became strong and fit, her body responding to the rigorous daily training sessions, but of far greater importance to her was the response of her mind. The nightmares faded, along with the past and the woman she’d once been, as she devoted herself to the collective ideology of Lehi and the part she now played in the future of Eretz Yisrael.

The day started early for both farmer and fighter, and the new young recruits quickly discovered that, like the settlers, their work was arduous, unrelenting and demanding.

After breakfasting in the chadar ochel on yoghurt, pickled fish, bread and fruit, the fighters were transported by Jimmies to the training camp three miles from the kibbutz. Situated in a valley surrounded by low hills and rocky outcrops, the camp’s location was remote, but no chances were taken with its possible discovery. All training devices – the targets, the barbed wire, the climbing apparatus and other equipment – were stored in caves or out of sight among the rocks, and the cache of weapons was housed in a well-concealed bunker. A cave in the side of a hill had been extended by detonation, and behind the camouflaged netting of its entrance was their motley collection of firearms – mostly German, others stolen from the British. Alongside the Luger and Walther pistols, the K98s, and the Erma sub-machine guns, sat the Webley & Scott revolvers, the .303s, and the Mills Bomb standard British hand grenades.

Before the heat of the day set in, the morning started with rigorous exercise. The several seasoned fighters worked out briefly before starting on target practice and assault tactics, but the new recruits spent two hours mindlessly stepping in and out of car tyres, climbing ropes and crawling under barbed wire. There was weaponry training, further instruction in the use of plastic explosives and the construction of Molotov cocktails and other incendiary devices, and, finally, their own target practice and assault course. As they drove their knives into straw-stuffed hessian dummies, the eager young recruits found it a rewarding conclusion to an arduous morning.

Normalcy descended at lunchtime when the unit returned to the kibbutz. Fighters and farmers dined together on meat and potatoes, the main meal of the day. But when the kibbutz workers retired for their three-hour siesta, the chadar ochel became a military headquarters. It was the one time Lehi activities infiltrated the kibbutz.

Guards were placed at strategic lookout points, and no maps or demonstration equipment was produced during the meetings, which could have appeared to be lectures on farming to a young kibbutz collective. In reality they were lectures in military tactics, planning sessions and, above all, conditioning in Lehi ideology, the most important aspect of the recruits’ training.

Eli Mankowski and his lieutenant, Shlomo Rubens, who at thirty-eight was the oldest member of the unit, worked well as a team. The experienced and pragmatic Rubens, having recognised Mankowski’s leadership skills, had accepted the younger man’s quick rise in the ranks and was content to serve as his lieutenant. Eli, in turn, respected Shlomo’s expertise in terrorist tactics and the effectiveness of his motivational techniques. Competition was encouraged and a reward system set in place. Strict discipline was instilled throughout the unit, authority delegated to those deserving of it and punishment meted out to those found wanting. But it was Eli Mankowski’s personal zeal that was the unit’s prime motivational tool. Under Mankowski’s fanatical leadership, the unit was indoctrinated with a fierce sense of comradeship and a steadfast belief in the task at hand.

‘We belong to this land, and this land belongs to us!’

At the conclusion of each two-hour session, Eli would fire up his troops with all the fervour in his possession.

‘We are Lehi and our mission is pure. Rid our homeland of those who threaten it. Do not shirk in our duty. All ends justify the means.’

The actual words of his daily address varied, but the content was always the same. In Eli’s personal interpretation, and in true Lehi belief, the command of the Torah, ‘Obliterate – until destruction’ allowed for no moral hesitation on the battlefield. And as he raised his fist in encouragement, the entire unit joined in the final chant.

‘Obliterate – until destruction. We are the future!’

Following the meeting, well before the settlers resumed work, the unit would again depart for the camp where they would continue training until dusk. Then, upon their return to the kibbutz, normalcy would once more reign as fighters and farmers shared their light evening meal of cold meat and salads, before gathering around the campfire.

An active social life existed at Kibbutz Tsafona, particularly in the evenings when, gathered about the finjun, young musicians strummed guitars and played piano accordions while others sang along. After a heavy day’s work for all, the mood was one of fun, and the members of the unit were encouraged by their commander to socialise with the settlers. Eli Mankowski believed that socialising was an important reminder to both parties of Lehi’s purpose as the protector of Israelis and their land. Fraternisation of any sexual nature was, however, firmly forbidden, as was any such fraternisation between male and female soldiers.

The young man on the piano accordion was playing ‘Tum Balalaika’, one of the favoured campfire songs, and Eli tapped his foot in time to the rhythm.

‘Tumbala, tumbala, tum balalaika …’

The members of his unit sang the chorus with gusto.

The partying around the finjun bore all the appearance of young kibbutz workers bonding after a hard day’s labour, and it pleased Eli. But these two breeds of Israeli, the fighter and the farmer, were worlds apart, he mused. Both shared a passion for their homeland, but one was trained to kill for it.

Soon they would be put to the test, Eli thought, and they would not be found wanting. He looked approvingly at the fit young bodies, proud in the certain knowledge that their minds were equally attuned to the challenge ahead. The new recruits had been in training for six weeks, and for the past fortnight teams had successfully carried out minor sabotage missions. An Arab village had been raided for supplies, a bridge detonated, and two Arab wells poisoned; nothing of any particular military significance, but as training exercises and morale boosters, immensely successful.

He’d had a little trouble with the first mission, he recalled, the poisoning of a well, but even that had proved to his advantage. A new recruit assigned to the team had questioned the directive. The young man had argued that, before the recent outbreaks of Arab–Jewish hostilities, his family had drawn water from the same well. He was sure that some Jews still did.

‘The Arab and the Jew cannot drink from the same well,’ Eli had told him. He’d said it for the benefit of the assembled unit. The man had already signed his own death warrant.

‘But if we poison the well, we may kill Jews,’ the man had argued.

‘There are martyrs to every cause,’ Eli had replied, ‘and all ends justify the means.’

The next morning, when the man had disappeared, no queries had been made, even by the youngest and newest recruits. They had passed another test, one which Eli had not yet placed before them. They had accepted, unquestioningly, that there was no place in Lehi for non-collective thinkers. Eli had been grateful to the man.

The piano accordionist upped the tempo as a guitar joined in. It was David Stein, an accomplished guitarist, and the crowd applauded as the two performed their duet.

David Stein had proved a surprise. A confirmed womaniser, Eli had expected that he’d have to get rid of young David. But, despite the number of female settlers who found him attractive, David’s prime target had ceased to be the conquest of women; he hadn’t even found them a distraction. David Stein couldn’t wait to do battle, Eli thought with satisfaction. Sabotage was not enough for him – he longed to kill.

Tum balalaika, play balalaika, tum balalaika, it will be joyful.

The voices of the gathering swelled as the song came to its conclusion and, despite the raucousness, or perhaps because of it, Eli could hear, quite clearly, the one true voice among them all. Ruth Stein. She had a pretty voice, he thought, watching her as she sang.

The fact that he continued to find Ruth Stein desirable had proved another surprise to Eli. There were several good-looking women among the eight female members of the unit, but he barely noticed them. To Eli, a fighter was a fighter, regardless of gender, and now that the recruits had completed their training, the women were barely distinguishable from the men. But he remembered how impressed he’d been upon first meeting Ruth Stein. He’d noticed her looks then, hadn’t he? He’d relished the prospect of moulding her. He’d thought at the time that it was her mind that had interested him, but perhaps it had been her body after all. It was difficult to separate the two now, he thought. The power he had over her mind was teasingly erotic when he applied it to her body. But he shrugged off the notion as a fleeting fancy; there could be no double standards in his unit. Sex was not an option.

He continued to study her, however, waiting for her to turn and meet his eyes, as he knew she would.

There was a burst of applause, the song had finished.

Ruth turned and caught the full force of his gaze. She was unable to look away. But then no-one was able to look away when Eli Mankowski’s concentration was focussed upon them. They weren’t meant to. They would remain transfixed, like a working dog awaiting the signal of its master, seeking approval, dreading disapproval. And Eli always sent a sign to the subject of his attention.

For Ruth, the sign was one of approval. Eli clapped his hands softly several times, as if joining in the general applause, but she knew he was applauding her alone. Then he nodded, just the once. She returned the nod, and he looked away.

The exchange meant everything to Ruth. It was a reward; he was pleased with her. She didn’t know why, perhaps he’d enjoyed her singing, although how he’d heard her above the others was a mystery. But most of all, she recognised the intention of his signal. The nod had been one of camaraderie, encouragement for the part she would play in the mission tomorrow night, and she felt honoured to have been so specially singled out. The thought of the mission excited her, and she couldn’t wait to prove herself worthy of her commander’s approval.

Eli was satisfied that she had received his message. Tomorrow she would be tested to the full, and encouragement had indeed been his intention – Ruth Lachmann was of paramount importance to the operation. Her non-Jewish appearance and her multilingual skills made her an invaluable member of the ten-man team assigned to the theft of British ammunition and explosives.

As David and the accordionist started up again, Eli no longer heard the music. His mind was on the significance of tomorrow’s operation. This was to be no training exercise or unit morale booster. Irgun and Lehi had joined forces, and additional ammunition was imperative for the raid to be staged five days from now. A raid which both groups considered would change the face of the Arab– Israeli war.

Eli and Shlomo Rubens had seen fit to communicate their orders, received from the joint Irgun and Lehi headquarters, to no-one but their fellow officers. The unit had no need for advance information; politics and strategy were for those in command. Blind obedience was the order of the day. The members of Unit 6 would address each directive as it was issued and, for the moment, it was the theft of British ammunition and explosives from the Haifa docks, with the aid of a team of Irgun fighters.

The military supplies had been delivered to the docks the previous morning and had been due for collection and shipment to Britain later that same day. Irgun Intelligence, however, had intercepted a message from the British vessel that it was undergoing emergency engine repairs at sea, and that its arrival would be delayed for three days. With the raid looming, and a severe shortage of ammunition, the situation was most opportune. Eli had assigned a surveillance team to keep watch throughout the preceding night, and, just two hours before, during a briefing session at the training camp, the officer in command of the team had made his report.

The shipment of arms and ammunition was stacked on the northern side of the main wharf, he’d stated. There was no barrier on the seaward side where the cargo would be loaded aboard the vessel, but on the other three sides the shipment was surrounded by coiled barbed wire approximately five feet high. There was a wooden-framed gate set in the barbed wire and, inside the compound, a prefabricated military hut. Five British soldiers had remained on guard duty throughout the night, a sergeant and four privates. Their commanding officer, a captain in rank, had left them on duty at around 21:00 hours and had not returned until after midnight.

‘Let us hope he’s a creature of habit,’ Eli had remarked, ‘one less to take care of. But no matter if not,’ he’d shrugged, ‘we will be prepared,’ and he’d assigned an assault force of six men. But his orders were explicit: there was to be no killing; they could not afford any reprisals from the British. And, to be on the safe side, those assigned to attack would be dressed as Arabs.

Not that it really mattered, Eli told himself as the next campfire song finished to another round of applause. The British cared nothing about the theft of arms and supplies, by either Arab or Jew, and so long as there were no killings there would be no reprisals. The only reason he had chosen to disguise his assault force was in case one of his hot-blooded young fighters got carried away and slit a British throat in his excitement. And who could blame him?

Eli detested the British, he always had. These days, more so than ever. Since their Mandate was coming to an end, the British had ceased to care what the Arab did to the Jew. A raiding party of Arab villagers had ambushed a Haganah convoy and killed thirty-six Jewish fighters only the week before, and the British had done nothing. Some of the fighters had been executed, their heads and sexual organs mutilated, but the British hadn’t cared. The British cared about nothing but their own imperial superiority. And now that they were no longer to govern Palestine, they couldn’t wait to get out. Well, good riddance, Eli thought, the sooner they were gone the better. When the last of the British had left the country, the path would be clear for him. Through his proven commitment to Lehi, he would pave his way to a position of power within the new State of Israel. Eli Mankowski was a man of ambition.

The evening was winding down. The music had ceased, some were chatting quietly, others retiring for the night.

As she was about to leave, Ruth glanced at her commander, perhaps in the hope of another special sign of encouragement, but none was forthcoming. As David said goodnight to the others, he, too, glanced at Eli; most members of the unit did. But the commander remained squatting by the dying campfire, deep in thought as the party dispersed about him.

Eli was aware of the glances, but he was not in the mood to communicate. From the corner of his eye he watched Ruth and David as they walked off together to their respective quarters, and he wondered if they were talking of tomorrow’s mission. David, he knew, had been aching to be assigned to the assault force. But Eli could not afford to risk David Stein’s lust for blood. Not yet. The killing of a British guard would invite investigation, which could well jeopardise the forthcoming raid. Five days from now, David Stein would have ample opportunity to kill, Eli thought. For tomorrow’s mission, he must be content in his relegated position as driver.

‘Tomorrow is just the beginning, Eli.’

It was several minutes later that Shlomo Rubens broke into his thoughts. Shlomo was the one member of the unit not in awe of him, but then Shlomo was in awe of no-one.

Only the two of them were left beside the glowing embers of the campfire, and Eli looked up at Shlomo where he stood. He was a big man, strong and implacable, and his implacability served him well as a fighter – Eli had seen him in action. Shlomo Rubens was a perfect killing machine, a good man to have by one’s side in battle.

‘Yes,’ Eli agreed. ‘Tomorrow is the first step in a new war for us.’

They remained silent for a moment, both contemplating his statement. It was a new war indeed. No longer a war of Haganah defence against Arab brutality, but a war of aggression by the fighters of Irgun and Lehi.

Shlomo turned to go. Tomorrow would be a big day at the training camp. There would be a further report from the surveillance team, and then the assault would be repeatedly rehearsed before the evening’s mission. Shlomo Rubens believed in an adequate quota of sleep.

‘Goodnight,’ he called abruptly over his shoulder. Eli would probably sit by the fire for the next several hours, he thought, then he’d be up before dawn. The man seemed to survive on no sleep at all.

‘Goodnight, Shlomo,’ Eli automatically called back. His eyes were trained on the campfire’s embers, but he wasn’t seeing them. He was envisaging the next day’s mission, as he would repeatedly throughout the night and the following day.

A ten-man team. Six to attack from beneath the wharf, one lookout on the top floor of the vacant warehouse, one driver and team mate in the Jimmy parked at the fishermen’s wharf a mile away, and a decoy, the final member of the team.

Stealth and speed were of the essence. There would be no radio communication; the lookout would signal the Irgun boat by torchlight. There would be no use of firearms except as cudgels, and no use of knives except by way of threat. The British must be overcome swiftly and silently, and they must be left incapacitated but alive. The success of the plan depended a great deal on the decoy. And the decoy was to be Ruth Stein.