Dzecki was having a hard time in the army. The other recruits, mostly good-natured but coarse and ignorant, by and large seemed to think he was unbalanced. Why leave America to come here, when the dream of most of them was to go to America? And if his reason was Zionism, then he was exceptionally crazy. Zionism was for politicians’ speeches, and for the sons and daughters of big shots who got into the elite services. At first he had been known as Porsh, till he sequestered the car in a Haifa garage. Only gradually had he become Dzecki to some, and Barkowe to others. The noncoms tended to go “BARKOWE!” at him like enraged watchdogs, not caring whether he was American or sabra, rich or poor, crazy or sane. He was in their power.
Arriving at his quarters in a flying suit, Benny Luria heard the birthday girl carolling in the shower, and found his wife in the kitchen, not at all in a party mood. “That fool daughter of ours,” Irit snarled at him, squeezing a large crude blue 20 in icing on the white cake, “brought that fool American cousin of Noah’s, with his fool Porsche.”
“So I noticed. That’s a nice new outfit, Irit. From Yael’s shop?”
“You like it? Yes, I went to get a present for Daphna, and my dear sister-in-law let me have this for almost nothing. By the way, I saw the new baby, in a basket in her office.”
“What did they end up calling her?”
“Eva,” she snapped, with an acid side-glance.
Benny was silenced. Eva Sonshine supposedly did not exist, or at least the wife feigned to know nothing of the woman, though she had once been a runner-up for Miss Israel. Still, when occasion offered, Irit was not above such needling. After a long moment she went on, “So? You’re wearing a flying suit to the party, are you?”
“I have a mission this afternoon.” Irit threw down the icing scoop with a scowl. “Just more high-altitude photography, hamoodah.”
“Benny, this base command was supposed to be a rest.”
Irit Luria had sweated out years of operations, hundreds of missions, several wars, and her nerves were still pretty strong, her husband knew. Something else must be eating at her, nor was it Eva. That was an old mess. In the synagogue at Danny’s bar mitzvah he had half resolved to put an end to it. With one son qualifying in Skyhawks, and another burning to follow him, Benny Luria knew it behooved him to get on better terms with the old Jewish God. But such things took time.
“What’s the matter? Noah’s coming, isn’t he?”
“Of course he is, but it’s all ruined, ruined. I’ve been on the phone with him about the party, and I smelled an engagement announcement today. Not anymore. What an idiot! Will she ever do better than Noah Barak? Is she going to marry the Porsche?” That made Benny laugh, which only irked her.
“Irit, she’s still a young girl —”
“Is she? In her own apartment with that fat nobody, that scribbler Donna, doing what with herself? Maybe ballet, maybe painting, maybe sculpture, and maybe I don’t know what else! Where does she get all that? What was our mistake with her? That’s probably Noah now.” A motor was coughing and dying outside. Irit stalked off to the bedroom. “You talk to him.”
In a blazer and turtleneck sweater Lieutenant Commander Barak was natty as ever, but down in the mouth. Obviously he had seen the Porsche. “So, it’s France next,” Benny greeted him cheerily. “Can you tell me about it?”
“Well, sir, it has to do with testing and maintenance of some new patrol boats in trial runs, that’s all.”
“I see.” That was not all, if Benny Luria had any skill at reading young officers’ faces and words. “Good luck.”
Noah took an orange from a fruit bowl, peeled it neatly, and gestured at Ha’aretz lying on the table. “Did you read that editorial?”
“Which one?”
“The one about the ‘flying artillery’ policy?”
“No. Is it for or against?”
“Oh, against. What do you think of the policy, sir?”
“Think of it? I’m executing it.”
“That’s orders. The air force mission is Clear skies over Israel, right?
“Just so.”
“Sir, is a dual mission good doctrine?”
Luria did not answer straight off. A sophisticated question, that one, much bandied about at air force headquarters. “En brera,” he said.
“Why? Is the Bar-Lev Line really critical?” returned Noah, pulling the orange apart. “What about closing those miserable outposts and withdrawing our forces beyond artillery range?”
“Yes, so the Egyptians immediately cross the Canal with their artillery, occupy the ground we’ve yielded up, and dig in that much closer to the Sinai passes and to Tel Aviv. Then what?”
“Well, as soon as they start to cross, we’ve got them where we want them, haven’t we?” Noah probed with this standard argument of the military journalists. “Our armor counterattacks and smashes them, and that restores the cease-fire —”
Clad in the white dress, all dimpling smiles, Daphna came swaying in. “Hello, motek,” she purred, giving Noah a kiss and a hug.
“Happy birthday,” he said, and her father left them together, noting that Noah’s dark look did not lighten.
The party was a small one: Daphna’s parents, her brother Danny, now a gangling redhead in tennis togs just past his bar mitzvah, and a few childhood friends from air force families, plus the glowering Noah and his bugbear Dzecki. As they sat around eating birthday cake and ice cream with tea or soda, the American with the Porsche was the center of attention, or at least curiosity. “But if your family isn’t religious or Zionist, Dzecki, what made you come here?” Benny Luria inquired.
“Yes, good question. You didn’t know me then,” grinned Daphna. “Didn’t you tell me it was because of the Six-Day War?” She enjoyed her American slave without too much curiosity about him. That the world owed her such an attendant, Porsche and all, was in the nature of things.
“Not entirely. I made some Israeli friends in high school, kids of your UN delegation people.” Dzecki turned to Noah. “They knew I was related to your father, they were very impressed, and that made me feel good. What’s more — and I’ve never told you this before, Noah — your father had a lot to do with my coming here.”
“My father? How? Until you came here he’d never mentioned you.”
“Well, he might not even remember. Our temple kids once toured Washington. He was there on some mission. Two of the guys were Israeli friends of mine whose fathers knew him, and at the embassy they talked to him in Hebrew. He’s kind of scary, your father, you know. Awesome, almost. I felt small and out of place. I didn’t tell him we were related, I just kept my mouth shut. After that was when I started Hebrew lessons.”
Danny was idly bouncing a tennis racket on his palm. “Why didn’t you apply for the air force, Dzecki, once you got here? It’s the only service.”
“Eyes,” said Dzecki. “Okay, but not good enough for a pilot.”
“Well, you might have been a navigator.”
“Not what I wanted. I swam for my college, so at first I wanted sea commandos, in the worst way. After I flunked the commando swimming test I figured okay, that’s it, rosh katan, and I went for ordnance. I like machinery.”
“Why not the paratroopers?” inquired Daphna.
“Infantry with red boots.”
Noah growled, “Don’t say that to a paratrooper.”
“I won’t, but there’s nothing like the sea commandos. Colonel, what did you think of Green Island?”
“Bravest feat in our history,” replied Luria.
A stumpy girl who was a squadron leader’s daughter said, “My cousin in Holon had a boyfriend killed on Green Island.”
Death was not a stranger at Tel Nof, but each mention was sobering. Dzecki said after a moment, “Sea commando, or frogman?”
“Neither. Special services.”
“Brave, sure,” Noah said to Colonel Luria. “Was it worth it?”
Benny was slow to answer. “Absolutely. The Egyptians learned that whe
n it comes to commando raids, they’re still outclassed. And knocking out that radar ripped a nice hole in their aircraft warning system —”
“Happy birthday, Daphna! Am I too late for cake and ice cream?” With a door-slam the aviator of the photograph strode into the living room, in a parka and slacks.
“Dov! Dov! You came!” His mother jumped up to embrace him, and a tumult of hugging, kissing, and handshaking ensued.
The father exclaimed, “So Dov, you’ve already qualified in the Skyhawk?”
“I soloed yesterday, Abba.”
Amid more tumult of congratulation, his shiny-eyed brother eagerly asked, “How did it go, Dov, how did it go?”
“Well, I bounced so hard when I landed, the squadron leader told me to get my ass home for a day to calm down.” Great laughter all around. “Say, is there a movie star visiting the base? I saw this Porsche outside.”
Daphna said, “This is Dzecki Barkowe, Dov. It’s his Porsche.”
“Oh, you’re her American guy. Hello.” Dov coolly looked Dzecki in the eye and offered a callused hand. His smooth face was singularly pale, with hard lines around the mouth, and his smile was remote. He greatly resembled his father, and he made Dzecki feel very immature and very American. When Dov turned to Noah Barak his expression warmed. “What’s this, Admiral? I hear you’re off to romance all the oo-la-la girls in France. Such luck.”
“L’Azazel, Dov,” said Noah, glancing at his watch, and breaking out of his glum mood in a charming grin, “I should have left fifteen minutes ago, but I’m glad I didn’t. At least I’ve had a glimpse of you. Kol ha’kavod on your solo. When I get back, we’ll meet and talk about things.”
“Definitely. You come to Hatzerim. We’ll give you a decent air force lunch.”
Noah laughed, and made brief goodbyes. Daphna walked out with him. A Mirage was howling off a nearby runway. “So, you’re really going this time?” she screamed.
“Yes, you’ll be rid of me at last,” he yelled, as they passed the Porsche. “And vice versa.”
“Don’t be a pig, now. You know I hate the idea. I’ll miss you. Write, you hear me? Write! How long will you be gone? Tell the truth.” A whole unit of Mirages was taking off one by one, in an earsplitting racket. An aviator and a girl sergeant strolled past them deep in talk, from the way their lips and arms were moving.
“I love you,” bellowed Noah in her ear, “but what’s the point? We’re not going anywhere. What does it matter how long I’ll be gone? Feel free to do what you please, and finish.”
“How dare you?” She whirled him around by an elbow, took him by the shoulders, and shook him. “How dare you, Noah Barak? Haven’t I” — a shout in his face — “proved I love you? What more can I do? What more do you want?”
“You know! I want to get engaged.”
“And I don’t. Not yet. God knows what you’re going to France for, or when you’ll return. You won’t tell me, and I’m not asking, but that doesn’t mean —”
Noah roared, “I can’t hear a word you’re saying. Daphna. To all the devils, once for all why don’t we get engaged? Let’s go back right now and tell your parents.”
“What?”
“LET’S TELL YOUR PARENTS.”
“Tell them WHAT? About us? Have you lost your mind? My father will KILL me. And you.”
“Your father will? I’ve heard things about your father, but never mind. Let’s announce our ENGAGEMENT, I say. I bought this in Haifa.” He took out a little purple box, and showed her a ring with a small sapphire.
Daphna opened huge eyes, glanced here and there, then passionately embraced and kissed him. “THERE. Enough. This is no way to do it. Keep that ring for now. We’ll talk when you get back, and maybe then — but meantime, you stay away from those French girls! Those mademoiselles from Armentières! You’re all mine, hear?”
Aroused and shaken by the kiss, he pulled her close. “You’re impossible.” He kissed her long and hard, then leaped into the jeep. “Sure, I’ll write. But about the French girls — tough!” With that, he screeched into gear and drove off.
9
The Wild West Show
And he did find a French girl, if not exactly a mademoiselle from Armentières.
She was Mademoiselle Julie Levinson, the dark-haired daughter of Samuel Levinson, the president of the Jewish community and Cherbourg’s most prosperous wholesale dealer in fresh fish. Julie was decidedly no oo-la-la girl, and no Daphna Luria, either. Businesslike and plump, she was dressed in a heavy old sweater and rubber boots when Noah first saw her, for she worked in her father’s waterfront fish market. But that evening, when he came to the Levinsons’ surprisingly large and elegant house for dinner, she had been at pains to beautify herself for the Israeli officer, and looked slimmer and prettier.
After dinner they walked out together. Nothing could come of the romancing that ensued, since he was in Cherbourg for only a few days and Julie was a nice Jewish girl, if not averse to limited carrying-on in the dark. But Daphna had wounded Noah with the damnable blue Porsche apparition at her birthday party, and her refusal to take his ring, so the quick-won affection of this warmblooded French Jewish girl was very welcome. The eighty Israelis who had stolen into Cherbourg in small groups were under orders to lie low, but Noah managed to see a lot of Julie in that brief time he had.
On the morning of Christmas Eve they were walking along the windy quay, where gulls banked and screamed, and the oily harbor water slapped hard against the pilings. The weather forecast concerned Noah; it was bad and getting worse, especially down in the Bay of Biscay. “Julie, I won’t be coming to dinner tonight.” Noah’s grade-school French was adequate for this friendship, and was even somewhat improving. “I’m sorry.”
She swung his hand. “Oh, listen, Noah, I’ll never see you again. This is the end. I realize that.”
“What? Why?”
“My dear, Papa knows. People here know. Your supply officer has been buying up all the food in town, bit by bit. Forty more of you have arrived in the last three days, in civilian clothes, but of course they’re sailors. The oil company knows, for sure, from the way you’ve been taking on fuel. Why, I’ll bet the harbormaster knows. The only question is when.” She looked at him with tearful eyes, and her hair blew around her sad face. “You’re charming and I’ll miss you terribly, but c’est la vie.” In reply Noah just tightened his hand.
For a fact, the Israelis were counting heavily on the discretion and good will of Cherbourg’s people. The town had decayed with the passing of the great ocean liners, and its brief glory as the pivot of D-Day was dusty history. The missile boat construction program had brought the somnolent port to life, creating hundreds of jobs for years. No less than the small Jewish community, the other townspeople thought the protracted embargo on the boats was an outrage. French honor was sullied, they maintained, by Pompidou’s continued craven crawling to the Arabs after De Gaulle’s resignation. Certainly in Cherbourg’s officialdom, from the mayor and police chief down to the lookouts on the breakwater, Israel had only friends.
The fish market was crowded and clamorous with holiday buying and selling, when Julie’s father came out in his proprietor’s coat, tie, and wing collar to shake Noah’s hand, his gray mustache aquiver with emotion. “Well, Noah, we’re bound to come to Israel, my wife and I with Julie one of these days, now that we’ve got to know you. But just on a visit, my son, my business is here, and I’m too old to learn the new Hebrew. I can read the Bible, so can Julie, but I don’t understand a word you boys say. God bless you. Good luck.” He looked deep into the naval officer’s eyes, leaving the rest unspoken, and walked off with bowed head.
Noah said, “Well, so there, you’re coming to Israel. That’s good news.”
With a shrug more Gallic than Jewish, Julie said, “Oh, you’ll be married to that Daphna by then.”
When Noah returned to his Saar boat, the hard-bitten submariner commanding the Cherbourg operation, Hadar Kimche, was in the wardroom st
udying a weather chart. “Ah, there you are, Barak! What about the certificat de visite?” He was a dark lean officer who had already led an escape of two Saar boats months ago, and he was not popular with the French authorities.
“The customs agent will come aboard at two, sir, with the document. It’s just a French formality.”
“Yes, the final one, and it can stop us from going,” snapped Kimche, “if the weather doesn’t. Look here. Force nine gale expected in the Bay of Biscay! An American aircraft carrier wouldn’t sortie in such weather.”
But at half-past two in the morning, the five boats did sortie, navigation lights brightly burning. The good people of Cherbourg, all involved with Christmas festivity, failed to note the furious clangorous last-minute activity at the Israelis’ dock, or their departure with loudly snorting diesels. At least, that would be their story later on. According to the legal papers, which Captain Kimche had in hand in case of challenge, down to the certificat de visite, the boats were bound for an oil-drilling company in Norway, which had bought them to run supplies to offshore oil rigs. Israel had waived title, the papers showed, for a refund of the money paid down. All true, if not the whole truth. But no French vessels were out in that wild dark night to challenge the flotilla’s departure; and the lookout on the breakwater, who had been given several bottles of champagne to cheer his lonely Christmas vigil, somehow failed to see them go.