She had taken his position by storm, and good for her! He had fallen for her months ago and had gotten pretty involved, no argument, but in his happy-go-lucky way he had counted on her standoffishness to keep the matter indefinitely on hold. In a flash she had changed all that. Well, so be it. Time to jump. It had to come, sooner or later. Kfotze, Kishote! She wasn’t the prettiest girl he knew, not even as pretty as some he had fooled with, by no means as striking as Yael Luria; slight, dark, her face a bit sharp and her fresh smooth skin, maybe because she was so young, not entirely clear. Beautiful hair, deep eyes that could flare with controlled passion, quick brain, and a radiant enchantment about her beyond resistance, at least for him. She would make a great mother, character like rock. They had talked about children, and he had not opposed her flat ruling that their upbringing would be extremely religious. Kishote liked the religion, and thought kids should have it. What they did about it afterward, as in his own case, was their business. He had left that cavil unstated to Shayna.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry! Big rush, big mess.” Yael bustled into the café, every blond hair in place, her uniform crisp, her color natural and high. “Can’t stay, either.”
“No? Have a cup of coffee, at least.”
“Well….” She stepped to the counter, and the King, a fat greasy man in an apron and a cardboard hat, served her with deference ahead of others waiting. “Not a mark on you,” she said, dropping beside him, “after all you went through!”
“Yael, what’s up? What can I do for you?”
She glanced at tables within earshot, full of chattering young soldiers. With a strange laugh she said, “How do you think I look?”
“As usual, a knockout.”
“Do I? Thanks. I feel—well, I’ve never felt exactly like this. Kind of marvellous, and kind of horrible.” She sipped coffee and looked around again. “Oh, this is impossible, this was a mistake. Anyway there’s no time. Is your battalion on duty, on reserve, what?”
“Three days off duty, then back on reserve.”
“Can I meet you down at Karl Netter Street? Say this afternoon? Say three o’clock?”
“Why? What’s it all about?”
“Well, hamood—” She put her hand on his.
Honk, honk, honk! At the wheel of an army car, Sam Pasternak was hitting the horn. “Where are the charts,” he shouted at her, “and what to all the devils are you doing out here? Hello, Kishote.”
“Everything’s about ready, sir,” she called back. “Just the last map, Uri is going over it, and—”
“About ready? You get in here! I meet the Prime Minister in an hour.”
“Karl Netter Street at three o’clock,” she murmured, “don’t fail me,” and she hurried to the car.
At this point Yossi might well have guessed what was afoot, had he been less preoccupied with Shayna’s bombshell. But maybe not. To him, Yael was Yael, Benny Luria’s high-flying sister, an old story. They had had a few laughs in Paris and a z’beng v’gamarnu, a fleeting toss. After Mitla Pass and Sharm el Sheikh, the Georges Cinq Hotel was faded nonsense. The question was, how about next month’s rent on Karl Netter Street? Amir and Shmuel couldn’t keep the flat unless he paid his share, but Shayna had laid down the law: goodbye to Karl Netter Street! Serious decision.
***
Pasternak was confronting a different Ben Gurion: gone the buoyancy, the confidence, the smile of victory. The faces of Dayan, Golda Meir, and their aides around the table all reflected the Old Man’s somber mien. As Yael set up the charts of Sinai on a rack, Pasternak was thinking of the Friday afternoon in the Tel Aviv Museum when Ben Gurion had read the Declaration of the State to crowded rows of Zionist leaders. This was how he had looked then: resolved, defiant, grave.
And then and there the State had been born in balagan! When he finished the reading the musicians had missed their cue to strike up “Hatikvah,” so the Old Man started it solo, the audience laggardly joined in, and then the orchestra straggled along, in a mighty discordant send-off to the Jewish State. Afterward Sam had joined the young people dancing in the streets, but that sober Ben Gurion expression had stayed with him. Here it was again, and in a way the whole enterprise, for good or ill, was still a B.G. solo, with a discordant chorus trying to follow him.
“Why four charts?” inquired Ben Gurion, who noticed everything. “Three withdrawal proposals, we decided.”
After weeks of skillful delaying tactics by Abba Eban, Israel’s ambassador to Washington, the Israeli government was at last, under implacable pressure from the Americans, coming forward with maps specifying possible stages of withdrawal from Sinai.
Golda Meir said, “Moshe Dayan and I asked for another one.”
“We just finished it up this morning,” said Pasternak. “It’s not too detailed.”
“To what purpose?” Ben Gurion asked Golda.
She looked to Moshe Dayan. “Longer withdrawal time, Prime Minister.” Dayan too was less than his forceful self. “Longer interval before withdrawals begin.”
Ben Gurion sighed. “Wasted effort.”
“Who knows?” said Dayan. “Every day brings something new. The longer we can hold on, the more options may open up.”
“If there were any justice,” said Golda Meir, “there would be no discussion of withdrawal at all without linkage to peace.”
“Yoisher [Justice]?” Ben Gurion spoke the old Yiddish word with vibrant overtones of ghetto wisdom, sadness, and mockery. “Yoisher she wants? From the Oom [UN]? So, Sam, let’s hear the plans.”
Pasternak took up his pointer and began with the minimum proposal meant for negotiating purposes; it had little chance of acceptance, but would test the pressure. The room for maneuver was already narrow. The very day after his triumphant speech, Ben Gurion had utterly caved in to Eisenhower’s angry threats that his newly reelected administration was prepared to support UN sanctions against Israel, going as far as blockade; and that if Ben Gurion still persisted in his unrealistic intransigence, and the Soviet Union took military action against Israel, the United States would not intervene!
Chris Cunningham had called the turn, Pasternak realized, the American shield was down; and B.G. too had swiftly and sadly come to that recognition. His cabinet had accepted at once and publicly the principle of total withdrawal from Sinai, as soon as arrangements with a UN peacekeeping force could be worked out; the same basis on which the French and British were exiting Suez with their tails between their legs.
So what was left was playing for time, for assurances that the fedayeen would not return, above all for guarantees that the Straits of Tiran would remain open for Israeli shipping. Since then Pasternak had been working on various maps, stages, and time frames for getting the army out of Sinai, an action not unlike pulling a hand out of a basket of fishhooks. The last hook was Sharm el Sheikh. All the plans called for staying there to the final moment.
“The American Jews failed us,” Golda Meir remarked as Yael was changing charts on the rack. “Where were they? He carried New York by the biggest vote ever!”
“They have no conception of our strategic realities,” said Dayan. “Most of them don’t know where the Sinai is. That’s a fact we live with.”
Hours later, when Pasternak had answered multitudinous questions on the four plans, and the air was thick with smoke, Ben Gurion said wearily, rubbing his hands over his face, and looking around with reddened eyes, “This withdrawal, made by us in good faith, will pay large dividends one day. Now it’s painful. We’ve been through other painful times. We have the best soldiers in the world. We’ve shown that, and it won’t be forgotten by anyone.”
“I received yesterday,” Moshe Dayan put in, “a copy of an article by the British expert Liddell Hart on our campaign. He calls it ‘a classic of the military art.’”
The Prime Minister nodded, with a melancholy smile. “That’s very nice. And true. But this little country can’t defy the two superpowers. Look you, France and England couldn’t.” He turned hi
s palms upward in a gesture of resignation. “Zeh mah she’yaish. Now. Who takes these plans to New York?”
“Sam should go. Nobody else,” said Golda.
“I want Sam here,” Moshe Dayan rapped out.
“Then detach Zev Barak for this mission,” Pasternak said. “That’s my recommendation. I’ll put him in the picture.”
Ben Gurion looked at Moshe Dayan, who nodded, then at Golda. She shrugged. “I don’t know Lieutenant Colonel Barak that well. If Moshe says so, all right.”
“Wolfgang’s b’seder,” said the Prime Minister. “I know him. So. Sam you send him to New York with that stuff, and while he’s over there, he can take some private messages of mine to Washington.”
Yael drove Pasternak back to the Ramle base. They had had to talk about the briefing on the way over, so he had not used his regular driver. After starting out in a long glum silence she said, not looking at him, “So KADESH was all for nothing! Hundred-Hours War, hah? Classic of the military art, hah? Round-trip to Sinai, in and out.”
“Don’t talk foolishly. Nasser broke the armistice terms when he blocked the Straits of Tiran, but the UN did nothing, and the Americans did nothing. They thought we didn’t matter. Israel just wasn’t there on the map. No problem! But now a UN force will take station in Suez, Sinai, and Gaza, so that’ll prevent fedayeen raids. And the straits will remain open with American guarantees.”
“For how long?”
“Who can tell? The main thing,” he added through his teeth, “Israel is on the map now.”
“You’re making the best of a rotten deal.”
“Exactly.”
“Can you spare me for a couple of hours this afternoon?”
“Today? When we’re so jammed up? No.”
She turned to look him in the eye. “You mean yes.”
“What for?”
“Things.”
He did not answer. When she glanced at him again, he sourly nodded.
***
At the Karl Netter flat, where he arrived early to pay the back rent and clear out rubbish, Yossi fell to wondering at last just what the devil Yael Luria could want of him. He was waiting to hear from Shayna, and trying in vain to get through to her in Jerusalem. Meantime, here was Yael on the way. The real reason actually did cross his mind, but it seemed preposterous. First of all, in that dimming z’beng v’gamarnu in Paris, Yael herself had assured him as they dove into bed that there was no risk. He had inquired with a look and a gesture. She had laughingly whispered, “Zeh b’seder [It’s okay].” But if by chance that actually was her fix, well, Sam Pasternak had to be the lucky or unlucky guy—depending on the viewpoint—in the way of nature and on the law of averages. No? Yael knew that as well as he. She would hardly try such a farfetched bluff on him. So what was she after? Nothing to do but wait and see, and meantime try Shayna’s number again.
Yael meantime doffed her uniform and put on a pretty pink dress for the visit to Karl Netter Street, after showering and making up with care. This was serious business, handling Don Kishote, and it required looking peachy. Les jeux sont faits, as the French would say. The chips were down. Yael had given much thought to her options, and they were three, or possibly four. At 2 A.M. of a sleepless night, she had listed and rated them in her methodical fashion, and then torn the paper to scraps.
1. Abortion. Absolutely out, I will have this baby!
2. Marry Kishote. Best alternative by far. A first-class soldier, smart enough under the crazy streak, and that’s already fading down as he advances in the army and matures. Not my type, God knows, but he has a future, at least. And anyway he’s my baby’s father!
3. Try to force things with Sam. Hopeless. I’ll lose. Carrying another man’s baby, I’m in a bad, bad position. Got myself into a trap. Zeh mah she’yaish. Bye-bye, poor Sam! But he’s had this coming to him long enough. Enjoy your Ruthie, Sam!
4. Other guys? Jacob? Ariel? Ron? Desperation, only if all else fails.
Such was Yael’s hardheaded appraisal of her fix. Left out, however, was the least foreseen aspect of it. In the doctor’s office when all doubts had been resolved, and she knew, an astounding thrill of happiness had shot through her turmoil and trouble. Words unspoken had resounded in her soul like brave music. I am a woman!
At a wedding in the moshav, long ago, the itinerant rabbi had once talked about a Bible figure, maybe Lot or Lamech, who had two wives, one for pleasure and one for childbearing. On hearing this Yael had decided, with the cynicism of sixteen, that she would be the pleasure wife, but by now she had come to have a fierce craving to be the other kind. Don Kishote had opened for her that door of life, and she meant to drag him through it with her, whether by allure or by force of will.
He greeted her with his usual puckish grin, shoving his glasses up on his nose. “Hey, you look nice, Yael. Different.”
“You mean, not in uniform.”
“Why, you look swell in uniform, too, but that’s a nice dress. Come in, come into the old pigsty.”
She hoped that when she stepped into the flat, invitingly close to him, he would take her in his arms. They stood toe to toe but it didn’t happen. “Can I offer you something? A cold drink? There’s orange soda.”
“No thanks.”
“Tea?”
“Well… a cup of tea, why not?”
He went into the kitchen and began clattering and banging. Wrong move, she thought. Bad move. He was saying, “I never know where those guys put anything. We do have tea bags, I swear, I bought them myself—”
“Oh, never mind the tea.” She came to the kitchen door.
“You want tea, you’ll have tea. Look, here’s crackers. No. All moldy. Those guys—”
“Yossi, I’m pregnant.”
That stopped the fuss and the chatter. It stopped Don Kishote in his tracks. He peered at her and pushed up the glasses.
“You are?”
“I am.”
“Well! Mazel tov.”
“Thanks. Mazel tov to you, too, dear. You’re the baby’s father.”
They stared at each other through the kitchen door. Second chance for him to take her in his arms. He did nothing of the kind. Yael had a qualm of doubt. Should she have worn the dress, after all? Had it alarmed him, put him on his guard? He was used to her in uniform. Don Kishote came out of the kitchen, took her elbow, and led her to the sofa. Ah, this might be more like it—but he only said, “Sit down, Yael,” with a little push, and sat well clear of her.
“Look, don’t be so solicitous,” she laughed. “I’m in great shape and it’s only been a couple of months.”
He took his time to respond, looking intently at her. “How do you know, Yael?”
“How do I know what?” Despite herself she turned testy. “That I’m pregnant? The angel Gabriel came to me in a dream, announced it, and told me to call him Emmanuel!” Then, more lightly, with an effort, “Simple, dear, I missed two periods, and took a test, and that’s it. I’m pregnant.”
“Don’t be angry, Yael.”
“I’m not in the least angry.”
“What I meant was—now you said you’re not angry—how do you know it’s me?”
She bit her lip, and hoped she hadn’t bitten it through. It hurt terribly, and she tasted blood. “What do you mean? I know.”
“Now, you say you’re not angry.”
“I’m not, I’m not angry, Yossi, for God’s sake. Go ahead! Say what’s on your mind. We have to be honest with each other.”
“You’re talking about the Georges Cinq Hotel.”
“What else?” She produced a merry chuckle. (Keep it light, Yael!) “The French whore, remember?”
“Sure, and I remember you said, ‘Zeh b’seder.’”
“Did I say that?” An innocent blink of big eyes.
“You did.”
“Zeh b’seder?”
“Those were your words.”
“Well, all right, I suppose I thought so, then. My mistake.” She smiled. “But I’m ha
ppy about this baby, Kishote, and what’s done is done.”
“You truly aren’t angry, Yael?”
“Why should I be?”
Kishote hesitated, but there was no other way, he had to come out with it. “Then just tell me this. What about Sam Pasternak?” Her answer was a cold dangerous stare. He bumbled on, “I mean, how can you be so positive?”
Yael jumped up. “Oh, what a mess! I’m not going to cry, I’m not!” She rapidly paced around the room, her hips swinging in a way Kishote thought fantastically exciting, though she wasn’t trying for this particular effect at all. “But you’re the father, and I’m going to have this baby, and what are we going to do about it?”
She came over to him, and Yossi too was on his feet. Once more they were toe to toe. Her tone softened. “As for Sam, that’s been over between us for months. Don’t ask me why. It has. This is nothing I’d lie about, surely you must know that. I’m absolutely certain, Don Kishote. It’s you.” She looked up at him, putting all the allure she had into her eyes and her voice. “You said I was a goddess. That was why it happened. And now? Am I so utterly repulsive to you?”
“Repulsive? God, Yael—” He took her in his arms, no help for it. The telephone rang. It was on a small table right beside them, and he picked it up. “Hello?”
“Yossi, it’s all right!” Shayna’s voice rang with jubilation. “Mama and Papa are happy, and Reb Shmuel says our children will be great men in Israel! Yossi? Hello? Yossi?”
Yael made an exaggerated face and stepped away from him. She heard the tones, though not the words. It was not hard to guess who was on the line. Kishote made a feeble gesture at her, a mere noncommittal wave.