just a chance to stand at the wall in Jerusalem, stand there and pray to their God. For others it was a place where a man could work and earn his money and live his life and have no fear of the Party commissar and the Party spy. But for you, Isaac? A sort of freedom, that was what he was seeking, a freedom of choice, not that he wanted a society of anarchists, just the freedom to join the system if he wanted to – an end to compulsion. So he didn't really know. He'd have to find out, wouldn't he?
'Get the tickets.' David close to him, hissing the instruction, his face set, controlling his mouth muscles. 'The tickets – come on!'
'Where's Rebecca?' Isaac said as he pulled them from the inside pocket of his lightweight jacket.
'Coming from the far side, from the telephone. Give the girl the tickets.'
Isaac could hear behind him the strident voice with its American accent cutting across the other tongues. Not that he could understand the words – after all, he had studied science at school, not languages – and beyond and just surviving the drowning emphasis of the American was a further babble, European – could be Spanish or French or Italian- but he could not gauge which.
The girl at the counter said, 'Where's your baggage?'
It was something they hadn't thought about; so little time, and so much to think of, but they hadn't considered the need for baggage. Who goes on a plane with no baggage? With a 14-day excursion ticket? They'd gone home for the identity passes, and not thought of clearing a wardrobe, of scattering clothes in a case. People were pushing behind them, the American voice brimming with complaint, while in front the girl was waiting for an explanation.
'Our friend took it,' said Isaac with David still lost and unable to conjure up an explanation,
'When he went earlier in the week.' First thing that came to his head, first thing he could think of saying.
'For three of you? Hope he paid the excess.' She ripped off the top sheet of the tickets, one by one, and gave them the boarding cards. Small and sparse scraps of thickened paper, flight number scrawled on them. 'Gate four you want. Through the departure door, then the security, and you wait in the lounge till they call you.'
Ts the flight on time?' David asked.
But her attention was gone from him, given now to the next passenger in line. She shrugged, and said she didn't know.
The American couple took their places at the counter. Red trousers – well, red with a white check in them and a faded cream jacket. The woman in mauve, her hair a delicate blued tint that caught Isaac's eye by its unfamiliarity. Why do they wear these clothes? Straight out of the cartoons in Krokodil.
Just security now and nothing for them to find. Clean. Not a germ among them. Scrubbed and shining and polished, that was the way to go through security. David was talking to Rebecca, arm around her shoulders, heads near to touching and she was showing him a piece of paper. Must have worked, must be where the guns were.
There's time for coffee. At least ten minutes till we need to go through.' David led and they followed over to the bar- not that any of them were thirsty, but the process of ordering and paying and waiting for the coffees to be brought to the table, and then drinking, all that would use up time, time which they had no use for, which had to be exhausted. Should have told the parents, Isaac thought, should have said something to them, they should know what has happened, and why it has happened, before the time that the police arrive. He excused himself and rose from the table and went to the small shop where there were magazines and newspapers, postcards and cigarettes and souvenirs of Kiev. He asked for some note- paper and an envelope, but the man insisted on selling him a whole pad of notepaper and two dozen envelopes because that was the way they were packaged. There was no option, so he paid for them all and took them back to the table.
'I think we should write something to our people. It will be long over by the time that it reaches them.' There was agreement, and for five minutes no talk at the table, as they wrote out their farewells and justifications.
'Esteemed and respected father and mother and dear sisters, By the time that you read this you will have heard of our actions. You must forgive us the danger and hurt that they may cause you. We have taken this course because of what we saw as the persecution of our people in this land. If we had stayed the police would have taken us and for what we have done there is only one sentence, and there would have been no possibility of mercy. Our air tickets have been purchased with money from Isaac's mother, who paid for the three of us without knowing for what reason her money was wanted. From the family savings please send her 174 roubles. Rebecca will request her family to do the same. We hope to be in Israel very soon. We hope that it will be possible for you to join us there.
There is much to say and little time. All so difficult to explain. We started because we believed in our actions, but we did not know where they would leave us – we still do not know.
Be brave,
Your loving son, who will not forget you, David.'
Rebecca took the three envelopes to the post-counter for the stamps while David and Isaac stayed at the table waiting for her. When she came back the three of them walked towards the departure doors leaving the near- filled pad and twenty-one envelopes beside the coffee cups that had remained untouched while they wrote.
Abrupdy Rebeoca tugged at David's arm, pulled him closer to her as they crossed the concourse. 'What will they do to them, when we have gone?' He didn't look at her, fastening his eyes on the doorway to the front. 'I don't know.' A lie, and he could not meet her. 'Will they be punished for what we have done?' 'We cannot think of that now.' 'They have punished others…'
'What they will do to them will be as nothing to what will happen to us if we stay.' 'Do you care what happens to them, David?' 'I care more for what happens to my parents than you will concern yourself with the fate of Yevsei Allon. Think on that.'
Her hand flew from his sleeve, leaving him free to walk on unimpeded. If Isaac had heard he showed no sign of it- stern faced, regular stride. All three of them continued their way across the tiled floorway.
Beyond the doors there was an airline official, bored and uninterested, who checked their tickets and the boarding passes and matched their names written there against the plastic-coated identity cards, not troubling to marry the Polaroid photographs with the actual likenesses. Further on, the high arch through which passengers had to pass and which showed whether they carried metallic objects in their pockets. This was the realm of the frontier guards, pistols hanging on their hips, and clean uniforms with wide-peaked caps. The man in front of them was stopped when the small green light that the guardsman watched changed abruptly to flashing red and his body was searched till a cigarette packet was retrieved from his trousers and he was shown the silver paper wrapping that had caused the detector to activate. Thank God we carried nothing, Isaac said to himself. Then it was their turn, and the light stayed green, and they walked past the guard, and on.
All of them braced themselves, shoulders stiffened as if to ward off a blow, as if they were expecting a shout from behind. But there was none, just a sun-filled lounge, with the ashtrays overflowing and paper on the floor, and dust and grime, and children shouting and running between the wooden benches, and a teacher's command. Across the room from them were the windows through which they could all see the tidy, painted profile of the Ilyushin 18 turbo-prop airliner, due to depart for Tashkent in thirty-five minutes.
In a tight phalanx the little group approached the forward steps of the aircraft. All of them sweating from the slight exertion of the walk across the apron. The captain to the front, straight backed, grey hair thinning, uniform pressed, rank denoted by the gold rings sewn to his tunic sleeve, carrying his cap easily in his hand. A pace behind him the navigator with his briefcase filled with the maps that covered the air routes of the southern area of the Soviet Union over which they would fly to Tashkent. Alone, not seeming to wish to engage in conversation with her male flight deck companions, was the co-pilot. Anna Tasnova's skirt rode high on her knees as she maintained their pace. She felt once at the knot of her thin black tie, unnecessary and unfeminine she thought it, but if it were decreed that it should be worn then it was her obligation to make certain that it bisected her collar with precision. The two flight stewardesses, acknowledging they were not part of the cockpit club, came last, handbags on their shoulders, talking of men and prices, and hotels, and the boredom of it all.
At the bottom of the forward steps the captain waited, a fixed smile on his face, for the young technician in overalls to hurry down the stairs. The boy should have waited for them, should not have obstructed and delayed their boarding. He seemed in a rush, and bounced against the captain's shoulder. No apology, just something indistinct mumbled from behind his teeth.
'Dirty little bastard,' the captain said. 'Soap and water, but perhaps he's never heard of them.'
