expression of viciousness that stamped so many of the concentration-camp people.
“Your name is Dov Landau,” Ari said, looking directly into his eyes. “You are seventeen years old and Polish. You have a concentration camp background and you are an expert forger, counterfeiter, and duplicator. My name is Ari Ben Canaan. I’m a Palestinian from Mossad Aliyah Bet.”
The boy spat on the ground.
“Look, Dov, I’m not going to plead and I’m not going to threaten. I’ve got a plain out-and-out business proposition ... let’s call it a mutual assistance pact.”
Dov Landau snarled, “I want to tell you something, Mr. Ben Canaan. You guys aren’t any better than the Germans or the British. The only reason you want us over there so bad is to save your necks from the Arabs. Let me tell you—I’m getting to Palestine all right and when I do I’m joining an outfit that’s going to let me kill!”
Ari did not change expression at the outburst of venom that erupted from the boy. “Good. We understand each other perfectly. You don’t like my motives for wanting you in Palestine and I don’t like yours for wanting to get there. We do agree on one thing: you belong in Palestine and not here.”
The boy’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. This Ben Canaan was not like the others.
“Let’s take it a step further,” Ari said. “You’re not going to get to Palestine by sitting here on your arse and doing nothing. You help me and I’ll help you. What happens after you get there is your business.”
Dov Landau blinked with surprise.
“Here’s the point,” Ari said. “I need forged papers. I need piles of them in the next few weeks and these boys here can’t forge their own names. I want you to work for me.”
The boy had been thrown completely off guard by Ari’s rapid and direct tactics. He wanted time to look for a hidden trick. “I’ll think it over,” he said.
“Sure, think it over. You’ve got thirty seconds.”
“And what will you do if I refuse? You going to try to beat it out of me?”
“Dov, I said we need each other. Let me make myself clear. If you don’t go along with this I’m going to personally see to it that you’re the last person out of the Caraolos detention camp. With thirty-five thousand people ahead of you, you’ll be too old and feeble to lift one of those bombs by the time you get to Palestine. Your thirty seconds are up.”
“How do I know I can trust you?”
“Because I said you could.”
A faint smile crossed the boy’s face, and he nodded that he would go to work.
“All right. You get your orders from either David Ben Ami or Joab Yarkoni. I don’t want you giving anyone a bad time. If you have any problems, you ask for me. I want you to report to Palmach headquarters in a half hour and look over their plant and let David know what special materials you’ll need.”
Ari turned and walked out of the tent to where David and Joab waited. “He’ll report to work in a half hour,” Ari said.
David gaped and Joab’s mouth fell open in awe.
“How did you do it?”
“Child psychology. I’m going back to Famagusta,” Ari said. “I want to see you two boys at Mandria’s house tonight. Bring Zev Gilboa with you. Don’t bother to show me out. I know the way.”
David and Joab stared in fascination as their friend, the remarkable Ari Ben Canaan, crossed the playground in the direction of the garbage dumps.
That night in his living room Mandria, the Cypriot, waited, along with David, Joab, and a newcomer, Zev Gilboa, for the appearance of Ari Ben Canaan.
Zev Gilboa, also a Palestinian Palmachnik, was a broad-backed farmer from the Galilee. Like Yarkoni, he, too, wore a large brushlike mustache and was in his early twenties. Zev Gilboa was the best of the soldiers among the Palmach Palestinians working inside Caraolos. David had given Zev the task of heading military training for the refugees. With zest, with improvised weapons, and by using the children’s
“Your name is Dov Landau,” Ari said, looking directly into his eyes. “You are seventeen years old and Polish. You have a concentration camp background and you are an expert forger, counterfeiter, and duplicator. My name is Ari Ben Canaan. I’m a Palestinian from Mossad Aliyah Bet.”
The boy spat on the ground.
“Look, Dov, I’m not going to plead and I’m not going to threaten. I’ve got a plain out-and-out business proposition ... let’s call it a mutual assistance pact.”
Dov Landau snarled, “I want to tell you something, Mr. Ben Canaan. You guys aren’t any better than the Germans or the British. The only reason you want us over there so bad is to save your necks from the Arabs. Let me tell you—I’m getting to Palestine all right and when I do I’m joining an outfit that’s going to let me kill!”
Ari did not change expression at the outburst of venom that erupted from the boy. “Good. We understand each other perfectly. You don’t like my motives for wanting you in Palestine and I don’t like yours for wanting to get there. We do agree on one thing: you belong in Palestine and not here.”
The boy’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. This Ben Canaan was not like the others.
“Let’s take it a step further,” Ari said. “You’re not going to get to Palestine by sitting here on your arse and doing nothing. You help me and I’ll help you. What happens after you get there is your business.”
Dov Landau blinked with surprise.
“Here’s the point,” Ari said. “I need forged papers. I need piles of them in the next few weeks and these boys here can’t forge their own names. I want you to work for me.”
The boy had been thrown completely off guard by Ari’s rapid and direct tactics. He wanted time to look for a hidden trick. “I’ll think it over,” he said.
“Sure, think it over. You’ve got thirty seconds.”
“And what will you do if I refuse? You going to try to beat it out of me?”
“Dov, I said we need each other. Let me make myself clear. If you don’t go along with this I’m going to personally see to it that you’re the last person out of the Caraolos detention camp. With thirty-five thousand people ahead of you, you’ll be too old and feeble to lift one of those bombs by the time you get to Palestine. Your thirty seconds are up.”
“How do I know I can trust you?”
“Because I said you could.”
A faint smile crossed the boy’s face, and he nodded that he would go to work.
“All right. You get your orders from either David Ben Ami or Joab Yarkoni. I don’t want you giving anyone a bad time. If you have any problems, you ask for me. I want you to report to Palmach headquarters in a half hour and look over their plant and let David know what special materials you’ll need.”
Ari turned and walked out of the tent to where David and Joab waited. “He’ll report to work in a half hour,” Ari said.
David gaped and Joab’s mouth fell open in awe.
“How did you do it?”
“Child psychology. I’m going back to Famagusta,” Ari said. “I want to see you two boys at Mandria’s house tonight. Bring Zev Gilboa with you. Don’t bother to show me out. I know the way.”
David and Joab stared in fascination as their friend, the remarkable Ari Ben Canaan, crossed the playground in the direction of the garbage dumps.
That night in his living room Mandria, the Cypriot, waited, along with David, Joab, and a newcomer, Zev Gilboa, for the appearance of Ari Ben Canaan.
Zev Gilboa, also a Palestinian Palmachnik, was a broad-backed farmer from the Galilee. Like Yarkoni, he, too, wore a large brushlike mustache and was in his early twenties. Zev Gilboa was the best of the soldiers among the Palmach Palestinians working inside Caraolos. David had given Zev the task of heading military training for the refugees. With zest, with improvised weapons, and by using the children’s
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