Page 56 of The Glory


  “That’s not necessary, Yossi. Family only. Get yourself a chair.”

  “In a minute. Zev, what’s going to happen with this Agranat Commission? Whose heads will roll?”

  “That’s what they’re ordered to decide.”

  “How does Golda feel about this?”

  Barak shakes his head. “I don’t know. She’s inside a thick shell these days.”

  “Well, let me tell you, I see Dayan as the prime target. All the big political and military decisions — size of army, length of reserve service, weapons budget, projecting of strategy and tactics in case of war — all back up to him, don’t they? And it was Dayan who said there’d be no major war for ten years. He didn’t change his mind until the Egyptian and Syrian artillery opened up.”

  With a melancholy smile Barak inquires, “Working up Dado’s defense, Kishote?”

  Shayna appears and takes her place on the stool that Kishote vacates. Visitors form a line to step up and console Professor Berkowitz’s wife and his brother with the ancient formula, “May the Name comfort you, in the midst of the mourners for Zion and Jerusalem.” It is late in the day and all but a few leave, though a few remain to consume cakes, coffee, and wine set out on a table.

  “Where’s Reuven?” Kishote asks Shayna, when the line has gone by, and Zev Barak has left.

  “Taking a nap. Lena will be here any minute. It’ll be a long tiring trip for him.”

  “You look well, Shayna.”

  She does. Kishote has expected to find her woebegone, incoherent, perhaps unkempt, but her black dress is neat, her hair carefully parted and braided, and if anything, some lines in her very pale face have smoothed away and she seems younger. “You’re being kind, as usual,” she says.

  “Appalling that you have to give up Reuven.”

  “Oh, Yossi, she’s his mother. It’s only right.” She shrugs and spreads her hands. “I really have nobody now, I guess. An orphan, a widow. I have my work, and I had a few beautiful years.”

  He says with low intensity, “Shayna, you’ll have many beautiful years.”

  Her response is a grieving glance, and an affectionate flash of reddened glistening eyes. She jumps up. “There’s Lena now.”

  A stoutish woman in a tailored red suit and a gaily feathered red hat is coming toward her. “Pardon my travelling clothes, Shayna. Where’s Reuven?”

  “Ready to go, Lena,” Shayna says. “Come and get him.”

  “I’ll help,” says Kishote.

  Reuven is sitting up on the bed, reading a picture book. Dressed in a suit and tie, he looks older than his six years and not very comfortable, but he smiles and holds out his arms to Lena. “Imma, are we going to ride on the airplane now?”

  “Yes, darling. All the way to Australia. A nice long ride.”

  When she tries to pick him up, he protests. “I go myself.” Slipping off the bed, he tucks a crutch under one arm and limps to the door, glancing at her for approval. “Myself,” he repeats.

  “Very good, Reuven.”

  He also insists on going down the four flights of stairs himself, hanging onto a bannister and carrying the crutch. It is a slow business. He clearly takes pride in it, and the adults do not hurry him. Lena murmurs in English, “You and Michael have brought him up right.”

  “He’s brought himself up,” says Shayna. “We just had the joy of it. He’s advanced in every way, and he’s a good boy.”

  A taxi is waiting. Reuven allows Shayna to help him in, and kisses her. “Goodbye, Shayna,” he says cheerfully. “Come on an airplane and visit me in Australia.”

  “It’s a long way for Shayna,” says his mother. “Goodbye, Shayna. Goodbye, General Nitzan, and thank you.”

  The boy waves as the taxi pulls, away. Kishote puts his arm around Shayna. She leans against him, watching the car until it disappears around a corner. “A good boy,” she repeats in a steady voice. “Come up and eat something with me, Yossi. I’ve eaten nothing all day.”

  “This is a complete Israeli victory,” says General Gamasy, leafing the disengagement document with a sour look. The tent at Kilometer 101 now has transparent plastic curtains, also electric heaters to combat the January cold. But a few feet from the red-glowing coils the tent is chilly, and the atmosphere between the two warmly clad negotiating teams is as frosty as the desert air.

  “A victory? General, this is a unilateral pullback by Israel, our first since 1956.” Aharon Yariv’s riposte pleases Sam Pasternak, huddled in his Hermonit. He would have said as much himself.

  Gamasy angrily shakes his head. “Our President Sadat, I say frankly to you, has made a wretched bargain.”

  “And I say to you, General, that for us it’s bitter medicine prescribed by Dr. Kissinger, and forced down our throats by President Nixon. There are long lines at American filling stations, and Mr. Nixon wants to end the oil embargo and maybe hold off his impeachment. So your Third Army is marching home in honor with all its arms, instead of being starved out or destroyed as the situation in the field dictated.”

  “Not so, the Third Army was ready to fight its way out!” Gamasy strikes the table. “Only Dr. Kissinger stopped it with this one-sided deal.”

  Yariv throws up his hands. “Let’s say it’s a hard bargain on both sides. Are you ready to sign?”

  Journalists come into the tent for the grim short signing ceremony, enlivened mainly by the popping of flashbulbs.

  Afterward Sam Pasternak drives from Kilometer 101 to Kishote’s headquarters. “Get ready to take your boys home, Kishote,” he says, coming into the command caravan. “It’s done.”

  “So, we win a war with Egypt,” Kishote says, “and they stay put while we retreat from the Canal to the Gidi and the Mitla Passes, without another shot being fired. A funny victory.”

  “How will your boys take it?”

  “They’ll be glad it’s over, that’s all. After they get home, they may start wondering what the devil it was all about, and why their friends got killed.”

  “Is that how you feel about this deal?”

  Kishote takes a while to answer. “It can be one more Arab trick to make us drop our guard. If this man Sadat means peace it’s a miracle, but we have to try it.”

  Pasternak says, “Good, I agree. Look, if Ben Gurion had lived one more month, he’d have certainly called it a miracle. That’s how I felt, there in that tent. A face-to-face deal with Egypt! Messiah’s time.”

  “Halevai,” says Don Kishote.

  The long withdrawing columns of rumbling machines are halted at the Canal and backed up for miles, waiting for passage over the bridges. Kishote mounts an Egyptian rampart from which the Israeli flags are gone, to watch his troops crossing the Canal the other way. On the bridges the traffic is now all eastward. To the north and south he can see in the Egyptian lodgments the dust plumes of moving vehicles and the smoke of field-kitchen fires. Out of regard for tender Arab honor, the Israelis are backing out first. Only then will the Egyptians get out of Sinai. The bridges will be left behind like the evacuated Bar-Lev Line; or will Zahal engineers try to salvage them? Kishote doesn’t know. He does know that those pontoon bridges, and the solid earth bridge, and the roller bridge itself, are relics of the past. A phrase of his childhood leaps to mind: Opge-shluggeneh hoyshainess! (Beaten-out willows!). He speaks the Yiddish words aloud to nobody, “Opge-shluggeneh hoyshainess!”

  Once a year, on the day called the Great Hosannah, worshippers beat willow stalks on the synagogue floor to knock off the leaves. The meaning of this ancient custom is obscure, something to do with bringing rain. On Great Hosannah day before morning prayers the willow stalks, hoyshainess, are at a premium in Jewish neighborhoods, eagerly sought after, never enough to go around. Afterward they lie scattered around the synagogue, broken and half-denuded, for the shammas to sweep up and burn. Beaten-out willows …

  Beaten-out willows, these bridges.

  He crosses the roller bridge in his command car. Most of his division is already over in Sinai by
now, wending eastward on roads chewed to bits by tank treads and already drifted over by the blowing sand, mere vague tracks on the desert floor. Kishote stops at the Sinai end, walks out on the greasy steel-netting surface against the booming clanking traffic, and in mid-Canal murmurs a prayer for the boys in his division who fell.

  The weeks that follow are hectic for Don Kishote. Demobilizing ten thousand men, coating and storing hundreds of tanks, inventorying and warehousing mountains of weaponry, make for incessant work. The time races by for him, while Dr. Kissinger is doing his picturesque shuttling around the Arab capitals, trying for an armistice on the still-smoldering Syrian front. From Don Kishote’s viewpoint the world news continues bad for Israel. Mr. Nixon has his big success, the oil embargo is lifted in March, so the gasoline lines in America evaporate. But the drive to impeach him does not, and the price of oil stays at the new sky-high level, since the European governments, not daring to unite against the cartel of Arab oil producers, are making shifty individual deals with them. That is the one clear outcome of the war. The Arabs have learned that they have Europe over an oil barrel.

  Dado talks often to Kishote before and after he testifies to the Agranat panel. He returns from these sessions confident that he has done well, and Kishote is dumbstruck when early in April the newspapers explode with gigantic headlines. The Agranat Commission in a “partial finding” has not only cleared but praised Moshe Dayan, and has recommended that General David Elazar be relieved. Golda Meir has already requested and received Dado’s resignation.

  The next morning a public commotion starts to boil up, and in the army there are angry mutterings of resignations. Don Kishote goes very early, uninvited, to see Dado. An unprecedented hush lies over the entire Kirya. The female soldiers in the outer offices are as silent as at a funeral. When the Ramatkhal arrives and sees Don Kishote, he holds up a hand, says, “Another time, Yossi,” and goes inside. In all the years he has known David Elazar, Don Kishote has never seen him like this, bowed, stunned, unmanned.

  A beaten-out willow.

  PART THREE

  The Peace

  THE LORD WILL GIVE HIS PEOPLE VALOR,

  THE LORD WILL BLESS HIS PEOPLE WITH PEACE.

  Psalm 29:11

  34

  Amos and Madame Fleg

  Madame Irene Fleg could dawdle for hours in bathing and dressing, or, like an actress making a quick change backstage, she could get herself dried, combed, made up, costumed and out the door in minutes, as she did now in her Tel Aviv Hilton suite. She rode down by herself in the large ornate elevator, for all the journalists had long since flown, and tourism was still at a jittery ebb. Into the almost-deserted lobby she strode, hoping the pink wool dress snatched at random from the closet was on straight. There stood a robust fellow in a green uniform, grinning.

  “Oo-ah, quick work!” he said. “Sorry I got you out of a bath. You’re sure you’re dry?”

  “Am I dripping?” The hand that shook hers in a firm grip felt callused and scarred. She peered at his face. “So you’re Pasternak fils! I hardly remembered what you looked like, to tell the truth. I thought you were taller.”

  “Disappointed?”

  “How on earth did you find out I was here?”

  “Julie Levinson told me.”

  “You know Julie?”

  “I know her bridegroom, very well.”

  “I see. Well, let’s sit down.” On the long curving lobby couch, which in good times was crowded, they were the sole occupants. “My husband’s in an Alliance Israelite Universelle meeting here. He’ll be out soon. My children should be showing up, too. They’re going on a day trip with a group.”

  “All three of them?”

  She laughed. “The two oldest.”

  “Madame Fleg, will you be in Israel for a while? I have to return to my battalion right after the wedding.”

  “I’m afraid we leave Sunday.”

  “Oh. Too bad. You came for the wedding?”

  “Not exactly. Julie’s parents scheduled it for this week, so that their Alliance friends could attend. Monsieur Levinson is on the board.”

  They sat smiling at each other. “I can’t stay now for long,” he said. “Some angry army officers, including me, are meeting at headquarters to discuss what to do about the Agranat Report.”

  “What’s it all about, Amos? The whole country seems to be up in arms, mostly against Moshe Dayan, and now Golda is resigning! Why? And Armand’s board is meeting with her today. That’ll be embarrassing, won’t it?”

  The smile faded from Amos Pasternak’s round full face. He looked grimly businesslike, as he had in the Beirut limousine and on the boat. “The country’s in a very bad mood, Irene, if I may call you that.”

  “That’s my name, Amos.”

  “Okay. We’re still mourning the dead. Israel’s a small place, everyone knows a family that had someone killed or wounded, and —”

  With a pleasant cheery noise, children came trooping through the lobby, rattling in French. “There are my kids,” she interrupted him. “They’re going to Masada.” She waved and beckoned. “Anatole! Rachel! Venez-ici! Voici un wed héros de la guerre, mes enfants, Lieutenant Colonel Pasternak.”

  They were tidy, well-groomed youngsters, dressed for hiking. The boy solemnly saluted. “Un vrai héros! Formidable.” Amos returned the gesture just as solemnly, and they scampered away to rejoin their group.

  “You know, seeing you again is disorienting,” Irene Fleg said. “That Beirut business seems like a dream, almost. I’ve done scuba-diving and rock-climbing, but that was different. Maybe it was the only worthwhile thing I’ve ever done. To you, I suppose, it was routine.”

  “On the contrary, just as scary for us as for someone like you. Maybe more so. Such operations are intensely rehearsed, and we’re extremely aware of all the things that can go wrong. Whoever recruited you probably glossed over those.”

  “No, I was fairly warned. Why I made such a scatterbrained commitment I’m still not sure. How is your father? We saw in Time magazine his picture at Kilometer 101.”

  “He’s back in business, all the excitement over.”

  “I saw him in Paris during the war.”

  “Oh? He didn’t mention that.”

  “Well, it was just for a minute. He did say you got my little thank-you note, after a delay.”

  “Yes, just when the war was breaking out. I still have it.”

  Brief silence. “So! Will you be coming to the wedding alone?”

  “I’m not bringing a girlfriend, if that’s what you mean.”

  “No, of course that’s not what I mean. I mean we have a car and driver, and you can ride with us to Jerusalem, if you like. There’s room.”

  “Great, I accept.”

  “But don’t tell me you have no girlfriends.”

  “Did I say that?”

  A dozen men were coming from the elevator, speaking French with Gallic gestures. “Bien, there’s Armand.” Her husband saw her and approached, a thin man with curly gray-blond hair, in a perfectly cut pin-striped suit. “My dear, this is Sam Pasternak’s son.”

  “Ah yes, Amos.” Brief handshake with a slim small manicured hand. “I sit on the board of Kivshan, Colonel, so I know your father. One hears you’re to receive a medal for heroism.”

  “Unthinkable, sir. I did nothing to warrant it.”

  “I’ve invited Amos to ride with us to the wedding,” said Madame Fleg. “He’s a friend of Julie’s groom.”

  “Merveilleux!” Fleg nodded at Amos. “We leave from here at noon. Perhaps on the way you can explain about Golda’s fall. It’s all very perplexing, you know, very damaging to Israel’s image.”

  “I can try.” Across the lobby he could see Eva Sonshine returning to her desk, a sheaf of air tickets in hand. “I’ll be back well before noon, sir, and very glad to ride with you.”

  Behind the receptionist’s desk, the arcade shops that Amos could see were all shut and dark, except for the El Al office. “E
va, ma nishma? My father said you were quitting your job.”

  “I’m finishing out the month. You finally found your French friends, I see. She’s pretty.”

  “Yes, for a lady with three kids, not bad.”

  “Lucky lady.”

  He caught the wistful note. His father had told him that Eva wanted children. Amos was still unused to the notion that Eva Sonshine, the longtime girlfriend of Benny Luria, might become his stepmother. Eva’s good name was reasonably intact, for in the tight terrain of Israel, by general courtesy, such discreet liaisons were known but overlooked. If his father wanted a marriage instead of his customary casual romances — or in addition to them — that was his business. He said, “You’re coming to the wedding?”

  “Sam won’t hear of skipping it, so I’ll go.” It was Eva’s way of saying that she could do without encountering the Lurias, who were bound to be there.

  The only silver Lincoln in Israel pulled up to the Barkowe home on Mount Carmel. “There he is,” Dzecki said to Daphna at the window, “right on the dot. Say what you will about Guli, he’s punctual. Let’s go, Mom, Dad.”

  Guli was no relative to bride or groom, and Noah, who knew what went on in Haifa, utterly despised him, yet he was coming to Noah’s wedding. Guli had worked this through Dzecki. He was fond of these American associates of his, though he was well along in a complicated scheme to plunder them. Guli had a special regard for the bright young Dzecki, was honestly saddened by his mutilation, and had often visited him in the hospital and at home. So it was that he had heard about Noah’s nuptials, and about the Alliance executives who would be there. This intelligence alerted Guli as the scent of a banana, or more accurately of a female, would a true gorilla. Guli was on a perpetual hunt for real estate investors, on the prudent rule that only an amateur or a fool, and he was neither, would invest his own money in such a chancy business.