The Ascent of Eli Israel Read Online Free Page B

forth.
    â€œA Jewish fish,” he said. “A gefilte fish,” he added, laughing.
    Pirkl drank the water, thankful but annoyed by the young Arab.
    â€œCan you keep a secret?” he said, spitting a date pit onto the ground. Pirkl nodded.
    â€œThis fish. He does not belong to me. It is the only gold I got from the houses. Who has ever seen a fish in the desert?”
    Pirkl thanked him for the water and stood up to leave.
    â€œWait, wait,” the young Arab said, his eyes looking past Pirkl. “I want to show you something.” He stood up and clubbed his way over to a cabinet, returning with a pile of photographs. He smiled. “Look. Jews!”
    Pirkl saw mutilated bodies, both male and female, their faces twisted, smashed, eyeless. Disemboweled bodies, here he saw an arm, there a leg, and wondered if he would recognize his father’s hand among those bodies. A bare bootless foot, burned and bloody. Would he know?
    Pirkl leaned over and heaved onto the ground. Only the water came out, clear and hot. He coughed and coughed and finally stood up. “I’m going.”
    â€œWait, wait,” the young Arab said. “Please. Take the fish. He does not belong to me.”
    Pirkl grabbed the tiny fishbowl in his arms and ran up the cobbled street toward the once glorious Tiferet Israel Synagogue.
    â€œCareful,” the Arab called after him. “Don’t spill.”
    On the next street a half-dozen fierce-looking irregulars from the Liberation Army ransacked a house. Pirkl hid behind a wall as the men cut open a mattress in search of treasure, laughing as the stuffing flew out. One man wearing a British-style helmet fired his rifle into the mattress.
    Pirkl turned up a narrow alley, the blanket almost totally obscuring his face. The two mortar shells clinked together as he walked. Then he heard it, at first one voice, then hundreds, singing, he was sure he heard singing: the Shema. He ran toward the voices that seemed to be coming from out of the stones themselves. “Hear, O Israel: the Lord our God. The Lord is one!” He ran as fast as he could without spilling the goldfish onto the maze-like streets.
    He arrived at Ashkenazi Square dazed, but exhilarated by the sound of the voices. Hundreds of people milled about; men with beards and sidecurls, wide-brimmed felt hats and long coats, carrying bundles in their arms; women wearing babushkas and long dresses stared blankly; boys in shorts and sandals and pigtailed girls huddled close to their parents, scratching at the earth with their feet.
    The dome of Tiferet Israel seemed to have been erased, supplanted only by the blue sky. All the windows were blown out and bullet holes peppered the walls. Pirkl pulled the blanket off his head as he noticed kaffiyeh-wearing men, with bandoliers slung across their chests, standing close by with rifles in their arms. He wandered confused through the crowd with the goldfish bowl in his arms.
    â€œIt’s over,” a man in beige pants and shirt said in English, walking through the crowd. “It’s all over. Your rabbis are in the Armenian Seminary now discussing the terms of the surrender.” The letters “U.N.” were painted in white on his helmet.
    Surrender! Over! Pirkl thought. What is over? It can’t be. We still have my two mortars. We’re not done yet. I have bullets. I’ll fight. It can’t be over. The Old City is over?
    Most of the men were Orthodox Jews who would not have picked up a gun to fight.
    â€œWhere are the fighters?” Pirkl asked a man swaying, lost in prayer. “Where is my father?” he asked another, who said something in Yiddish. “Why didn’t you fight instead of pray?” he said to another, kicking dust up at him.
    He saw a young girl standing alone on the edge of the crowd staring into the distance. She reminded him of Hannah the way her shoulder blades showed through the back of her dress, the way her