a perfect target for occupation. Har-Zion would have preferred something even closer to the Temple Mount, something more confrontational, more hurtful and insulting to the Muslims, but for the moment this was good enough.
He rummaged in the holdall and pulled out a heavy metal flashlight, switching it on and playing the beam around them. They were in a large room, sparsely furnished, with a stone staircase in the far corner and a tang of polish and tobacco smoke in the air. A poster on the wall above one of the sofas carried nine lines of swirling Arabic script, white against a green background, verses from the Koran. Har-Zion held it in the torch-beam, then stepped forward and ripped it down.
'Avi, you check the back. I'll do the upper levels. Schmuely, you come with me.'
He handed a second torch to the crew-cut man, then started up the staircase, taking the holdall with him, glancing into various rooms as he went, the pale-skinned man trailing in his wake. At the top he unbolted a metal door and stepped out onto the building's flat roof, a tangled thicket of washing lines, TV aerials, satellite dishes and solar panels fanning out all around him. Ahead rose the domes of the Holy Sepulchre and the rearing steeple of the Church of St Saviour. Behind stretched the vast paved expanse of the Temple Mount, at its centre, floodlit, the bulbous golden crown of the Dome of the Rock.
'For you will spread abroad to the right and to the left,' murmured Har-Zion, 'and your descendants will possess the nations, and will people the desolate cities.'
How often he had imagined this moment: during the dark days of persecution back in his native Ukraine; in the army hospital, where the burns had been so agonizing he'd felt his very soul was being ripped out of him. They'd taken land elsewhere these last few years – outside Nazareth, down near Hebron, along the Gaza seafront – but it meant nothing if Jerusalem itself could not be theirs. That Mount Moria, the Even Shetiyah, where Abraham had come to sacrifice his only son Isaac; where Jacob had dreamt of a ladder rising all the way to heaven; where Solomon had raised the first Holy Temple . . . that this, of all places, should be in the hands of the Muslims was something that pained him physically, like an open wound.
And now, at last, they were taking it back. Reclaiming what was rightfully theirs. Yerushalyim the Golden, capital of Eretz Israel Ha-Shlema, homeland of the Jewish people. That was all they were asking. That they should have a homeland. But the Arabs and Jew-haters would deny them even that. Scum. All of them. Cockroaches. It was them who should be put in gas chambers.
He turned slowly round, taking in the scene, then he delved into the holdall and removed a large roll of cloth with two pieces of rope attached to it.
'Do it,' he said, handing the roll to his companion.
The man moved forwards to the front edge of the roof where he knelt and began tying the rope-ends to a couple of steel rods protruding from the concrete floor. Har-Zion pulled a mobile phone from his pocket and jabbed a number into the keypad.
'We're in,' he said when it was answered. 'Start sending the others down.'
He rang off and slipped the phone back into his pocket. As he did so his companion finished securing the ropes and dropped the bundle off the side of the building. It unfurled with a muffled whoosh, leaving a long white and blue flag draped down the front of the stonework like a waterfall, a bold Star of David at its centre.
'Praise be to God,' he smiled.
'Hallelujah,' said Har-Zion.
K ALANDIA REFUGEE CAMP, BETWEEN J ERUSALEM AND R AMALLAH
Layla al-Madani ran a hand through her close-cropped black hair and stared at the young man sitting opposite, in his neatly pressed trousers and Dome of the Rock T-shirt.
'The idea of killing women and children doesn't concern you?'
The young man met her gaze.
'Does it concern the Israelis when our women and children are killed? Deir Yassin?
He rummaged in the holdall and pulled out a heavy metal flashlight, switching it on and playing the beam around them. They were in a large room, sparsely furnished, with a stone staircase in the far corner and a tang of polish and tobacco smoke in the air. A poster on the wall above one of the sofas carried nine lines of swirling Arabic script, white against a green background, verses from the Koran. Har-Zion held it in the torch-beam, then stepped forward and ripped it down.
'Avi, you check the back. I'll do the upper levels. Schmuely, you come with me.'
He handed a second torch to the crew-cut man, then started up the staircase, taking the holdall with him, glancing into various rooms as he went, the pale-skinned man trailing in his wake. At the top he unbolted a metal door and stepped out onto the building's flat roof, a tangled thicket of washing lines, TV aerials, satellite dishes and solar panels fanning out all around him. Ahead rose the domes of the Holy Sepulchre and the rearing steeple of the Church of St Saviour. Behind stretched the vast paved expanse of the Temple Mount, at its centre, floodlit, the bulbous golden crown of the Dome of the Rock.
'For you will spread abroad to the right and to the left,' murmured Har-Zion, 'and your descendants will possess the nations, and will people the desolate cities.'
How often he had imagined this moment: during the dark days of persecution back in his native Ukraine; in the army hospital, where the burns had been so agonizing he'd felt his very soul was being ripped out of him. They'd taken land elsewhere these last few years – outside Nazareth, down near Hebron, along the Gaza seafront – but it meant nothing if Jerusalem itself could not be theirs. That Mount Moria, the Even Shetiyah, where Abraham had come to sacrifice his only son Isaac; where Jacob had dreamt of a ladder rising all the way to heaven; where Solomon had raised the first Holy Temple . . . that this, of all places, should be in the hands of the Muslims was something that pained him physically, like an open wound.
And now, at last, they were taking it back. Reclaiming what was rightfully theirs. Yerushalyim the Golden, capital of Eretz Israel Ha-Shlema, homeland of the Jewish people. That was all they were asking. That they should have a homeland. But the Arabs and Jew-haters would deny them even that. Scum. All of them. Cockroaches. It was them who should be put in gas chambers.
He turned slowly round, taking in the scene, then he delved into the holdall and removed a large roll of cloth with two pieces of rope attached to it.
'Do it,' he said, handing the roll to his companion.
The man moved forwards to the front edge of the roof where he knelt and began tying the rope-ends to a couple of steel rods protruding from the concrete floor. Har-Zion pulled a mobile phone from his pocket and jabbed a number into the keypad.
'We're in,' he said when it was answered. 'Start sending the others down.'
He rang off and slipped the phone back into his pocket. As he did so his companion finished securing the ropes and dropped the bundle off the side of the building. It unfurled with a muffled whoosh, leaving a long white and blue flag draped down the front of the stonework like a waterfall, a bold Star of David at its centre.
'Praise be to God,' he smiled.
'Hallelujah,' said Har-Zion.
K ALANDIA REFUGEE CAMP, BETWEEN J ERUSALEM AND R AMALLAH
Layla al-Madani ran a hand through her close-cropped black hair and stared at the young man sitting opposite, in his neatly pressed trousers and Dome of the Rock T-shirt.
'The idea of killing women and children doesn't concern you?'
The young man met her gaze.
'Does it concern the Israelis when our women and children are killed? Deir Yassin?
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