ceased. A girl put her hands around her mouth and yelled, “Good Sabbath!”
He waved. “Good Sabbath to you.”
T wenty minutes later, Lemmy turned the corner on Shivtay Israel Street. He stopped and stared. What he saw seemed unreal. The gate leading into Meah Shearim was closed. Chairs and tables were piled against it from within. The metal shades had been shut over all the windows in the outer walls. A crowd of Neturay Karta men in black coats and red faces filled the alley behind the gate. Someone shouted, “The rabbi’s son!” Others yelled at him to run away.
A bunch of policemen in riot gear hid behind their vehicles from a steady shower of eggs and vegetables. One of them ran toward Lemmy. Brass fig leaves adorned his shoulders, and egg yolk smeared his chest. He raised his club, his eyes wide under the gray helmet, and shouted in Hebrew, “Where are you going?”
Lemmy pointed to the gate.
The officer grabbed his arm and pulled him toward a police van. “You’re under arrest!”
Angry protests sounded from the gate.
A policeman aimed a shotgun, and his colleague slipped a cylindrical grenade into the open end of the barrel.
“Don’t!” Lemmy struggled to get free.
The policeman pressed the butt of the shotgun to his shoulder.
Lemmy wriggled free, sprinted at the policeman, and knocked him down. An explosion slapped a wave of heat at his face, and the world turned dark.
E lie Weiss entered the police compound at the Russian Yard and headed downstairs. The operations center, a beehive of activity during the week, was manned by a single policewoman. Her feet were on the table, and she was humming Jerusalem of Gold along with Shuli Natan on the radio.
She gave him a casual salute. “What’s happening?”
“You tell me.”
“Major Buskilah is in Meah Shearim, making an arrest.”
“ Trying to make an arrest.”
“Whatever.”
“Has he called for reinforcement yet?”
“On a Sabbath? I don’t have anyone to send there.” She took her feet off the table. “You want Buskilah on the wireless?”
“I have a feeling he’ll call us soon.” Elie sat down and lit a cigarette.
W hen Lemmy’s vision recovered, he saw the grenade spewing teargas under a truck. The policeman, shotgun still in hand, struggled to get up. Where’s the officer? Lemmy turned his head in time to see the club coming down on his buttocks. He screamed in agony and rolled away. Faint shouts came from the gate, and a bunch of shoes flew over, landing on the cowering policemen. The officer chased Lemmy, the club raised for another blow, his face a mask of hate. He missed and raised the club again, yelling in Hebrew.
Lemmy ran faster. I’m going to die!
Picking up speed, he glanced back, stumbled, and fell. The officer had no time to avoid him and tripped, and rolled over. Lemmy saw an opening, landed a punch into the officer’s crotch, and sprinted toward the gate. A hoard of policemen were chasing him, but he didn’t look back. He reached the gate and turned right, running around the outside wall of Meah Shearim. Farther down, a metal shade swung open, and Benjamin’s head emerged. Lemmy raced to the window, the policemen’s steps thudding behind him. The window was high. As he came closer, he did not slow but instead sent one foot forward and kicked the wall, which catapulted him high enough to grab the window sill. Benjamin caught his arms, someone else got his coat, and they hauled him inside.
He found himself on the floor, the room full of men, Benjamin talking excitedly, calling him “ meshuggah!”
There was havoc around the window. Club strokes rang on the wall and the metal shutters. A helmeted head appeared, and then another one. Lemmy realized the Zionist police would soon get through, beating in heads and slapping on handcuffs. He got up and stood aside as someone carried a pot of steaming tcholent to the window. A second later the policemen screamed outside.
They hurried through the small
He waved. “Good Sabbath to you.”
T wenty minutes later, Lemmy turned the corner on Shivtay Israel Street. He stopped and stared. What he saw seemed unreal. The gate leading into Meah Shearim was closed. Chairs and tables were piled against it from within. The metal shades had been shut over all the windows in the outer walls. A crowd of Neturay Karta men in black coats and red faces filled the alley behind the gate. Someone shouted, “The rabbi’s son!” Others yelled at him to run away.
A bunch of policemen in riot gear hid behind their vehicles from a steady shower of eggs and vegetables. One of them ran toward Lemmy. Brass fig leaves adorned his shoulders, and egg yolk smeared his chest. He raised his club, his eyes wide under the gray helmet, and shouted in Hebrew, “Where are you going?”
Lemmy pointed to the gate.
The officer grabbed his arm and pulled him toward a police van. “You’re under arrest!”
Angry protests sounded from the gate.
A policeman aimed a shotgun, and his colleague slipped a cylindrical grenade into the open end of the barrel.
“Don’t!” Lemmy struggled to get free.
The policeman pressed the butt of the shotgun to his shoulder.
Lemmy wriggled free, sprinted at the policeman, and knocked him down. An explosion slapped a wave of heat at his face, and the world turned dark.
E lie Weiss entered the police compound at the Russian Yard and headed downstairs. The operations center, a beehive of activity during the week, was manned by a single policewoman. Her feet were on the table, and she was humming Jerusalem of Gold along with Shuli Natan on the radio.
She gave him a casual salute. “What’s happening?”
“You tell me.”
“Major Buskilah is in Meah Shearim, making an arrest.”
“ Trying to make an arrest.”
“Whatever.”
“Has he called for reinforcement yet?”
“On a Sabbath? I don’t have anyone to send there.” She took her feet off the table. “You want Buskilah on the wireless?”
“I have a feeling he’ll call us soon.” Elie sat down and lit a cigarette.
W hen Lemmy’s vision recovered, he saw the grenade spewing teargas under a truck. The policeman, shotgun still in hand, struggled to get up. Where’s the officer? Lemmy turned his head in time to see the club coming down on his buttocks. He screamed in agony and rolled away. Faint shouts came from the gate, and a bunch of shoes flew over, landing on the cowering policemen. The officer chased Lemmy, the club raised for another blow, his face a mask of hate. He missed and raised the club again, yelling in Hebrew.
Lemmy ran faster. I’m going to die!
Picking up speed, he glanced back, stumbled, and fell. The officer had no time to avoid him and tripped, and rolled over. Lemmy saw an opening, landed a punch into the officer’s crotch, and sprinted toward the gate. A hoard of policemen were chasing him, but he didn’t look back. He reached the gate and turned right, running around the outside wall of Meah Shearim. Farther down, a metal shade swung open, and Benjamin’s head emerged. Lemmy raced to the window, the policemen’s steps thudding behind him. The window was high. As he came closer, he did not slow but instead sent one foot forward and kicked the wall, which catapulted him high enough to grab the window sill. Benjamin caught his arms, someone else got his coat, and they hauled him inside.
He found himself on the floor, the room full of men, Benjamin talking excitedly, calling him “ meshuggah!”
There was havoc around the window. Club strokes rang on the wall and the metal shutters. A helmeted head appeared, and then another one. Lemmy realized the Zionist police would soon get through, beating in heads and slapping on handcuffs. He got up and stood aside as someone carried a pot of steaming tcholent to the window. A second later the policemen screamed outside.
They hurried through the small
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