Foxes in the Vineyard: Templars, Nazis, and the Battle for Jerusalem

By Michael J. Cooper

In April of 1948, Boston University history professor Evan Sinclair receives a telegram notifying him that his father, Professor Clive Robert Sinclair, has been reported missing from his post at the Palestine Archaeological Museum. Fearing for his fathers well-being, Evan and Clives longtime friend, Mervin Smythe, travel to Palestine on the eve of the first Arab-Israeli War.

Evan finds his father and far morea lost love, a son he never knew he had, and covert elements of the Third Reich positioned in Palestine before the end of World War II. Having infiltrated both Arab and Jewish populations, the Nazis seek to use counter-intelligence and terror to stoke the fires of hatred and fear between Arabs and Jews. The goal is to drive the British from Palestine and to seize Jerusalem as the capital of a reborn Third Reich with the legendary Knights Templar treasure as plunder and the Temple Mount as their fortress. To defeat them, Evan finds that he must risk everything.

Filled with real people from the pages of history as well as fictional characters, Foxes in the Vineyard follows Evan as he battles not only for his ideals, but his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 5, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462063215

Michael J. Cooper

MICHAEL J. COOPER immigrated to Israel in 1966 and lived in Jerusalem during the last year the city was divided between Israel and Jordan. He studied and traveled in the region for eleven years and graduated from medical school in Tel Aviv. Cooper now lives in Northern California.

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Copyright © 2011 Michael J. Cooper

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4620-6308-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-6307-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-6321-5 (e)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 11/30/2011

Contents

Acknowledgments

On Fiction, Fantasy, and Jerusalem

Author’s Note

Prologue

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XX

XXI

XXII

XXIII

XXIV

XXV

XXVI

XXVII

XXVIII

XXIX

XXX

XXXI

Cast Of Characters

References and Suggestions for Further Reading

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank Laurie McLean, agent and editor extraordinaire, for her invaluable assistance following the 2011 San Francisco Writers Conference where Foxes in the Vineyard won grand prize in the first Indie Publishing Contest Writing Competition. Thanks also to Elizabeth Pomada and Michael Larsen for their dedicated and inspired stewardship of the conference and contest.

I couldn’t have written the book without the merciless help of my writers’ group, Critical Mass: Kay Barnhart, Janet Finsilver, Claire Johnson, Rena Leith, Ann Parker, Carole Price, and Gordon Yano. With special thanks to Penny Warner for giving genesis to our group and for bravely reading and critiquing a challenging first draft. And at the other end of the process, I’m grateful to my wife, Teri, to Alan Rinzler, and to Herma Lictenstein for reviewing a final draft.

Finally, this book is dedicated to my dear sister, Adrienne—mentor and editor from birth.

On Fiction, Fantasy, and Jerusalem

Author’s Note

Having lived in Israel from 1966 to 1977, and with many trips to Palestine and Israel since, I’ve had the opportunity to experience the dueling realities of the Israel/Palestine conflict close at hand. Well aware of the obvious sources of contention, I conceived FOXES IN THE VINEYARD in the aftermath of the assassination of Yitzhak Rabin and the death of the peace process. I hoped to create a multi-layered picture of the birth of Israel viewed through Arab and Israeli eyes with fictionalized sources of subterfuge woven into the historical drama. In this context, the novel, set in 1948, traces a malignant residue of WWII as device and metaphor. Implacable hatred and unyielding extremism continue to infect the struggle over Palestine—a conflict that still threatens to engulf the world.

FOXES IN THE VINEYARD is a work of historical fiction that strays into alternative history, and extends to the realm of historical fantasy. Whereas it’s usually clear where fact ends and fantasy begins, there’s no bright line between historical fact and alternative historical fiction, especially when speculation involves multiple historical events and a variety of historical figures.

This relationship between fact and fiction is further challenged by the fact that the novel deals with the Arab/Israeli conflict—a history still being written. Additionally, this is a conflict with no consensus—each side has its own set of historical facts and regards the other as clinging to a fictional alternative history. But the struggle between Israel and Palestine is not fiction. From the extreme edges of both sides rise uncompromising voices of religious and ideological absolutism, shouting down appeals for reason and coexistence and leaving the field to the worst elements of both camps—a shattered landscape of discord with Jerusalem at its center and with no hope of resolution.

But in the fact and fiction of FOXES IN THE VINEYARD there is a longing for something else—a Jerusalem that will no longer be a point of conflict but rather a vital part of the solution—a Jerusalem that might reflect the meaning of its name, a city of wholeness, a city of peace.

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…and Satan stood opake immeasurable

Covering the east with solid blackness,

round his hidden heart,

With thunders utterd from his hidden wheels…

                       Milton: Book the First, Plate 9

                               William Blake

Catch us the foxes…

that spoil the vineyards…

                               The Song of Songs 2:15

Prologue

Nazi occupied Tunisia

March 6, 1943

The relentless eye of the desert sun was finally closing over the bleak Sahara. Hauptmann Aldinger squinted at the black columns of smoke soiling the bright edge of the western horizon where crimson shafts pierced the dirty shroud of gray sky. Then he saw what he was looking for—a cloud of dust among the crescent-shaped dunes. As he watched, it grew larger; 10th Panzer Division was coming home.

Aldinger, a precise little man with a prominent nose, raised a pair of battered green binoculars to his eyes; the lead tank was that of the Field Marshal, fast approaching the perimeter minefields and decoys. Aldinger sprinted forward, waving his faded khaki hat in the air.

The Field Marshal’s tank thundered into camp, skirting anti-tank ditches, its squeaking tread churning a cloud of fine sand into the air as it passed between two machine gun emplacements. The tank lurched to a stop a few meters from Aldinger. The motor rattled into silence. The hatch clanked open.

Erwin Rommel emerged from the turret, and pushed his dusty goggles up onto his high-peaked cap. Hauptmann, he called down from above the heavy 88 mm gun. Is there a reason you stopped me so far from my caravan?

I need to speak with you, sir.

Rommel pulled off his checkered scarf revealing an Iron Cross tied neatly at his neck. With a fist over his mouth, he coughed and looked past Aldinger. There was a half-track armored car parked next to the caravan. You have the casualty reports for the day? he asked.

Right here, sir. Aldinger reached into a pocket of his field jacket.

Rommel stepped easily down to the tread and jumped to the ground. From the turret behind him, the helmeted and goggled head of his gunner emerged like an insect from its burrow.

Thank you, my faithful friend. Rommel opened the carefully folded pages and flicked off stray grains of sand. The fine lines around his blue eyes deepened as he squinted at Aldinger’s neat printing. My God in Heaven! Five hundred men dead and forty-two tanks lost…

And this is still preliminary, sir. We’ve yet to receive the numbers from 15th Panzer division. It will be much worse.

Madness! Montgomery was waiting for us. I should never have agreed to a single thrust at Medenine, let alone four. This was madness!

What choice did you have, sir? It was a direct order from Reichsmarshal Göring.

I have come to the painful conclusion that Göring is mad, Rommel said as he unfastened the buttons of his dusty leather jacket. And the Führer is not much better.

Aldinger’s face tensed. He raised a finger to his lips.

What is it?

Aldinger nodded in the direction of Rommel’s command caravan with its covering of camel thorn and camouflage netting.

Rommel’s eyes narrowed. That half-track…it’s not one of ours, is it?

No, Sir. It belongs to the SS officer who came with the transport planes. He’s waiting for you inside.

Ah, so the transport planes have finally arrived. Rommel strode quickly toward the caravan. And none too soon…

With Aldinger nearly running to keep up, Rommel reached the caravan, ducked beneath the netting, pushed open the door, and froze; two shiny black top boots were resting on his desk. They belonged to an officer whose gray uniform jacket was decorated with gold embroidered SS insignia on both collars. His cap sported the silver death’s head of the Totenkopf division. Behind him, clutching MP-40 sub-machine guns, stood two soldiers of the SS.

Congratulations, Field Marshal! The officer smiled and leaned back in Rommel’s chair. Your little diversion was a complete success.

A complete success? Rommel replied as he stared at the officer’s boots on his desk. That little diversion was the single worst defeat Panzergruppe Afrika has ever suffered. We lost dozens of tanks and hundreds of good men. I would hardly call that a success.

On the contrary, Field Marshal. The RAF spotters were busy watching your maneuvers, and we were able to land the transport aircraft without incident. The officer got to his feet and straightened his uniform. The diversion worked to perfection, and we salute you. He nodded, and the two soldiers behind him snapped to attention with a sharp clicking of heels.

Their right arms shot out. Heil Hitler! They exclaimed in unison.

Yes, of course, Rommel mumbled and waved a desultory hand in reply.

The officer extended his hand. Obersturmführer Robert Brandenburg at your service, Field Marshal!

After a moment’s hesitation, Rommel shook Brandenburg’s hand. I’m indeed gratified that you had sufficient time to land the transport aircraft, Obersturmführer.

Twenty of them, Field Marshal! Brandenburg pointed with his thumb in the direction of the airfield. Twenty Messerschmitt Gijant transports!"

That’s very good. Rommel smiled as he stepped behind his desk. Very good, indeed! He pulled off his checkered scarf, turned and frowned as he saw a long black leather jacket hanging on one of the pegs fixed to the wall of the caravan. Hanging his scarf along with his dusty brown jacket on a second peg, he drew a deep breath. We paid a heavy price to allow those planes to land, and I’m anxious to see what you brought us. Before Brandenburg could respond, Rommel added. I hope you brought the full allotment of petrol that I requested. We desperately need petrol. He settled into his leather chair, looked up at Brandenburg and gestured with his hand. Let’s see the invoices, Obersturmführer. Show me what you brought us.

Field Marshall… Brandenburg raised a thin finger and smiled. I believe that there has been a slight misunderstanding…

How so?

Our purpose in coming here was not to resupply you.

What are you saying? Rommel’s jaw clenched as he stared down at the shiny wooden surface of his desk Are you telling me that I sent my bravest soldiers into the teeth of anti-tank guns for nothing?

I would hardly call a vital redeployment nothing, Field Marshall, Brandenburg said as he studied his varnished fingernails.

Wait! Rommel shouted and shot out of his chair. I personally met with the Führer in November and I specifically remember his words! Rommel’s anger erupted and he jabbed his finger down on the desk with each word. He instructed that Afrika Korps be supplied with all that we need. I made a detailed inventory and gave it to Reichsmarshal Göring. Rommel pointed toward the airfield. You have landed here with twenty transport planes. Now, tell me what you brought us!

Nothing. Brandenburg fixed his eyes on Rommel and smiled. We brought you nothing. The planes are empty.

Rommel stared at Brandenburg. Then what, in the name of heaven, are you doing here?

I told you, Field Marshal. We are here to help you redeploy.

Rommel rubbed the back of his neck and closed his eyes. Do you mean to tell me that you intend to take troops from Afrika Korps?

Precisely. I have a detailed inventory for personnel, munitions, light arms, vehicles…all for redeployment.

Redeployment to where? The Atlantic wall? The Russian front?

That, replied Brandenburg, is not your concern.

That is indeed my concern, sir. I am the commander of Afrika Korps. I will not allow our already inadequate resources to be further drained. He turned and clasped his hands behind his back. I won’t allow it.

The Reichsmarshal anticipated this… Brandenburg took a slip of paper from his breast pocket and held it out. Field Marshal Erwin Rommel, you are hereby relieved of your command.

What? Rommel turned sharply, looked at Brandenburg, then nodded to Aldinger. As Aldinger took the order from Brandenburg, Rommel turned to stare out one of the caravan’s blackened windows. In the gathering dusk, he could make out the tanks being covered in camel-thorn netting.

It’s true, Field Marshal, Aldinger said quietly as he came to stand alongside Rommel. It also says that General Von Arnim is to assume command. The order is signed by the Reichsmarshal and by the Führer. You are to proceed to Rastenburg in East Prussia where the Führer will receive you at the Wolfsschanze…

Rommel snatched the paper from Aldinger and stared at it. And if I refuse this order?

An interesting idea… Brandenburg chuckled as he pretended to examine a wall map. Refuse to obey an order signed by the Führer; a very interesting idea… Brandenburg gave Rommel a quick smile. I do have some happy news for you, Field Marshal—before coming here with the transport, I was sent to Herrlingen to inquire as to the health of Frau Rommel—I can assure you that she is quite well. She sends her warm regards.

Rommel stiffened. Thank you, he whispered.

I then proceeded to a flak battery in Ulm, continued Brandenburg as he stepped behind Rommel’s desk and took his long jacket off the wall peg. You’ll never guess who I met there… Brandenburg smirked. Your son Manfred—a fine lad! As one of the guards draped the jacket over Brandenburg’s shoulders, he canted his head to the side and looked closely at Rommel. The boy does favor his mother, though, doesn’t he? Well, I assure you that your son, for the present, is in excellent health. However, casualties can run very high in a unit like his. Brandenburg nodded to the guards, who stepped out the caravan door, one of them holding the door open. Brandenburg put an arm around Rommel’s shoulders and gave him a gentle squeeze. At least you can take some consolation in the fact that Göring finally agrees with you…

He does? Rommel slipped away from Brandenburg’s grasp. About what?

About all this—this war in Africa. You were right all along. It’s become a gigantic distraction—sapping our strength. Even Hitler finally seems to understand.

Obersturmführer, Rommel sighed. I should stay and lead an orderly retreat.

Quite out of the question. Let Von Arnim mop up this mess. Brandenburg smiled and puffed out his chest. The great Rommel will be needed elsewhere, and with his shining reputation intact! His smile faded as he handed an envelope to Aldinger.

Ordonnanzoffizier, see to it that this inventory is assembled immediately. I will return to the airfield and I expect to begin processing the designated personnel and ordinance. We’ll leave at exactly 0200. He unsnapped the leather cover of his timepiece. That gives us just eight hours. See to it. With that, Brandenburg stepped through the open caravan door.

The sun had set, and the desert wind whistled across the sand and keened through the camouflage netting. Cinching his jacket around his shoulders, Brandenburg turned back to Rommel and saluted. Auf Wiedersehen, Field Marshall!

Rommel took a step forward. Obersturmführer, these troops selected for redeployment—you will be leading them?

Yes.

Can you not tell me where you are taking them?

I told you, Field Marshal. That is no longer your concern. He nodded to the guard and the caravan door slammed shut.

I

Five years later…

Boston University

April 18, 1948

Professor Evan Sinclair paused in the stairwell and looked up at the tiers of students as the lecture hall door wheezed on its pneumatic arm and settled closed. God, they keep getting younger. Stepping to the chalkboard, he steadied the wooden frame with his left hand, made a few quick strokes across the black slate, and dropped the chalk into the tray. Flanking the chalkboard, a bank of iron radiator heaters kept the hall warm—too warm.

After eighteen years on faculty, Evan felt at home in the aging lecture hall with its faded institutional light brown paint, high ceiling, thick beams, and terraces of old wooden desks. A wall of single pane windows with drawn tan shades filtered the late afternoon sunlight.

Warily approaching fifty, Evan wore wire rim glasses, a white shirt and bow tie with a tweed vest that closely followed the contours of his chest. His beard was trimmed short and streaked with gray. He brushed the chalk dust from his hands, and the bright particles whirled in slanting columns of evening sunlight. Gripping the smooth sides of the wooden lectern with both hands, he leaned forward and began speaking.

We will continue today… As his voice filled the hall, the spirited disharmony of talking students, creaking chairs, and rustling papers settled into silence. …with the historical record in Scotland, Ireland and elsewhere that might shed light on the disappearance of the Templar fleet and treasure in the early 14th century. He pointed at the date written on the chalkboard, Friday, October the thirteenth, 1307. Mr. Zaritt, would you be so kind as to tell us what happened on that day?

A skinny young man with a brown halo of curly hair stood up and cleared his throat. The order of the Templars was disbanded, Professor Sinclair.

By… Evan coaxed.

By Pope Clement the Fifth, sir.

Precisely! Evan slammed his hand down on the wooden lectern with a report that echoed through the room. Very good, Mr. Zaritt. You may sit down. He stepped back to the chalkboard. The Templars were declared heretics, enemies of the faith, and subjected to an inquisition. The arrests began at dawn on Friday, October the 13th. Friday the thirteenth… he tapped the board, Now you know where the notion of unlucky Friday the thirteenth originated—right here. He continued speaking as he returned to the lectern. The Templars were among the wealthiest and most influential people of their society, but on that day they became dispossessed fugitives. He picked another name from the roster. Mr. Mahoney, why did the Pope disband the order?

In the highest tier, a student stood up but said nothing.

We’re waiting, Mr. Mahoney.

I don’t know, sir.

Tell me, Mr. Mahoney…did you do the assigned reading?

No, sir. I did not.

Thank you for your candor, Mr. Mahoney. You may sit. Evan picked another name. Perhaps you can tell us, Miss Brown. Why would Pope Clement disband this powerful order of knights?

A petite young woman with curly red hair stood up and smoothed out her light green chemise. Because the King of France told him to?

Miss Brown, was that a question or a statement?

As a wave of suppressed laughter rippled through the class, the young woman took a deep breath. That was a statement, sir. King Philip the Fourth controlled the papacy. He influenced the Pope to disband the order.

Well done, Miss Brown! Evan exclaimed and brought his hand down on the lectern with another loud bang. Prompted by greed and jealousy, King Philip and the Pope moved against this wealthy and influential group of warrior monks. But, let’s take a moment to review how an order, sworn to poverty, came to accrue such wealth and power. He turned and, with his hands clasped behind, walked slowly toward the wall of windows on his right. Their original mission was to protect pilgrims traveling to and from the Holy Land. To this end, they developed their own navy and merchant marine. To protect pilgrims…he thought and glanced out between the drawn shades to watch the glowing edge of the setting sun disappear behind the dark stone buildings on the far side of the commons. I suppose teaching is one way…

The Templars developed their own ports throughout the Mediterranean, storehouse cities throughout Europe, and they came to control nearly all commerce between North Africa, Europe, and the Holy Land. Over time, their holdings in titled property, gems and precious metals was such that we cannot even begin to imagine. He sauntered back to the lectern. Thus, the order of the Templars, once known as the Poor Knights of the Temple of Solomon, became a very rich and very powerful force. In view of this, and the greed of King Philip, he was determined to seize their assets.

Gripping the sides of the lectern, he leaned forward. "But, in order to seize the Templar treasure, he had to disband the order, and to do this, he needed a pretext. The notion of heresy would do nicely, and the Templars provided ample grounds. After all, knights of the order had lived among the Moslems and Jews of Palestine for two centuries; they spoke their languages, they conducted commerce and developed friendships with these apostates. Worst of all, the knights endeavored to reconcile Christianity with Judaism and Islam—indeed, a dangerous heresy. And if that wasn’t enough, the Templars seemed to go out of their way to be mysterious and secretive.

Since knights of the order were originally quartered on the site of Solomon’s palace in Jerusalem, they assumed for themselves the legacy of the armies of Solomon. They saw themselves not merely as protectors of pilgrims, but as avatars of the armies that conquered Canaan and toppled the walls of Jericho. They mantled themselves with the aura of Solomon’s Royal Guard, Joshua’s army, the Maccabees, the Grail Knights. They saw themselves not merely as military monks, but as high mystical initiates, blessed with divine power, charged with a sacred mission.

Evan walked to a map of Europe that covered part of the back wall of the lecture hall and took the long wooden pointer from its bracket next to the map. Under the direction of Pope Clement, the inquisition began in France. He tapped the map with the pointer’s black rubber tip. Then spread to England and Spain. Many knights were tortured and killed. But about two hundred escaped France—with the Templar treasure. Where did they go? He held up two fingers, We know two things for certain; they escaped to the sea, and they split into two separate groups. The larger contingent with most of the ships and all of the treasure disappeared, while a smaller group of knights led the officers of the inquisition on a diversionary chase—easily traceable, even today. They crossed the Channel here, and sailed to Ireland’s Atlantic coast, stopping at Galway. He guided the pointer over the map. Heading north, they rounded the coast of Donegal with landfall in Scotland, at the Mull of Kintyre. Once here they were able to hide because Scotland was in turmoil—fighting for its freedom from English domination. But, where exactly did they hide? He looked out at the students. Anyone?

No hand was raised.

I’ll show you. Evan smiled as he reached up and pulled down a projection screen. OK, Roger, he called, let’s have the slides.

The lights dimmed and the first lanternslide glowed on the screen. Last year, I led a field study along the valley of the north fork of the Esk River. That’s what you see here. Evan traced the pointer over the screen. "This paved road next to the river dates to the early 14th century. Next slide, please.