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grip, exhausted. “I can’t go any farther,” she moaned.
    “You fancy burial at sea, eh?” he said sarcastically. “Kick your legs, woman. I’m going to let go for a moment.”
    “No!” she cried, clutching at his arms.
    “I have to take my trousers off. My sweater.” He shoved her hard away from him, confident that she would still be thrashing when he took hold again. His head slipped beneath the surface as he pulled his sweater over his head and kicked off his heavy trousers. Careful not to let go of them, he pulled them to the surface. In one strong stroke he swam to her side and grabbed her hair, pulling her to him.
    “Relax,” he demanded, “or I let you go again.” She coughed and sobbed in protest, but he felt her slender body go limp.
    Moshe swung his heavy trousers through the water in front of her.
    “Your hands are free,” he instructed. “Knot the legs at the cuff.”
    With some effort, the young woman worked on the trousers, obeying his commands. “Finished,” she finally said.
    Stopping to tread water once again, Moshe took the trousers from her and opened them at the waist, trapping air bubbles solidly inside the water-saturated fabric. He wrapped the trouser legs beneath her arms, holding the waist beneath the water so the air would not escape. “There. A life preserver.” Moshe tucked his arm around her.
    “Now kick,” he demanded, “or I’ll turn you over to the British myself.”

3
    Yacov
    Nine-year-old Yacov Lebowitz opened his eyes and stared into the darkness of the basement room. The kerosene stove had long since stopped sputtering and popping with warmth, and the room had reverted once again to the damp chill of Jerusalem’s early winter. He shuddered and gathered the ragged woolen blanket tighter around himself.
    Reaching his hand to the floor beside his iron cot, he felt for the warm, shaggy dog sleeping beside him. “Psst, Shaul!” He snapped his fingers and was greeted by a soft whine as the dog shook himself to his feet and licked Yacov’s hand expectantly. “Come on,” Yacov whispered. “Up.” The huge animal jumped onto the cot, causing the rusty springs to groan and sag. He lay squarely across his young master, grateful to be off the cold stone floor.
    Grandfather had forbidden Yacov to sleep with the dog, and during the summer months he had obeyed, since the old man’s bed was only an arm’s length away. But tonight Yacov’s bones ached with the steadily dropping temperature in the tiny one-room apartment they shared.
    He hoped Grandfather would not wake up and throw Shaul out on the street as he had threatened. Yacov listened to the even cadence of the old man’s breathing. It had not changed. The dog nuzzled close, and Yacov was thankful for the living, furry blanket that shielded him from both the chill of the night and the loneliness of his existence.
    “Jackal!” Grandfather had called the filthy puppy Yacov had found cowering among the discarded crates and garbage near the Dung Gate. “Hiding among the baggage like King Shaul, eh?” And so the name stuck.
    He had been lost, Yacov guessed, by some careless shepherd who brought his sheep to the Old City markets for sale. Half starved and afraid, but mostly alone, the puppy had shivered when Yacov had gathered him up to go begging for scraps at Solomon’s Kosher Butcher Shop in the New City. “So,” Grandfather had said, “this jackal is eating better than we are? Tell him, Yacov, he must eat his soup bones. We will not share our soup!”
    That had been two years ago. Shaul brought home the bones from Solomon’s, Grandfather made soup, and they all ate well. “So we’re not starving anyway,” Grandfather would say.
    Shaul had grown into a strange-looking mix of every stray dog in the city. He had a sharp, wolflike muzzle that could look vicious when he showed his teeth. But his light brown eyes were kind, almost human when he gazed at Yacov. His coat was a mosaic of gray and black and tan,