He had badly miscalculated the entire thing. First, the tenacity and determination of the children on the ship. Second, the powerful propaganda the incident created. Finally, he had not imagined that Ben Canaan would take the offensive and press the issue as he had. Bradshaw was a stubborn man but he knew when he was defeated, and he now turned his efforts to making a face-saving settlement.
Bradshaw had Crawford and his aides cable or phone a
dozen of the top Jewish leaders in England, Palestine, and the United States to ask them to intervene. The Palestinians, in particular, might possibly dissuade Ben Canaan. At the very least they could stall the action long enough to enable Bradshaw to come up with some alternate plans. If he could get Ben Canaan to agree to negotiate then he could talk the Exodus to death. Within six hours, Bradshaw had his answers from the Jewish leaders. They answered uniformly: WE WILL NOT INTERCEDE.
Next Bradshaw contacted Tevor-Browne on Cyprus. He instructed the general to inform the Exodus that the British were working out a compromise and to delay the deadline for twenty-four hours.
Tevor-Browne carried out these instructions and relayed Ben Canaan’s answer back to England.
URGENT
Ben Canaan informed us there is nothing to discuss. He says either the Exodus sails or it doesn’t sail. He further states that complete amnesty to the Palestinians aboard is part of the conditions. Ben Canaan summarized: Let my people go.
Tevor-Brewne
Cecil Bradshaw could not sleep. He paced back and forth, back and forth. It was just a little over six hours before the children on the Exodus would begin committing suicide. He had only three hours left in which to make a decision to hand to the Cabinet. No compromise could be reached.
Was he fighting a madman? Or was this Ari Ben Canaan a shrewd and heartless schemer who had deftly led him deeper and deeper into a trap?
LET MY PEOPLE GO!
Bradshaw walked to his desk and flicked on the lamp. URGENT
Ari Ben Canaan, spokesman for the Exodus, announced that beginning at noon tomorrow ten volunteers a day will commit suicide …
Suicide… suicide … suicide …
Bradshaw’s hand shook so violently he dropped the paper.
Also on his desk were a dozen communiques from various European and American governments. In that polite language that diplomats use they all expressed concern over
the Exodus impasse. He also had notes from each of the Arab governments expressing the view that if the Exodus were permitted to sail for Palestine it would be considered an affront to every Arab.
Cecil Bradshaw was confused now. The past few days had been a living hell. How had it all begun? Thirty years of formulating Middle Eastern policy and now he was in his worst trouble over an unarmed salvage tug.
What queer trick of fate had given him the mantle of an oppressor? Nobody could possibly accuse him of being anti-Jewish. Secretly Bradshaw admired the Jews in Palestine and understood the meaning of their return. He enjoyed the hours he had spent arguing with Zionists around conference tables, bucking their brilliant debaters. Cecil Bradshaw believed from the bottom of his heart that England’s interest lay with the Arabs. Yet the Mandate had grown to over half a million Jews. And the Arabs were adamant that the British were fostering a Jewish nation in their midst.
During all the years of work he had been realistic with himself. What was happening? He could see his own grandchildren lying on the deck of the Exodus. Bradshaw knew his Bible as well as any well-brought-up Englishman and like most Englishmen had a tremendous sense of honor although he was not deeply religious. Could it be that the Exodus was driven by mystic forces? No, he was a practical diplomat and he did not believe in the supernatural.
Yet-he had an army and a navy and the power to squash the Exodus and all the other illegal runners-but he could not bring himself to do it.
The Pharaoh of Egypt had had might on his side too! Sweat ran down Bradshaw’s face. It was all nonsense! He was tired and the pressure had been too great. What foolishness!
LET MY PEOPLE Go!
Bradshaw walked to the library and found a Bible and in near panic began to read through the pages of Exodus and about the Ten Plagues that God sent down on the land of Egypt.
Was he Pharaoh? Would a curse rain down on Britain? He went back to his room and tried to rest, but a staccato rhythm kept running through his tired brain … let my people go … let my people go … “Crawford!” he yelled. “Crawford!” Crawford ran in, tying his robe. “You called?” “Crawford. Get through to Tevor-Browne on Cyprus at once. Tell him … tell him to let the Exodus sail for Palestine.”
BOOK 2
The land is mine
CHAPTER ONE: The battle of the Exodus was over!
Within seconds, the words “Exodus to sail” were on the wires. Within minutes they blazed in headlines around the world.
On Cyprus the joy of the people was boundless and around the world there was one long sigh of relief.
On the Exodus the children were too exhausted to celebrate.
The British urged Ari Ben Canaan to bring the salvage tug to dockside so that the children could be given medical care and the ship restocked and inspected. Ben Canaan agreed, and as the Exodus pulled in, Kyrenia turned into a mad scramble of activity. A score of British army doctors swarmed onto the ship and quickly removed the more severe cases. A hastily improvised hospital was established at the Dome Hotel. Rations and clothing and supplies poured onto the dock. In addition, hundreds of gifts from the people of Cyprus deluged the ship. Royal engineers combed the ancient tug from stem to stern to patch leaks, overhaul the motor, and refit her. Sanitation teams made her spotless.
After an initial survey Ari was advised it would take several days to get the children strong enough and the ship fit enough to make the day and a half run to Palestine. The small Jewish community on Cyprus sent a delegation to Ari to appeal to him to allow the children to celebrate the first night of Chanukah, the Festival of Lights, on Cyprus before sailing; the holiday was to begin in a few days. Ari agreed.
Only after Kitty had been assured and reassured that Karen’s condition was not serious did she allow herself the luxury of a steaming hot tub, a thick steak, a half pint of Scotch, and a magnificent, deep, seventeen-hour sleep.
Kitty awoke to a problem she could no longer avoid. She had to decide either to end the episode with Karen forever or to follow the girl to Palestine.
Late in the evening when Mark came into her room for tea she appeared none the worse for her ordeal. In fact, the long sleep had made her look quite attractive.
“Newsroom still hectic?”
“Matter of fact, no,” Mark answered. “The captains and the kings are departing. The Exodus is day-old news now … the kind they wrap fish in. Oh, I suppose we can drum up a final page-one picture when the boat lands in Haifa.”
“People are fickle.”
“No, not really, Kitty. The world just has a habit of moving on.”
She sipped her tea and sank into silence. Mark lit a cigarette and propped his feet on the window sill. He pretended his fingers were a pistol and pointed over his shoe tops out at the pier.
“What about you, Mark?”
“Me? Old Mark Parker has worn out his welcome in the king’s domains. I’m going Stateside and then maybe take a crack at the Asian beat. I’ve had an itch to go there anyhow … I hear it runs crosswise.”
“The British won’t let you into Palestine?”
“Not a chance. I am held in very low esteem. In fact if they weren’t proper Englishmen I’d say they hate my guts. Frankly, I don’t blame them.”
“Give me a cigarette.”
Mark lit one and handed it to her. He bided his time, continuing to take target practice with his imaginary pistol.