The Ascent of Eli Israel Read Online Free Page A

among the twisted olive trees. Every once in a while he heard the rat-tat of gunfire from within the city.
    He wanted to eat some of the dried fruit as he walked along, but was afraid he would not have enough when he reached his father. His bag was lighter now, and he cursed himself for leaving behind the Thompson magazine. He only had the two mortars for King Abdullah and the Grand Mufti, as well as the two loaves of bullet-loaded bread. Loose dried fruit tumbled around in his satchel. He could make out tiny figures on the ramparts as he passed Mount Zion and the mighty edifice of Dormition Abbey. “Moloch, come out wherever you are,” Pirkl thought defiantly. “I’m walking through your valley.”
    Pirkl climbed the steep eastern slope of the valley on his way to the little gate of which the madman had spoken. Pirkl smiled. Dung Gate, the smallest and most insignificant entrance into the city, so small that a man on horseback would have to dismount to enter, a gate that once served as an open sewer in times of antiquity. Dung Gate, the closest gate to the Jewish Quarter and his father.
    He stepped through the barbed wire and dust and rubble, sweating furiously. He was so thirsty his head began to buzz. Still not a sound from within the city, but the smell of smoke and death burned in his nose. He removed the thin blanket from within his satchel and wrapped it around his face like a kaffiyeh.
    A solitary legionnaire sitting languidly in an opening above the gate waved and said, “Marhaba.” Pirkl smiled and said the same.
    The gate was even smaller than Pirkl remembered. He noticed the decorous Star of David carved above it and mumbled the Sheheheyanu, a prayer said on joyous occasions that he remembered hearing old men muttering.
    Skirting the Arab Muhgrabi Quarter, he walked uphill toward the battered cupola of the Tiferet Israel Synagogue. The narrow streets were littered with rotting vegetables, twisted bed frames, scattered clothing, smashed crockery, books, photographs, broken furniture, rubble, and all the debris one might have acquired in a lifetime. A terrible sadness rose up from within Pirkl; he wanted to scream out and curse and stamp his feet.
    He came to a small storefront where a young Arab sat at a round table.
    â€œHello,” the Arab said in English.
    Pirkl ignored him and continued to walk.
    â€œ ‘Hello,’ I said. Come back or I will shout that there is a Jew still alive.”
    Pirkl froze.
    â€œThe Jews are surrendering today,” the Arab said to him.
    Pirkl shook his head and thought of his handsome father and him singing: “On the barricades we will meet at last / And lift freedom on high from the chains of the past.”
    â€œYou’re lying,” Pirkl said.
    â€œYou have lost the Holy City.”
    â€œNo,” Pirkl said.
    â€œAn Arab flag flies over the Haram.”
    â€œIt can’t be,” Pirkl said, and then thought, “We have taken Katamon and Bakaa and Talbiyeh. We’ve recaptured Ramat Rahel.”
    â€œYou look thirsty. I have water and some dates.”
    Pirkl sat down, suddenly exhausted, deflated, and thirsty.
    â€œThis morning, two rabbis carried a white bedsheet between two broomsticks. They have surrendered.”
    â€œWe would never give up Jerusalem,” Pirkl said, trailing off, “. . . rather die.”
    â€œWhat is in the bag?’
    Pirkl hesitated. “Some dried fruit.”
    â€œGood. We will share.” The young Arab stood up and limped over to a stone counter. His leg was twisted so that the foot faced the wrong way. “I am the mukhtar, the mayor.”
    â€œI am the Messiah,” Pirkl said.
    There was a small fishbowl in the middle of the table. A single goldfish swam in a few inches of murky water.
    â€œI am really the mukhtar, ” he said, handing Pirkl a glass of water. He had a sparse mustache, and his eyes wandered lazily. The goldfish swam rapidly back and