Martin Fletcher's Promised Land is the sweeping saga of two brothers and the woman they love, a devastating love triangle set against the tumultuous founding of Israel.
The story begins when fourteen-year-old Peter is sent west to America to escape the growing horror of Nazi Germany. But his younger brother Arie and their entire family are sent east to the death camps. Only Arie survives.
The brothers reunite in the nascent Jewish state, where Arie becomes a businessman and one of the richest men in Israel while Peter becomes a top Mossad agent heading some of Israel's most vital espionage operations. One brother builds Israel, the other protects it.
But they also fall in love with the same woman, Tamara, a lonely Jewish refugee from Cairo. And over the next two decades, as their new homeland faces extraordinary obstacles that could destroy it, the brothers' intrigues and jealousies threaten to tear their new lives apart.
Promised Land is at once the gripping tale of a struggling family and an epic about a struggling nation.
Release date:
September 4, 2018
Publisher:
St. Martin's Publishing Group
Print pages:
400
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All Peter wanted was a change of clothes. But Mama stuffed more and more trousers, sweaters, and shirts into his suitcase. A raincoat, ties, and belts. Her hands trembled. It was as if the more she gave him, the more of her went with him.
But Peter didn’t want clothes. He wanted photographs, diaries, his favorite books. He didn’t want more pants, he wanted memories, his father’s wooden pipe carved like a lion’s head: something to hold on to.
Whatever she put in, he pulled out. Mama started to weep, Pappi coaxed her away. Finally, Peter, almost as tall as his mother, embraced her. “Forgive me, Mama,” he whispered, glancing over her shoulder at his little sisters on the steps. Renata and Ruth wiped tears from their eyes.
When the Quaker lady opened the car door for Peter, his brother Aren jumped inside and wouldn’t get out. Aren’s little hands gripped the seat as he cried, “Don’t take the bag, take me instead. Take me with you.”
The Quaker lady didn’t know what to do. She was large, wore a black-and-white bonnet that covered her brow, and was not used to tantrums. But when her eyes met the father’s, she tried to smile in sympathy.
How awful, to give up a child. But the way things were going, keeping him could be even worse. They were running out of time. The poor people.
They had decided to say good-bye at the house rather than risk a scene at the train station, but Aren wouldn’t get out of the car.
“Me too,” he cried. “I want to go with Peter. Why can’t I go too?”
“You will, you will,” his brother said, hugging him. “I promise, when I get to America I’ll get all the papers and send money and you’ll come too. Everyone will.”
Tears streamed down Mama’s face, and Pappi rubbed his eyes. The girls held each other.
* * *
In the end Mama and the girls said good-bye at the house and Pappi and Aren drove with Peter to the station in the big black car. In the backseat Pappi slipped off his silver watch and strapped it onto Peter’s wrist. Even on the last hole the leather strap hung loose. “Wear it,” Pappi said. “Be punctual wherever you go. Polish your shoes. Be polite and say please and thank you.”
“Please and thank you,” Peter said, but they couldn’t smile. He added softly, “It’s yours, I’ll give it back one day.” His father squeezed his hand.
Aren held the other so hard it hurt; still Peter didn’t pull away.
“Why can’t I come too?” Aren murmured, defeated.
The Quaker lady tried to explain, looking at their miserable faces in the mirror as she drove. “America won’t let in many Jews, my dear, but we have special permission for a few children. We’ll try to get you onto the next list. Don’t worry. Everything will be all right.”
“Of course,” their father said. “Aren, you’re next, and then when you’re both in America it will be easier for the rest of us to get papers. Isn’t that right, Frau … I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name?”
“You’ll like the family we found for you. And, Aren, they will find someone to sponsor you too. Near Peter. How old are you?”
“Twelve and a half. Almost.”
“Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.”
* * *
At the train station Aren tried to cling to his brother, while Peter cuffed Aren around the head and gave him two of the butter biscuits Mama had baked for his journey. Pappi and Frau Bildner watched the brothers hug. Her lips quivered and Pappi had to look away.
There were whistles and clouds of steam and people rushing with trolleys piled high with cases, and men in black leather coats with swastikas and guns scanning faces, examining papers while their dogs strained on leashes.
All along the train, guards pulled up the iron steps and slammed heavy doors as passengers waved from windows. Peter leaned out too as the engine lurched forward and picked up speed. In one hand he gripped the paper with the name of the person who would meet him in Hamburg and take him to the ship for America, with the other he waved to his father and Aren. He wanted to shout, “I love you,” but was too embarrassed. “Good-bye,” he called, the wind whipping his hair. “See you in America!”
Pappi tried to shout, “Go west, young man,” but his voice caught. “We’ll see you there, I promise.”
With a long thin whistle and a screech of wheels the great metal machine rattled around the bend and Peter was gone, a trail of smoke rising behind him.
* * *
Everything about Wisconsin was large and strange, though the Wilsons tried hard, and so did Peter. They allowed the Jewish boy to keep a night-light. He didn’t cry much, but Peter often dreamt of his family. Everything he did was to make them proud. He worked to learn English, do well in school, excel at sports.
Walking to the yellow school bus on snowy winter mornings, glancing often at his father’s watch to be sure he wasn’t late, he imagined hugging Mama at the Madison station, and seeing his father’s delight when he gave Pappi back his lion’s-head pipe. How he would enjoy their surprise when they saw his big new home with the lawn that went all the way down to the street. Mr. and Mrs. Wilson would give them lemonade, they would meet his new brothers, Chuck and Bud. They called him Pete. He would give Aren his comics, and he and Aren would share a room again. His father had promised: “We’ll join you in America.”
But they didn’t.
For when Aren and his parents and sisters were finally put on a train, it did not go west, but east.
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