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Table of Contents
Cover Page
Copyright Page
About the Author
Praise for The Last Secret of the Temple
Praise for The Lost Army of Cambyses
Also by Paul Sussman
Dedication
acknowledgements
The Last Secret of the Temple
prologue
Part One: The Present
Part Two: A Week Later
Part Three: Three Days Later
Glossary
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Epub ISBN: 9781407041247
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THE LAST SECRET OF THE TEMPLE
A BANTAM BOOK: 0553814052
9780553814057
Originally published in Great Britain by Bantam Press, a division of Transworld Publishers
PRINTING HISTORY
Bantam Press edition published 2005
Bantam edition published 2006
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Copyright © Paul Sussman 2005
The right of Paul Sussman to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The author and publishers have made every reasonable effort to contact the copyright owners of the lyrics reproduced in this book. Where they have been unsuccessful they invite copyright holders to contact them direct.
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This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
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About the Author
Paul Sussman is a journalist and author. He has also worked as a field archaeologist, and was part of the first team to excavate new ground in the Valley of the Kings since Tutankhamun was found in 1922. His first novel, The Lost Army of Cambyses, was an international bestseller and has been translated into 28 languages. He is married and lives in London.
www.booksattransworld.co.uk
Praise for The Last Secret of the Temple
‘The intelligent reader’s answer to The Da Vinci Code: a big, fat satisfying archaeological puzzle’
Independent ‘Fifty Best Books of the Summer’
‘Ambitious, large-scale adventure . . . Sussman’s fastidious research into the novel’s setting grants everything a solid plausibility, and his millennia spanning plot functions as a colourful backdrop to the trials of his protagonists’
Good Book Guide
‘A rollicking, feel-good adventure set among the murky and convulsive politics of the present-day Middle East’ Jewish Chronicle
‘An exciting page-turner . . . an unusual and intriguing tale’
Western Daily Press
Praise for The Lost Army of Cambyses
‘A great adventure, one of the most intriguing mysteries of the past, a great novel masterfully written’
Valerio Massimo Manfredi, author of The Spartan
‘A tough, sometimes brutal, but always engrossing thriller. Sussman knows his Egypt, past and present, and he has the gift of creating engaging heroes of both sexes and really, really vile villains’ Dr Barbara Mertz, archaeologist
‘At last, a thriller that gets away from the hackneyed old “curse of Tut” stuff; and since Sussman has actually excavated in Egypt himself, we can trust his background detail . . . the fast-paced plot is one among many good things in this very assured first novel . . . There is also a great description of a khamsin, the sandstorm wind, and I can vouch for Sussman’s accuracy, having been terrified silly by enduring such a phenomenon myself’ Scotland on Sunday
‘Gripping . . . a spine-chilling, fast-paced thriller . . . It has all the ingredients of a James Bond adventure: exotic locations, priceless antiquities, evil fanatics bent on global domination, brutal murders, corrupt policemen, human heroism, and it keeps you guessing right up to the final chapter. It’s rare to find a book which sets your heartbeat racing as you timidly but compulsively turn the page, terrified at what might jump out in the next paragraph. But in a style reminiscent of Patricia Cornwell’s early books, The Lost Army of Cambyses shocks as well as enthrals . . . A compelling read’ Sunday Business Post
‘Adrenaline-packed . . . combines all the elements of a truly great adventure story – a 2,000 year old historical mystery, buried treasure, a race against time – with a profound knowledge of, and feel for, the land of Egypt, both past and present. At the end you feel like you’ve been on a rollercoaster, in a library, and down the Nile all at the same time . . . Superbly evocative, with a huge epic sweep’ Crime Time
‘A textured, well-researched and expertly placed debut . . . the murders and thrills accumulate . . . truly inventive’
Publishers Weekly
‘An enjoyable adventure story, replete with archaeological lore and set against a backdrop of Islamic militant action’
Spectator
‘An all-action archaeological adventure . . . an edge of your seat thrill ride . . . There is also a great feeling of the desert’s vastness, especially in the cinematic adrenaline-packed ending’ Wealden Times
Also by Paul Sussman
The Lost Army of Cambyses
and published by Bantam Books
For Alicky,
whose light shines brightest of all.
And for our beautiful,
beloved Layla Rose.
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I owe a debt of gratitude to a great many people for helping in the research and writing of this book, and what follows is, of necessity, but paltry recognition for the support and assistance they have given.
Huge thanks to my agent, Laura Susijn, for always being there in times of difficulty, and to Simon Taylor of Transworld, whose skills as an editor are matched only by his Herculean levels of patience in waiting for a manuscript to actually edit.
Rudi Eliott Lockhart, Emma Woolerton and Tessa Webber provided invaluable help with the medieval Latin translations; James Freeman did the same with ancient Latin and Greek.
For advice on the nuances of Palestinian Arabic a massive thank-you to Ghassan Kharian and Henrietta McMicking; likewise to my dear friend Mohsen Kamel for correcting my (woeful) Egyptian Arabic. For Hebrew transliterations I am beholden to Rabbi Warren Elf, a teacher in the finest traditions of Judaism.
In no particular order, but with equal gratitude to all, my thanks to Professor Dieter Lindenlaub, Rolf Herget, Gilad Atzmon, Dr Nick Reeves, Bromley Roberts, Nigel Topping, Xan Brooks, Andrew Rogerson, John Bannon, Charlie Smith, Marie-Louise Weighall and Sue and Stanley Sussman.
Finally, three special thank-yous. First, to the staff and officers of the David Police Station in Jerusalem, who were unfailingly kind, helpful and informative during the time I spent researching in Israel.
Secondly, to the many Palestinians who took the time to meet and talk with me, and give me an insight into their world. Because of the current political situation there was understandable nervousness about allowing their names to appear in print. They know who they are, and I will always be grateful.
Last, and most important of all, to my beautiful wife, without whose love, support and strength this book would never have been finished.

THE

LAST SECRET

OF THE

TEMPLE

Paul Sussman

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BANTAM BOOKS

LONDON • TORONTO • SYDNEY • AUCKLAND • JOHANNESBURG

PROLOGUE
 
THE HOLY TEMPLE, JERUSALEM AUGUST AD 70
The heads flew over the Temple wall with a hiss, dozens of them, like a flock of ungainly birds, eyes open, mouths agape, tendrils of flesh fluttering where they had been crudely severed at the neck. Some came down in the Court of Women, thudding onto the soot-blackened flagstones with an arhythmic, drum-like patter, causing old folk and children to scatter in horror. Others went further, passing right over the Nicanor Gate into the Court of Israel, where they rained down around the great Altar of Holocausts like giant hailstones. A few flew further still, slamming against the walls and roof of the Mishkan itself, the holy sanctuary at the very heart of the Temple complex, which seemed to groan and echo under the assault, as though in physical pain.
‘Bastards,’ choked the boy, tears of despair pricking his sapphire-blue eyes. ‘Filthy Roman bastards!’
From his vantage point on the Temple ramparts he gazed down at the ant-like mass of legionaries moving around below him, their weapons and armour glinting in the angry firelight. Their cries filled the night, mingling with the whoosh of the mangonels, the pounding of drums, the screams of the dying and, enveloping all else, the metronomic, baritone thud of the battering rams, so that it seemed to the boy the entire world was slowly cleaving apart.
‘Be gracious to me, oh Lord,’ he whispered, quoting the Psalm. ‘For I am in distress; my eye is wasted from grief, my soul and my body also.’
For six months the siege had tightened around the city like a garrotte, throttling the life out of it. From their initial positions on Mount Scopus and the Mount of Olives, the Roman legions, four of them swelled by thousands of auxiliaries, had moved inexorably inwards, breaching every line of defence, driving the Jews backwards, crushing them into the centre. Countless numbers had died, cut down as they tried to repel the attackers or crucified along the city walls and throughout the Kidron Valley, where the flocks of vultures were now so thick they blacked out the sun. The smell of death was everywhere, a corrosive, overpowering stench that tore into the nostrils like flame.
Nine days ago the Antonia fortress had fallen; six days after that the outer courts and colonnades of the Temple compound. Now all that was left was the fortified Inner Temple, where what remained of the city’s once proud population was crammed like fish in a barrel, filthy, starving, reduced to eating rats and leather, and drinking their own urine, so pitiful was their thirst. Still they fought, frantically, hopelessly, raining rocks and flaming beams of wood down on the attackers below, occasionally sallying forth to drive the Romans back from the outer courts, only to be driven back themselves, with terrible losses. The boy’s two elder brothers had died in the last such sortie, hacked down as they tried to topple a Roman siege engine. For all he knew, their mutilated heads were among those now being catapulted back over the walls into the Temple enclosure.
Vivat Titus! Vincet Roma! Vivat Titus!
The voices of the Romans swelled upwards in a roaring wave of sound, chanting the name of their general, Titus, son of the emperor Vespasian. Along the battlements the defenders tried to raise a counter-chant, calling out the names of their own leaders, John of Gischala and Simon Bar-Giora. The cry was frail, however, for their mouths were parched and their lungs weak, and anyway, it was hard to muster much enthusiasm for men who, it was rumoured, had already struck a deal with the Romans for their own lives. They kept it up for half a minute and then their voices slowly dropped away.
The boy removed a pebble from the pocket of his tunic and began sucking it, trying to forget how thirsty he was. David was his name, son of Judah the winemaker. Before the great revolt his family had worked a vineyard on the terraced hills outside Bethlehem, its ruby-red grapes producing the lightest, sweetest wine you had ever tasted, like sunlight on spring mornings, like a soft breeze through shady groves of tamarind. In the summer the boy had helped with the harvest and the treading of the grapes, laughing at the feel of the mushy fruit beneath his feet, the way the juice stained his legs blood-red. Now the wine-presses were smashed, the vines burnt down, and his family dead, all of them. He was alone in the world. Twelve years old, and already he carried the grief of a man five times his age.
‘Here they come again! Ready! Ready!’
Along the ramparts the cry rang out as a new wave of Roman auxiliaries poured towards the Temple walls, scaling-ladders held above their heads so that in the infernal shadowy firelight it looked as if dozens of giant centipedes were scuttling across the ground. A desperate hail of rocks showered down on them, causing the charge to falter for a moment before sweeping onwards again, reaching the walls and raising the ladders, each one anchored by two men on the ground while a dozen more used poles to heave it upwards and over against the battlements. Swarms of soldiers began scrambling onto them, streaming up the sides of the Temple like a rising tide of black ink.
The boy spat out his pebble, grabbed a rock from the pile at his feet, placed it in his leather sling and leant out over the ramparts, looking for a suitable target, oblivious to the blizzard of arrows hissing up from below. Beside him a woman, one of the many helping to defend the walls, stumbled backwards, her throat pierced by a harpoon-headed pilum, blood spraying through her hands. He ignored her and continued surveying the ranks of the enemy beneath, eventually spotting a Roman standard bearer holding aloft the insignia of Apollinaris, the Fifteenth Legion. He gritted his teeth and began swinging the sling above his head, eyes nailed to his target. One circle, two, three.
His arm was grabbed from behind. He wheeled round, punching with his free fist, kicking.
‘David! It’s me! Eleazar. Eleazar the Goldsmith!’
A huge bearded man was standing behind him, a heavy iron hammer slotted into his belt, his head wrapped round with a bloodied bandage. The boy stopped punching.
‘Eleazar! I thought you were—’
‘A Roman?’ The man laughed mirthlessly, releasing his grip on the boy’s arm. ‘I don’t smell that bad, do I?’
‘I would have hit their standard bearer,’ admonished the boy. ‘It was an easy shot. I would have smashed the bastard’s skull!’
Again the man laughed, with more warmth this time. ‘I’m sure you would have. Everyone knows David Bar-Judah is the best sling-shot in the land. But there are more important things now.’
He glanced around, then lowered his voice.
‘Matthias has summoned you.’
‘Matthias!’ The boy’s eyes widened. ‘The High—’
The man clamped his hand over the boy’s mouth, again glancing around. ‘Quietly!’ he hissed. ‘There are things here, secret things. Simon and John would not be happy if they knew this was done without their consent.’
The boy’s eyes sparkled with confusion, uncertain what the man was talking about. The goldsmith made no effort to explain himself, simply looked down to make sure his words had hit home, then removed his hand and, taking the boy’s arm, steered him along the top of the battlements and down a narrow stairwell into the Court of Women, the stonework beneath their feet trembling as the Roman battering rams punched into the Temple gates with renewed vigour.
‘Quickly,’ he urged. ‘The walls won’t hold for long.’
They hurried across the court, dodging the severed heads scattered on the flagstones, arrows clattering all around them. At the far end they climbed the fifteen steps to the Nicanor Gate and passed through into a second open space where crowds of kohenim were furiously sacrificing on the great Altar of Holocausts, their robes stained black with soot, their wailing voices all but drowning out the rage of battle.
Oh God, thou hast rejected us, broken our defences;
Thou hast been angry;
Oh restore us!
Thou hast made the land to quake, thou hast rent it open,
Repair its breaches, for it totters!
They crossed this court too and ascended the twelve steps to the porch of the Mishkan, its massive façade rearing over them like a cliff, a hundred cubits high and hung with a magnificent vine worked of pure gold. Here Eleazar stopped, turning to the boy and squatting so that their eyes were level.
‘This is as far as I go. Only the kohenim and the High Priest may pass into the sanctuary itself.’
‘And me?’ The boy’s voice was unsteady.
‘For you it is allowed. At this time, in this extremity. Matthias has said so. The Lord will understand.’ He laid his hands on the boy’s shoulders, squeezing. ‘Do not be afraid, David. Your heart is pure. You will come to no harm.’
He looked into the boy’s eyes, then, standing, pushed him away towards the great doorway, with its twin silver pillars and embroidered curtain of red, blue and purple silk.
‘Go now. May God be with you.’
The boy looked back at him, a huge figure silhouetted against the flaming sky, then turned and, pushing aside the curtain, passed into a long pillared hall with a floor of polished marble and a ceiling so high it was lost in shadow. It was cool in here, and silent, with sweet, intoxicating fragrance in the air. The battle seemed to recede and disappear, as though it was happening in another world.
Shema Yisrael, adonai elohenu, adonai ehud,’ he whispered. ‘Hear, Oh Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is one.’
He paused a moment, overawed, then, slowly, started walking towards the far end of the hall, his feet falling soundlessly onto the white marble. Ahead of him stood the Temple’s sacred objects – the table of the shewbread, the golden incense altar, the great seven-branched Menorah – and beyond them a shimmering, diaphanous veil of silk, the entrance to the debir, the Holy of Holies, which no man could enter save the High Priest alone, and he only once a year, on the Day of Atonement.
‘Welcome, David,’ said a voice. ‘I have been waiting.’
Matthias, the High Priest, stepped from the shadows to the boy’s left. He wore a sky-blue robe bound with a red and gold apron, a thin diadem about his head and, on his chest, the Ephod, the sacred breastplate, with its twelve precious stones, each representing one of the tribes of Israel. His face was deeply lined, his beard white.
‘At last we meet, son of Judah,’ he said softly, coming over to the boy and staring down at him, his movement accompanied by a soft tinkling sound from the dozens of tiny bells sewn around the hem of his robe. ‘Eleazar the Goldsmith has told me much about you. Of all those defending the Holy places, he says, you are the most fearless. And the most worthy of trust. Like the David of old come again. This is what he says.’
He gazed at the boy, then, taking his hand, led him forward, right to the end of the hall, where they stopped in front of the golden Menorah, with its curving branches and intricately decorated stem, the whole beaten from a single block of pure gold to a design laid down by the Almighty himself. The boy stared up at its flickering lamps, eyes glinting like sun-dappled water, overwhelmed.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ said the old man, noting the wonder in the boy’s face, laying a hand on his shoulder. ‘No object on earth is more sacred to us, nothing more precious to our people, for the light of the Holy Menorah is the light of the Lord God himself. If ever it was to be lost to us . . .’
He sighed and raised a hand, touching it to the breastplate on his chest.
‘Eleazar is a good man,’ he added, as if as an afterthought. ‘A second Bezalel.’
For a long moment they stood in silence contemplating the great candelabrum, its radiance surrounding and enveloping them. Then, with a nod, the High Priest turned so that he was facing the boy directly.
‘Today the Lord has decreed that his Holy Temple will fall,’ he said quietly, ‘just as it did before, on this very day, Tish B’Av, more than six hundred years ago, when the House of Solomon was lost to the Babylonians. The sacred stones will be hammered to dust, the roof-beams torn asunder, our people led into exile and scattered to the four winds.’
He leant back a little, gazing deep into the boy’s eyes.
‘One hope we have, David, and one hope alone. A secret, a great secret, known only to a few of us. Now, in this final hour, you too shall know it.’
He bent towards the boy, lowering his voice and speaking rapidly, as if afraid they should be overheard, even though they were quite alone. The boy’s eyes widened as he listened, his gaze flicking from the floor to the Menorah and back to the floor again, his shoulders trembling. When the priest had finished he straightened and took a step backwards.
‘See,’ he said, a faint smile pulling at the edges of his pale lips, ‘even in defeat there shall still be victory. Even in darkness there shall be light.’
The boy said nothing, his face tangled, caught between amazement and disbelief. The priest reached out and stroked his hair.
‘Already it has gone from the city, out beyond the Roman palisade. Now it must leave this land altogether, for our ruin is nigh and its safety can no longer be guaranteed. All has been arranged. One thing alone remains, and that is to name a guardian, one who will convey the thing to its final destination, and there wait with it until better times shall come. To this task you have been appointed, David son of Judah. If you will accept it. Will you accept the task?’
The boy felt his gaze drawn upwards towards that of the priest, as if pulled by invisible cords. The old man’s eyes were grey, but with a strange hypnotic translucence behind them, like clouds floating on a vast clear sky. He felt a heaviness inside him, and a weightlessness too, as if he was flying.
‘What must I do?’ he asked, his voice a croak.
The old man looked down at him, eyes running back and forth across his face, scanning the features as though they were words in a book. Then, with a nod, he reached into his robe and drew out a small roll of parchment, handing it to the boy.
‘This will guide you,’ he said. ‘Do as it says and all will be well.’
He took the boy’s face in his hands.
‘You alone are now our hope, David son of Judah. With you alone the flame shall burn. Tell this secret to no-one. Guard it with your life. Pass it to your sons, and your sons’ sons, and their sons after them, until the time shall come for it to be revealed.’
The boy stared up at him.
‘But when, master?’ he whispered. ‘How will I know the time is right?’
The priest held his gaze a moment longer, then straightened and turned back to the Menorah, staring at the flickering lamps, his eyes gradually closing, as if he was slipping into a trance. The silence around them deepened and thickened; the gemstones on his breastplate seemed to burn with an inner light.
‘Three signs to guide you,’ he said softly, his voice suddenly distant, as if he was speaking from a great height. ‘First, the greatest of the twelve shall come and in his hand a hawk; second, a son of Ishmael and a son of Isaac shall stand together as friends in the House of God; third, the lion and the shepherd shall be as one, and about their neck a lamp. When these things come to pass, then it will be time.’
Ahead of them the veil across the Holy of Holies seemed to billow slightly, and the boy felt a soft, cool breeze pass across his face. Strange voices seemed to echo in his ears, his skin tingled; there was a curious smell, rich and musty, like Time itself, if Time can be said to have a smell. It lasted only a moment and then suddenly, shockingly, there was a great boom and a crash from outside, and the cry of a thousand voices lifted in terror and despair. The priest’s eyes snapped open.
‘It is the end,’ he said. ‘Repeat the signs to me!’
The boy repeated them, stumbling over the words. The old man made him do it again, and again, until he had them perfect. The sounds of battle were now rushing into the sanctuary like a flood – screams of pain, the clang of weapons, the crash of falling masonry. Matthias hurried across the hall, looked through the entrance, then hurried back again.
‘They have passed the Nicanor Gate!’ he cried. ‘You cannot go back that way. Come, help me!’
Stepping forward, the old man grasped the stem of the Menorah and started pulling, inching it across the floor. The boy joined him and together they moved it a metre to the left, revealing a square marble slab with two handholds sunk into it. These the priest grasped, heaving the slab away to reveal a dark cavity within which a narrow stone stairway spiralled downwards into blackness.
‘The Temple has many secret ways,’ he said, seizing the boy’s arm and guiding him into the opening, ‘and this the most secret of them all. Go down the stair and follow the tunnel. Do not deviate to left or right. It will take you far out of the city, south, well beyond the Roman palisade.’
‘But what about—’
‘There is no time! Go! You are now the hope of our people. I name you Shomer Ha-Or. Take this name. Keep it. Have pride in it. Pass it down. God will guard you. And judge you too.’
He leant forward, kissed the boy on each cheek and then, placing his hand on his head, pushed him downwards. He heaved the marble slab back into the hole and, grasping the Menorah, scraped it across the floor, grunting with the strain. He only just had time to get it back in position before there were cries from the far end of the hall, and the ring of clashing blades. Eleazar the Goldsmith staggered backwards through the entrance, one arm hanging limp at his side, a bloody stump where his hand had been, his other hand clutching his hammer with which he swung madly at a wall of legionaries coming after him. For a moment he managed to hold them at bay. Then, with a roar, they rushed forward and he was overpowered, stumbling backwards onto the floor where his limbs were hacked off and his body trampled.
‘Yahweh!’ he screamed. ‘Yahweh!’
The High Priest watched, his face expressionless, then turned away, taking a handful of incense and casting it onto the coals of the golden altar. A cloud of perfumed steam spiralled upwards into the air. Behind him he could hear the Romans approaching, their iron-shod boots clinking on the floor, the rattle of their armour echoing around the walls.
‘The Lord has become like an enemy,’ he whispered, repeating the words of the Prophet Jeremiah. ‘He has destroyed Israel; he has destroyed all its palaces, laid in ruins its strongholds.’
The Romans were at his back now. He closed his eyes. There was laughter, and the soft whoosh of a sword being raised high into the air. For a moment Time seemed to stand still; then the sword was driven downwards, drilling between the High Priest’s shoulder blades and right the way through his body. He staggered forward and slumped to his knees.
‘In Babylon let it rest!’ he coughed, blood bubbling from the corners of his mouth. ‘In Babylon, in the house of Abner.’
And with that he crashed face down at the foot of the great Menorah, dead. The legionaries kicked away his corpse, hefted the Temple treasures onto their shoulders and carried them from the sanctuary.
Vicerunt Romani! Victi Iudaei! Vivat Titus!’ they cried. ‘Rome has conquered! The Jews are defeated! Long live Titus!’
SOUTHERN GERMANY DECEMBER 1944
Yitzhak Edelstein hugged his striped work fatigues around him and blew onto his hands, which had turned purple with the cold. Leaning forward, he tried to peer out of the back of the truck but could see little beneath the low canvas flap other than damp tarmac, tree-trunks and the bumper of the truck behind. He turned and pressed his face to a rip in the side of the canvas, briefly glimpsing steep, tree-covered slopes, white with snow, before a rifle butt banged into his ankle.
‘Face forward. Sit still.’
He straightened and peered down at his feet, sockless, thrust into battered boots, scant protection against the freezing winter weather. Beside him the rabbi had started coughing again, his frail body trembling as though someone was shaking him. Yitzhak took the old man’s hands between his own and rubbed them, trying to impart some warmth.
‘Leave it,’ snapped the guard.
‘But he’s—’
‘Are you deaf? I said leave it.’
He levelled his gun at Yitzhak. The old man withdrew his hands.
‘Don’t you worry about me, my young friend. Us rabbis are a lot tougher than you think.’
He smiled weakly and they lapsed into silence, eyes fixed on the floor, shivering, swaying into one another as the truck turned this way and that.
There were six of them, excluding the two guards: four Jews, one homosexual, one communist. They had been herded from the camp and into the truck at dawn and had been driving ever since, east and south, Yitzhak thought, although he couldn’t be sure. Initially the land had been flat and damp, the road straight. For the past hour, however, they had been winding steadily upwards, the pastures and forests gradually turning white with snow. There was another truck behind theirs, with a driver and one other man in the cab. No prisoners in the back, so far as Yitzhak could tell.
He ran his hand over his shaved head – even after four years he still couldn’t get used to the feel – and, clasping his hands between his thighs and hunching his shoulders, tried to let his mind drift, fighting off the cold and hunger with thoughts of warmer and better times. Family dinners at their house in Dresden; Mishnah studies at the old yeshiva; the joy of the Holy days, especially Hanukkah, the festival of lights, his favourite of all the commemorative feasts. And of course Rivka, beautiful Rivka, his little sister. ‘Yitzi, schmitzy, itzy bitzy!’ she had used to chant, flicking at his pe’ot, tugging the tassles of his tallit katan. ‘Yitzi, witzy, mitzy, ditzy!’ How funny she had been with her tangle of coal-black hair and flaming eyes! How wilful and naughty! ‘You pigs!’ she had screamed when they had dragged their father out into the street and cut off his side curls. ‘You filthy, dirty pigs!’ For which they had ripped out hunks of her hair, pushed her against a wall and shot her.
Thirteen years old, and so beautiful. Poor Rivka. Poor little Rivka.
The truck hit a rut and jumped violently, jerking him back to the present. Glancing out of the back, he saw that they were passing through a large village. He craned his neck and through the rip in the canvas caught sight of a signpost beside the road: Berchtesgaden. The name sounded vaguely familiar, although he couldn’t place it.
‘Face forward,’ growled the guard. ‘I won’t tell you again.’
They drove for another thirty minutes, the road climbing ever more steeply, the bends getting ever tighter, until eventually there was a sharp toot from the truck behind and they pulled over.
‘Out!’ ordered the guards, jabbing at them with their guns.
They struggled from the truck, billows of steam ballooning from their mouths. They were in the middle of a thick pine forest, parked in a lay-by beside an old stone building with empty windows and a caved-in roof. Far below, between snow-laden branches, patches of green pasture were visible, with houses here and there, small as toys, curls of smoke rising from their chimneys. Above, heavily wooded slopes ran steeply upwards, disappearing into a haze of mist and cloud within which a deeper darkness suggested high mountains. It was very quiet, and very, very cold. Yitzhak stamped his feet to stop them going numb.
The second truck had pulled in behind theirs. Leaning from the window, the man in the passenger seat, who wore a high-collared leather coat and seemed to be in overall charge, said something to one of the guards, motioning with his hand.
‘Right,’ shouted the guard, ‘get over here.’
They were herded round to the back of the second truck. The canvas flap was thrown up, revealing a large wooden crate.
‘Get it out! Come on! Hurry!’
Yitzhak and the communist, an emaciated middle-aged man with a red triangle sewn onto the leg of his trousers – Yitzhak wore overlapping yellow triangles to denote that he was a Jew – clambered into the truck and grasped the sides of the crate. It was heavy, and it took both of them just to shunt it across the metal floor and get it level with the tail-board. The others then took hold of it, and slowly they manhandled it onto the icy road.
‘No, no, no!’ shouted the man in the coat, leaning from the cab window. ‘They carry it. There.’ He pointed past the ruined building to where a narrow avenue of virgin snow ran upwards into the trees above, presumably some sort of road or track. ‘And make sure they’re careful with it!’
The prisoners looked at one another, silently communicating their fear and exhaustion, then bent down and, slowly, heaved the crate up again, one on each corner, two in the middle, grunting with the strain.
‘This is going to be bad,’ mumbled the communist. ‘This is going to be very bad.’
They started into the forest, feet sinking into the snow up to their calves. The guards and the man in the leather coat followed, although Yitzhak dared not look round for fear of losing his balance. In front of him the rabbi was coughing violently.
‘Let me take a little of the weight,’ Yitzhak whispered. ‘I am strong. It is easy for me.’
‘You’re a liar, Yitzhak,’ croaked the old man. ‘And a bad one at that.’
‘Shut up!’ cried one of the guards behind them. ‘No talking.’
They staggered onwards, grunting with exertion, skin burning with the cold. The track, which had initially followed a fold in the land, rising reasonably gently, now began to climb at a harsher gradient, coiling upwards through the trees, switching back on itself, the snow getting ever deeper. On one particularly steep section the homosexual lost his footing and stumbled, causing the crate to lurch forwards and smash against a tree-trunk, its top left-hand corner cracking and splintering.
‘Idiot!’ screamed the man in the leather coat. ‘Get him up!’
The guards waded forward and hoisted the man to his feet, forcing him to heave the crate back onto his shoulders.
‘My shoe,’ he pleaded, indicating his left boot, which had somehow come off and was lying half-buried in the snow.
The guards laughed and, kicking the boot away, ordered them all to get moving again.
‘God help him,’ whispered the rabbi. ‘God help the poor boy.’
Up and up they climbed, higher and higher, gasping and groaning, every step seeming to suck a little bit more life out of them, until eventually, at a point when Yitzhak felt that he must surely drop and die, the track suddenly came level and emerged from the trees into what looked like an abandoned quarry cut deep into the hillside. At the same moment the clouds above them drew back, revealing a huge mountain rearing overhead with, far away to the right, a small building perched on the edge of a cliff. The vision lasted only a few seconds and was then lost again behind a heavy curtain of mist, disappearing so quickly that Yitzhak wondered whether he had not just imagined it in his exhaustion and despair.
‘Over there,’ shouted the man in the leather coat. ‘Into the mine!’
At the back of the quarry rose a vertical rock-face, in the centre of which gaped a doorway, wide and black, like a screaming mouth. They stumbled towards it, past heaps of snow-covered rock and slag, a broken winching device and an upturned cart with a single rusted wheel, picking their way carefully over the uneven ground. As they reached the opening Yitzhak noticed the words GLÜCK AUF crudely scratched into the rock above its lintel, and beneath it, in white paint, no bigger than the size of half a thumb, the legend SW16.
‘Go on! Inside! Take it in!’
They did as they were told, bending their knees and backs so as not to smash the crate on the low ceiling. One of the guards produced a torch and shone it ahead into the blackness, revealing a long corridor running back into the hillside, supported at regular intervals by wooden props. Iron rails ran along the flat stone floor; the walls were rough and uneven, hewn out of the bare grey rock, with here and there thick veins of orangey-pink crystal exploding through the stone like forks of lightning across a dark sky. Abandoned tools lay scattered on the ground – a rusted oil lamp, a pick-axe head, an old tin bucket – giving the place an eerie, abandoned feel.
They were made to go about fifty metres, at which point the rails on the floor branched, one set continuing straight ahead, the other twisting off to the right into another tunnel that ran perpendicular to the main shaft, its walls lined with stacks of boxes and crates. There was a flat cart sitting near the entrance to this side-passage, and they were ordered to place their load on top of it.
‘That’s it,’ came a voice from the darkness behind them. ‘Out. Get them out!’
They turned and shuffled back the way they had come, breathing heavily, relieved that their ordeal seemed to be over, one of the other Jews supporting the homosexual, whose bare foot had turned black. There was a muttered exchange behind them, and then the guards came out as well. The man in the leather coat remained inside the mine.
‘Over there,’ said one of the guards when they emerged into the open air. ‘There, by that heap of rock.’
They did as they were told, walking over to the pile of stones and turning. The guards had their guns levelled at them.
Oy vey,’ whispered Yitzhak, suddenly realizing what was about to happen. ‘Oh God.’
The guards laughed, and the winter silence was shattered by a raucous bark of gunfire.
GLOSSARY
Abba   Father (Hebrew).
Abbas, Mahmoud   Successor to Yasser Arafat as President of the Palestinian Authority. Born 1935. Also known as Abu Mazen.
Abraham   Jewish patriarch, considered the father of the Jewish people.
Abu Simbel   Archaeological site in southern Egypt. Location of one of Egypt’s greatest monuments, the Sun Temple of Ramesses II.
Abu Za‘abal   Egyptian prison near Cairo.
Abydos   Cult centre of the god Osiris and burial ground of some of Egypt’s earliest pharaohs. Located 90km north of Luxor.
Ahl el-Kitab   Literally, ‘People of the Book’. Muslim term for Jews and Christians, whose scriptures were incorporated into Islam.
Aish baladi   Pitta-type bread made from wholemeal flour.
Akhenaten   Eighteenth Dynasty pharaoh. Ruled c.1353–1335 BC. Father of Tutankhamun.
Al-Ahram   Literally, ‘The Pyramids’. Best-selling Egyptian newspaper.
Al-Akhbar   Egyptian newspaper.
Al-Quds   Arabic name for Jerusalem.
Alim al-Simsim   Egyptian version of US children’s show Sesame Street.
Aliyah   Literally, ‘Going up’. Emigration to the land of Israel.
Al-Wadi al-Gadid   Egyptian prison in Kharga oasis.
Amarna   Modern name for Akhetaten, a city built by the pharaoh Akhenaten on the east bank of the Nile midway between Cairo and Luxor.
Amenhotep I   Eighteenth Dynasty pharaoh. Ruled c.1525–1504 BC. His tomb has never been conclusively identified.
Amenhotep II   Eighteenth Dynasty pharaoh. Ruled c.1427–1401 BC.
Amenhotep III   Eighteenth Dynasty pharaoh. Ruled c.1391–1353 BC. Father of Akhenaten, grandfather of Tutankhamun.
Amir, Yigal   Jewish extremist. Assassinated Israeli Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin in 1995.
Ankh   Cruciform symbol. The ancient Egyptian sign of life.
Antonia Fortress   Fortress adjacent to the Temple complex in ancient Jerusalem. Built by Herod the Great.
Arafat, Yasser   Figurehead and de facto leader of the Palestinian people from the late 1960s until his death in November 2004. President of the Palestinian Authority from 1996. Born 1929. Also known as Abu Ammar.
Arminius   Ancient German warrior hero. Lived c.18 BCAD 21. Famed for defeating the Roman army at the Battle of the Teutoberger Wald (AD 9).
Ashkelon   An Israeli prison.
Aya   A verse of the Koran.
Ayalon, Ami   Former head of Shin Bet (1996–2000).
Babaghanoush   Egyptian dish made from tahina and mashed aubergine.
Babi Yar   A ravine near Kiev, site of an infamous World War Two massacre in which a hundred thousand people, mainly Jews, were shot dead by Nazi firing squads.
Banana Island   A Luxor beauty spot. Renowned as a haunt for homosexuals.
Bar mitzvah   Jewish ceremony marking a boy’s coming of age.
Barak, Ehud   Former Israeli Prime Minister (1999–2001).
Barghouti, Marwan   Popular Palestinian activist and politician. Born 1958. Imprisoned by the Israelis in 2002.
Basbousa   Egyptian sweet pastry made with semolina, nuts and honey.
Batya Gur   Popular Israeli author.
Beir Zeit University   Palestinian university, in Ramallah.
Beni Hassan   Important Middle Kingdom necropolis on the east bank of the Nile, midway between al-Minya and Mallawi.
Bezalel   Revered Jewish craftsman from the time of the Exodus. Created the Ark of the Covenant and the first Menorah.
Borscht   Beetroot soup.
Buchenwald   Nazi concentration camp, in Germany.
Butneya   An area of Cairo renowned for its thieves and drug dealers.
Cabbala   Mystical teaching of Judaism.
Caleche   A horse-drawn carriage.
Camp David   The US President’s country retreat in Maryland. Scene of abortive peace talks in July 2000 between the then Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Barak and Yasser Arafat.
Cardo   Covered street in the Jewish quarter of Old Jerusalem. Formerly the main thoroughfare of Roman Jerusalem.
Carter, Howard   English archaeologist, discoverer in 1922 of the tomb of Tutankhamun. Lived 1874–1939.
Champollion, Jean François   French scholar who deciphered hieroglyphs. Lived 1790–1832.
Chicago House   The home of the University of Chicago Archaeological Mission in Luxor.
Chicken kneidlach   Chicken soup with dumplings. Popular Jewish dish.
Constantine I   Known as ‘The Great’. First Roman emperor to convert to Christianity. Lived c. AD 274–337.
Dahlan, Mohammed   Palestinian politician and activist. Born 1961.
David   Jewish hero and king. Lived c. eleventh to tenth centuries BC. Father of Solomon.
Debir (Holy of Holies)   The most sacred part of the ancient Temple.
Deir el-Bahri   Site of the mortuary temple of Queen Hatshepsut (ruled c.1473–1458 BC). On the west bank of the Nile at Luxor.
Deir el-Bersha   Middle Kingdom necropolis on the east bank of the Nile, opposite the modern town of Mallawi.
Deir Yassin   Former Palestinian village on the outskirts of Jerusalem. Scene of an infamous massacre by Jewish paramilitaries in 1948.
Deutsche Orient-Gesellschaft   The German Oriental Society. An institution devoted to studying the history and archaeology of the Near East.
Djellaba   Traditional robe worn by Egyptian men and women.
Djellaba suda   Black robe worn by Egyptian peasant women.
Djoser   Third Dynasty pharaoh. Ruled c.2630–2611 BC. His step pyramid at Saqqara was the world’s first monumental stone building.
Dunum   Measurement of land, equivalent to a quarter of an acre.
Ecole Biblique   Institute founded in 1890 for the study of the Bible and the archaeology of the Holy Land.
Eid el-Adha   The Feast of Sacrifice, one of the most important festivals in the Muslim calendar.
Eighteenth Dynasty   Ancient Egyptian history is divided into Kingdoms (Old, Middle and New) which are in turn subdivided into dynasties. The Eighteenth Dynasty comprised fourteen rulers and covered the period c.1550–1307 BC. It was the first of the three dynasties of the New Kingdom (c.1550–1070 BC).
Elijah   Hebrew prophet.
El-Kab   Archaeological site on the east bank of the Nile, 70km south of Luxor. Has a spectacular town enclosure dating from the Early Dynastic Period (2920–2975 BC).
Erekat, Saeb   Palestinian politician and academic.
Born 1955.
Eretz Israel Ha-Shlema   Literally, ‘the Whole of Greater Israel’ – i.e. the entire land that in the Bible God granted to Abraham.
Erez Checkpoint   Main crossing point from Israel into the Gaza Strip.
Even Shetiyah   Literally, ‘Foundation Stone’. The exposed rock of Mount Moria on which the ancient Temple was built.
Ezra   Ancient Jewish lawgiver.
Faience   A material made of fired quartz, with a glazed outer layer. Used extensively in ancient Egypt for jewellery, small vessels etc.
Farid   A make of Middle Eastern cigarette.
Fatah   Palestinian faction founded by Yasser Arafat in the late 1950s. The word is both the Arabic for ‘victory’ and an acronym for ‘The Movement for the National Liberation of Palestine’.
Fellaha (pl. fellaheen)   Peasant.
Frumm   Yiddish word meaning ‘strict in religious observance’.
Gaddis, Attaia   Famous Egyptian photographer. Lived 1887–1972.
Gaiseric   King of the Vandals AD 428–477. Sacked Rome in AD 455.
Garden Tomb   Site considered by some to be the burial place of Christ.
Gebel Dosha   Archaeological site in northern Sudan.
Gefilte fish   Traditional Jewish dish of boiled fish balls.
Goldstar   A make of Israeli beer.
Goldstein, Baruch   Jewish extremist. Shot dead twenty-nine Muslim worshippers in Hebron in 1994 before he himself was beaten to death. Regarded as a hero by right-wing Jewish settlers.
Goy (pl. goyim)   Derogatory Yiddish term for a non-Jew.
Groppi’s   Famous chain of Cairo coffee houses.
Gross-Rosen   Nazi concentration camp in Poland.
Gush Shalom   Literally, ‘The Peace Bloc’. Israeli peace group.
Ha’aretz   Israeli daily newspaper.
Halakhah   The entire body of Jewish law, both written and oral.
Hallah   A plaited loaf eaten by Jews on the Sabbath.
Hamas   Militant Palestinian nationalist Islamic movement, founded in 1987. Hamas is both the Arabic for ‘zeal’ and a reverse acronym for ‘The Islamic Resistance Movement’. Its figurehead, Sheikh Ahmed Yassin, was assassinated by the Israelis in 2004.
Hanukkah   Jewish festival commemorating the victory of Judah Maccabee over the Seleucid Greeks and the cleansing of the Temple.
Haram al-Sharif   Literally, ‘the Noble Sanctuary’. The enclosure in Old Jerusalem containing the al-Aqsa Mosque and the Dome of the Rock, the third holiest site in the Islamic world. Overlies the remains of the ancient Jewish Temple.
Haredi   Ultra-orthodox Jew.
Hasidic   A branch of ultra-orthodox Judaism.
Hawagaya   Egyptian term for a foreigner.
Hazzan   A cantor. One who leads the singing in synagogue.
Hizbollah   Literally, ‘Party of God’. Militant Shi’ite Islamic group based in Lebanon.
Horemheb   Last pharaoh of the Eighteenth Dynasty. Ruled c.1319–1307 BC.
Horns of Hattin   Battle in 1187 in which Saladin defeated the crusaders.
Horus   Ancient Egyptian god, son of Isis and Osiris. Portrayed with a human body and the head of a hawk.
Houris (pl.)   Virgins who minister to the needs of Muslims in the afterlife.
Humvee   Acronym for High Mobility Multi-Purpose Wheeled Vehicle.
Hypostyle hall   A hall with a roof supported by columns.
IDF   Israel Defence Force. The Israeli army.
Imam   Leader of congregational prayer in the mosque.
Imma (pl. immam)   Headscarf or turban. Worn by men throughout Egypt.
Insha-allah   Literally, ‘if Allah is willing’. Common Egyptian term.
Intifada   Literally, ‘shaking off’. A popular uprising by the Palestinians of the West Bank and Gaza Strip. The First Intifada lasted 1987–1993. The Second, or al-Aqsa Intifada, erupted in 2000 and is ongoing.
Isaac   Jewish patriarch. Son of Abraham and half-brother of Ishmael. It is from Isaac that the Jewish people are said to be descended.
Ishmael   Eldest son of Abraham, by the concubine Hagar. It is from Ishmael that the Arab people are said to be descended.
Isis   Ancient Egyptian goddess. Wife of Osiris and mother of Horus. Protector of the dead.
Islamic Jihad   Militant Palestinian Islamic group, founded in late 1970s.
Jacob   Jewish patriarch. Son of Isaac and grandson of Abraham.
Jeremiah   Jewish prophet of the sixth century BC. Foretold the destruction of the Temple of Solomon by the Babylonians. Said to have died in Egypt.
John of Gischala   One of the leaders of the Jewish revolt against Rome of AD 66–70. Sentenced to life imprisonment after the fall of Jerusalem in AD 70.
Jonah   A Hebrew prophet.
Joshua   Brother of Moses. Leader of the Israelites after Moses’ death.
Judah Maccabee   Jewish military leader of the second century BC. Reconquered Jerusalem from the Seleucid Greeks.
Ka‘ba   Cube-shaped building within the precincts of the Great Mosque at Mecca. Holiest shrine in Islam.
Kahane, Meir   Brooklyn-born Jewish extremist. Advocated forcible removal of all Arabs from the Biblical land of Israel. Born 1932. Assassinated 1990.
Karkaday   An infusion of hibiscus petals, popular throughout Egypt.
Katif   Shredded wheat soaked in honey. Popular Egyptian dessert.
Keffiyeh   A headdress worn by Arab men.
Ken   Yes (Hebrew).
Kerovah   A Jewish prayer that can either be chanted or sung.
Ketziot   Notoriously harsh Israeli prison in the Negev Desert.
Khaghoghi derev   Traditional Armenian dish of stuffed vine leaves.
Kiddush   Jewish prayer recited on the Sabbath and at festivals.
Klog iz mir   Yiddish for ‘Woe is me!’
Kneidl   Dumpling.
Knesset   Literally, ‘Assembly’. The Israeli Parliament.
Kohenim (pl.)   Hereditary priests of the Temple.
Kor   Archaeological site in northern Sudan.
Kufr   Name given to those who do not follow Islam. Unbelievers.
Mangonel   A war engine used for hurling giant stones.
Maniak   Hebrew for arsehole.
Mashrabiya