The Redeeming Destiny

By George H. Edgley

THE REDEEMING DESTINY
by George H. Edgley

An ancient scroll with supernatural
powers holds the secret to Menachem
Hacohen's redeeming destiny. Over the
centuries, thousands have been
imprisoned, tortured and killed in efforts
by evil nations to obtain the scroll and
possess its powers. Inheriting the scroll
in communist Poland, Menachem, unable
to read it, escapes to Israel where he
faces further intrigue and murder and
finds love. In the midst of a savage war
for the survival of Israel, Menachem must
discover the secret of his Redeeming
Destiny.

Enjoy more George H. Edgley titles including:

"The Remnant" - an historical novel about the fall of the Northern Kingdom of Samaria in the 8th Century B.C., a tale of love, courage and survival.

"North To Valdez" - a detective story involving the Alaska Pipeline and a beautiful oil company employee who hates to be confined by clothing.

"Above and Beyond" - a story about an invasion of the Pacific Northwest by the Soviet Union and the war that follows, in which ordinary men and women rise above and beyond the call of duty.

"Escape From Parejo" - a story about a revolution in the South American nation of Venganza from which neither the innocent nor the guilty emerge unscathed.

"Lest We Forget" - a story about five naive Marines who fight in the early stages of the Korean War; a tribute to those who returned and those who did not.

• Language: English
• Publisher: George H. Edgley
• Release date: Dec 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310951435

George H. Edgley

George H. EdgleyAuthor BiographyI was born and raised in Washington State. Following graduation from high school,I enlisted in the United States Marine Corps and served with the First Marine Divisionin Korea during the Korean War. I advanced to the rank of Sergeant andwas trained in and assigned to Intelligence work. I was honorably dischargedafter the end of the war, when my enlistment was up.After my military service, I attended junior college, whereI obtained an Associate Degree in Engineering. I then attendedand graduated from the University of Washington withBaccalaureate Degrees in Physics(BS) and in Mathematics(BA).Employed by The Boeing Company as an Associate (Mid-Level) engineer,I worked in a variety of positions, most notably in Operations Analysisdoing war gaming, research testing and writing for contract proposal teamsand writing test manuals for various products related to missile programs.During this time, I was a candidate for the State Legislature,but lost narrowly to the Governor's son. I then decided I wasnot meant to be a politician. Later, I worked for the City of Seattlein Personnel/Civil Service, where I wrote and administered original examinationsfor employment testing of managers, engineers and skilled trades applicantsand performed job classification analyses for the same groups.During my years in Washington State, I hunted deer and elk and fishedthroughout the State and was involved in casual shooting sports,which I continue to enjoy. I maintained an interest in military history,primarily Civil War and World War II.Because of my employment background with the City of Seattle,I served on the Civil Service Commission for the ClallamCounty, Washington, Sheriff's office for several yearsfollowing my retirement. I currently am living in Cottonwood,Arizona, where my wife and I enjoy researching theNative American culture and history of the Southwest.-George H. Edgley

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

July, 1970. Tel Aviv, Israel.

What is your name?

The large, husky man standing before the desk hesitated. His clothing, which was wrinkled and worn, but fairly clean, indicated he had worked as a peasant. His sun-baked face was sweaty and showed a day‘s growth of beard. His eyes were narrowed as he squinted through the glare from the desk lamp and his lips were taut. He stood with his shoulders slightly humped, his arms at his sides, his calloused hands loose. He was in his late twenties, yet, even so, he seemed to carry himself with a slight military stature. With a resigned motion, he brushed at the lock of brown hair that fell loosely across his forehead. He stared warily at the immigration officer seated at the desk, tried to analyze him.

The man obviously was tired and bored, not really interested in his work. Hunched over the desk, his pen poised in his right hand, he had not even extended the courtesy of looking up to see who he was questioning. His uniform appeared clean and pressed -- at least that part of it that was visible. He had short, blond hair and a trace of dandruff. His hands showed no evidence of ever having worked with them except to push a pencil.

They’re all alike. The interrogators for the KGB, the British, the Americans and now the Israeli’s. I don’t trust any of them. Not one is concerned about the people they process. All they care about is their damned paperwork or that they might degrade whomever they are interrogating. I had hoped it might be different here. He ignored the female officer who approached and stopped a few feet away, leaned against the wall. Clearly, she was watching him, noting his reactions to the questions asked. That, also, was typical. The man asking the questions had to write down the answers. That meant he might miss something. So there was always an observer to note the subtleties expressed. Either an observer or a tape recorder. Possibly both. An observer to watch and a recorder to record the words he spoke.

He swallowed and took a deep breath. Menachem Hacohen.

The officer’s finger on his left hand slid along the lengthy list of names, paused, and the pen in his hand seemed to jerk almost spasmodically as he made a mark. You are Jewish? he asked without looking up.

Menachem smiled faintly. The officer’s voice was as tired as the old desk between them. It had seen years of use and abuse. The legs and sides were battered and scarred, marked with scrapes and gouges. The top was marred where several people had carved initials into it. The finish was almost non-existent. The tired voice and the old desk fit together perfectly, each a testimony to the years of abuse and totalitarianism.

Yes, I am Jewish. If you would bother to look at me or consider my name, you would know I am. I suppose anyone could take a Jewish name. However, I don‘t know why they would want to. My real name -- I wish I knew for certain what it is. The Communists and the Nazi’s took that from me, along with both my real parents and the couple who raised me -- the Rusak‘s. But I do know I am Jewish. Everyone I ever knew made that very clear to me.

He tried to recall when he had first learned he was Jewish. He was quite young at the time. That much he remembered. The Rusak’s were also much younger then. Father Rusak had a full beard and bushy hair. His eyes always seemed to be smiling. Mother Rusak was quite beautiful despite the hardships under which she toiled. Her hair was mostly black and her face had an olive hue to it. Her dark eyes were sparkling and seemed to penetrate his very thoughts. Her hands, reddened from the harsh soaps she had to use, had retained a soft touch.

The Rusak’s had taken him to the synagogue for some sort of ritual that they said was required of young boys. He didn’t remember what it was all about. That was probably typical of young boys in any religion. No one had told him what was going on. All he remembered was being told to dress up in his good clothing and to comb his hair. Even Father and Mother Rusak had to dress up, which he thought was amusing. He had not seen Father Rusak in his clean, pressed suit before and the white shirt looked strange on him. Mother Rusak wore a plain, but clean and very pretty dress that made her look very attractive. Everyone who came to the ceremony wore their good clothing and several other boys his age stood beside him.

During the ceremony, he only had to stand there with the others and watch until the man doing the ritual told him to come forward and stand before him. Then the man said something in a language he didn’t understand and pressed something against his forehead -- as he had done with the other boys -- and it was all over. Afterward, he had asked Father Rusak about it.

What did that all mean? he questioned.

Father Rusak stared at him for a moment, then grinned knowingly. Don’t worry about it, Menachem, it was simply something that had to be done.

You called the man a Rabbi. Does that mean I am Jewish?

Yes, Menachem, you are Jewish. Do you know what that means?

I have heard that being Jewish is not a good thing.

Where have you heard that?

In school. The teacher says that the Jews were responsible for the war against Germany and now have caused the shortages of food and coal. She says that the Jews are not true citizens of the country, that they are evil. Even the books we read say that. Is it true? Are we evil? Are we bad people?

The government has said so and some believe it. It is not true, but they want to think it is. They blame the Jews -- blame us -- for things they don‘t want to take the responsibility for. That is the way they stay in power and rule the people. By blaming us, they do not have to answer for the shortages and the problems in the country.

Some of the other boys make fun of Jewish boys and hit them. Is that right for them to do that? I -- they haven’t done anything to me, but maybe they didn’t know I was Jewish. I didn’t know it until now.

Being a Jew is something to be proud of, Menachem. It takes a real man to be a Jew.

Then why do the other boys make fun of the Jewish boys and girls?

They do not know any better.

Do I have to tell them I am a Jew?

They will find out. It is not something you can hide.

I don’t want them to know. I don‘t want them to make fun of me or hit me.

It will be all right, Menachem. Perhaps, for awhile, it will be hard on you, but you must be what you are and be proud of it.

Why do you want to come to Israel?

Menachem shrugged. His gaze moved from the tired, old desk and the bored officer, drifted around the small office. The walls badly needed painting. Several square, clean spots where pictures once had hung revealed the true color of the old paint. It was much brighter than the adjacent, dulled and stained finish.

The one window had no curtains hung over it. Not even a shade. There was no need for either. The outside surface was caked with dust and dirt which had accumulated near the bottom of each pane so that it appeared almost as snow.

I remember the snow and the ice that formed in the winter in Poland. And the bitter cold that pierced the few rags we had to wear when I was very young. I often wonder how we managed to survive with no warm clothing, little to eat and only a few pieces of coal to heat the hut. We used to huddle together around the few glowing coals in the old bucket to warm our hands. There was never room to warm anything else. Not until --.

He was fourteen when the Soviets first launched a satellite into space. It was a momentous occasion. They had surged ahead of the Americans in the space race and it was a time for celebration. For the Soviets, that is. Not the Jews. Of course, he had no knowledge of that until much later. He only knew there were a lot of people in the area that were happy.

And, even in Poland, there was cause for jubilation. The Communist masters decided to increase the coal allowance for everyone. That meant there would be enough coal to not only cook, but to heat the houses. It was a strange feeling to be warm in the frigid cold without having to stand beside the old cooking stove or wear the heavy, padded coats. In fact, the skin tingled and felt strange in the presence of heat. It was a good year, a good winter and a time of revelation.

That was the first time he realized that those in power lived differently than those who were poor or Jewish. The powerful always had enough coal to heat their houses and, as a result, were warm in the winter. Many times he had longingly stared at the thick, warm coats those who were counted among the elite wore. His coat was very thin and torn in a few places. He often would watch the powerful ride by in their carriages, their horses trotting along with tails high. Sometimes, they even went by in their automobiles. Strangely enough, they never looked at him or at the house the Rusak’s and he lived in. Perhaps they didn’t want to be reminded that Jews were living nearby. It was that way in school, also. The teachers seldom asked the Jewish children to recite anything or to answer a question.

But that was a good year for him in other ways, also. Father Rusak was home and the two of them worked the fields in the spring and summer and took long walks in the forests whenever possible. Father Rusak told him about the trees and the crops and how they grew. It was a time for learning and growing and he treasured his memories of the time. How many days had he stood next to the one window in the old house and watched for Father Rusak to return from the village so he could run down the lane to greet him. He loved Father Rusak as if he was his real father. At the time, he did not know he wasn’t. That came later and it was just as well that he didn’t know the truth then.

The inside of the glass was coated with a filmy, gray layer of what appeared to be tobacco smoke stains. The combination of dust and dirt on the outside and tobacco stains on the inside made it almost impossible to see through the window and barred much of the bright sunlight from the room. It was just as well. There wasn’t much to see outside the window except the desert landscape.

His gaze paused momentarily on the female officer leaning against the soiled wall. She was pretty, her olive skin devoid of make-up, a few wrinkles evident around her eyes. Her hair was dark and shiny, cut fairly short. She appeared to be about five feet, seven inches in height. The uniform she wore disguised her shape, yet revealed enough to convince him she would be pleasant to look at. She was watching him without any particular interest, anticipating his answer. He wondered if she knew what he was thinking. Her expression revealed nothing of her thoughts. Of course, interrogators are taught to hide their feelings and their thoughts.

The soldier who had brought him into the office for the interview stood about ten or so feet away, closer to the decrepit, beaten door, his shoulders slouched carelessly, his uniform slightly disheveled. He held a cigarette between his fingers on his right hand and was studying the long, drooping ash intently, as if trying to guess the exact instant it would break away and fall to the floor. Clearly, he was not listening nor was he at all interested. He did not appear to have any thoughts to hide or mask, other than the study of the ash on his cigarette.

They told me this was a vibrant, new nation. An energetic people alive with enthusiasm and determination. I wonder. If these are examples of the people of Israel, then any hope of transforming this barren desert into the promised land is lost already. Perhaps I should have stayed in Poland despite everything. The persecution and all -- one can live with it if one is determined to do so. Many Jews have and some refuse to leave the country. But they are the stagnant ones who do not have the courage to try anything new, to take a chance in order to live a good life. Perhaps they are also the ones referred to in the textbooks as being responsible for every ill the nation suffers.

I am Jewish. Is that not reason enough?

His reply obviously touched a raw nerve. The officer slammed his pen down angrily. He looked up, his eyes glaring, his face flushed, his lips taut. Menachem had seen the expression before, many times and he caught his breath. On the face of a KGB agent, it meant he was considered flippant or disrespectful and that always led to a beating. The types of beatings varied, depending upon how intense the interrogation was. If the questioning was routine, it seldom was a harsh beating. A blow with a nightstick to the kidneys, a kick in the stomach or the groin. Just enough to make one ache for several days. Perhaps even a few blows to the knees or the hips, perhaps a slap. Actually, they seldom hit one in the face because that would show up in an evident bruise.

On the other hand, if the interrogators were searching for something important, then the beating could be severe. In this case, he, as the victim, would be naked and tied between two pillars or posts. The interrogators might beat him with their nightsticks or they might jam one up his butt. They had become quite proficient at that and they knew it was extremely painful. They also knew how to jab a man in the groin with the point of the nightstick. That was painful, also. If they were cruel and really mean, they could beat a man’s organs mercilessly. Clearly, they had learned their trade by practicing on the Nazi prisoners of war and on the Jews they had arrested from time to time.

Unconsciously, he tensed when he saw the officer clench his fists and start to rise. That always signaled a beating.

You damn people! the officer snapped, you come here thinking you’re the salt of the earth, that we owe you something! I’m sick and tired of -- no, it is not enough that you are Jewish! We need people with skills, people who can fight in the military, people who can help develop --.

Robb.

It was the woman who spoke. Her voice was mellow, yet filled with concern. Menachem glanced at her, smiled slightly. She met his glance and, for an instant, a faint smile flitted across her face. Then she quickly sobered. Yes, she had been well trained to hide her feelings and to observe.

We’re all tired, Robb. He doesn’t --.

Yes, yes, I know, Robb sighed, I, I’m sorry. We’ve been at this all day and I get that answer and I want to scream back at -- no, Mr. Hacohen, simply being Jewish is not enough. We‘re trying to build a nation and -- I‘m sorry.

Menachem shrugged and acknowledged the apology. He saw the ash drop from the cigarette and the soldier shook his head as if he had guessed wrong. With a sheepish grin, he dropped the butt to the floor and stepped on it, ignoring the sand bucket beside him. Then he extracted another cigarette from the crumpled pack he drew from his breast pocket.

Then I don’t know what to tell you. I was a farmer, as was my -- those who raised me. I know a little about military tactics because my -- because the father who raised me fought with the partisans during the war and taught me about some things military, but the Communists were not receptive to having Jews serve in the military. That is all I can tell you.

Robb sighed again and picked up his pen. For a moment, he stared at the papers on his desk, then reached into the open drawer and took a long form out. I see. Guess we can skip that for now. Where were you born?

It’s listed on my papers.

We need to have you tell us, Mr. Hacohen.

I guess I was born in Warsaw -- that’s in Poland. In the ghetto, in 1943, so I have been told. That is all I can tell you, all I know.

Your parent’s names?

I don’t know.

Again, the reply touched a raw nerve. Robb looked up sharply, glared at him. What do you mean you don’t know? Everyone knows who their parents are! It‘s on your birth certificate!

Only that I don’t know. I don’t have an official birth certificate and I was never told their names. It was a strange time, a bad time for Jews in Poland. Many died during the Nazi occupation and when the Nazi‘s stormed the Ghetto. Many more died when the Communists came in to liberate us and then to govern Poland. Both sides -- the Germans and the Russians -- both were quite cruel and savage. Apparently, there were few records kept. Very few for those of us who were Jewish. Many, of course, were sent to the camps.

I suppose that is so, Robb sighed, we have read about that time in our history books. It was a hard time for everyone during and after the war. The camps, the persecution, and all. Strange that you were not told the names of your parents, however. Perhaps the local Rabbi -- well, he‘s obviously out of reach behind the curtain. So you know nothing at all about your real parents. It was a statement, not a question.

All I have been told is that my parents were caught, tortured and executed by the Germans before the Communists had a chance to capture them. They were wanted by both sides. I was only a baby and I have been told that I, and many others, were taken out of the Ghetto through the sewers. That is all I know.

Then Hacohen is not your real name.

It is the name under which I was raised, the only name I have ever known. It might be my real name, but I am not certain of it.

Well, who gave it to you?

The couple who raised me, I guess. They said it was my real name, but I do not know for certain.

I see. The Hacohen’s raised you and gave you their name.

No.

No? Then -- what is their name?

Their name was Rusak.

Was? Robb questioned with a scowl.

They died just before I left Poland. Both of them. He decided not to mention that Father Rusak had died in a Soviet labor camp. It might confuse the man. And Mother Rusak’s admonition? It was not necessary to burden the man with that information nor with the fact the Communist police pursued him when he left.

I’m sorry. What were their first names?

Arye and Marla. I knew them more as Father and Mother Rusak.

Any other children in the family?

No. They had no children of their own while I lived there.

Then there is no one who can verify your story.

No one I know of. Hell, even I can’t verify it. All I know is what others have told me. That I was born in the ghetto shortly before the Jews rebelled against the Nazi’s at the urging of the Russians. The Rusak’s told me I was given to them to take out of the ghetto and to raise. They explained the circumstances to me and told me what my parents wanted them to do. They did say my parents said their name was Hacohen. That is all I have been told. All I know is what I have told you.

Marla stared at the couple that approached, her eyes questioning. The woman clearly had only recently given birth to the baby she held. Her once lovely face was gaunt and weary, her eyes saddened with a burden that clearly was too much for her to bear. She glanced at the man beside her and imploringly met Marla’s gaze, tears filling her eyes.

We were told you are taking some of the children out of the ghetto.

Marla nodded. Yes, my husband and I, along with others, were given the assignment of taking the children out, of escaping through the sewers. Everyone knows the Germans are preparing to attack us. Our leaders want to save some of the children from the slaughter that is going to occur. Why do you ask? She glanced at the newly born baby and bit her lip. The baby was too young to leave its mother’s side, yet she intuitively knew the mother wanted to give her the baby to take out.

I want you to take my baby with you. Please take him. He must live and if he stays, he will be killed by the Germans. You must take him.

He is so young! Marla protested, he needs you, his mother. Why don’t you and your husband come with us? Then you can care for your child.

That is impossible. We cannot go. The Germans know us too well. If we were spotted by the Gestapo with the group that escapes, they would kill everyone. The same is true with regard to the Communists. We are wanted by both the Communists and the Nazi’s. Both know us on sight and will arrest us immediately. Either side would torture and kill us and the baby if they had the chance. That is why you must take the boy. He has a destiny to fulfill and he must live.

I, I wish I could, Marla replied, but -- why?

I have an important scroll that must not be destroyed. It must go with him and, when he grows up, he will read it and understand. Please, take the boy and the scroll and raise him as your own. I beg you. I have asked others about you and your husband. Everyone says you are good people, good Jews. I have no other recourse. It is the only way.

Marla stared at her for a moment, then shifted her gaze to the man. You are the husband and father? she asked.

Yes. I am the father and the husband.

And you want my husband and I to take the child now?

"If you do not, he will die and the Germans will get the scroll. They will only use its powers for evil and they must not find it and we