The Class

  “The Barak Armored Brigade is almost completely demolished. We’re outnumbered and outmatched. They’ve got the latest Russian T-62s. But we’ve still got to hold them till our own armor gets here. Try and organize your men and drill them with the antitank rocket launchers. And don’t waste ammunition!”

  “How long till we get reinforcements?” Jason asked.

  “God knows,” Eytan replied. “But all we have now is what you see here.”

  “So, we’ll do it,” said Yoni Netanyahu with almost mystical conviction. “Well be like Gideon’s army.”

  “I think even Gideon had more men than we do,” Jason quipped with what could only be called gallows humor.

  As the meeting dispersed, the two young officers walked off together toward the small group of reservists waiting nervously for their orders.

  “I know you’re a pretty good man with motors, Jason,” Yoni remarked. “Do you think you could oversee the repair of some of our less-battered tanks?”

  “I guess so. But what the hell good is it? Even if I get them to work, we’ll still be outnumbered fifty to one.”

  “Well,” Yoni said confidently, “that reduces our tactical options to only one. If they’ve got the armor, all we have is the timing. Have your tanks ready to attack by 0600 hours tomorrow.”

  “Attack?” Jason retorted incredulously. “You must really believe in God, Yoni.”

  “Ask me when all this is over. Meanwhile, I’ll be praying that you get those tanks operational.”

  “You know, Yoni, where I come from we’d say that you play guts ball. It means—”

  “I know what it means,” the young commander replied. “I’m going to college in America when this damn thing is over. Your alma mater, in fact.”

  “No shit,” replied Jason. “Do you mean I’m up here in the valley of the shadow of death with another Harvard man?”

  “Future Harvard man,” Yoni replied. “Now shake ass and get me some tanks.”

  It was early evening in Washington when the first news of the Arab assault reached the White House.

  Nixon asked Kissinger to brief him on the situation. He in turn called George and ordered him to gather as much intelligence as he could from the Pentagon and the Israeli ambassador.

  “Awright, guys, give me the numbers,” the President demanded before the two men even sat down.

  Kissinger pointed to George, who had a sheaf of documents. “The scope of it all is pretty staggering, Mr. President,” he began.

  “Cut out the Harvard commentary, George,” Nixon snapped, “and just give me the damn numbers.”

  “Well,” he continued, “the Egyptian Army is one of the largest in the world. They’ve got at least eight hundred thousand troops. We’re not sure how many have already crossed the Canal.”

  “What do the Israelis have to hold them off?”

  “I think we can safely assume the Egyptians have already destroyed any resistance,” Kissinger said solemnly.

  “And in the north?” the President asked.

  “Well, the Syrians have some fourteen hundred tanks—” George began.

  “I’ve heard enough,” Nixon interrupted with a wave of his hand. “We’re talking about a massacre, aren’t we? I mean, this is the Alamo, right?”

  Kissinger answered analytically, “George hasn’t gotten to the most important aspect. The Russians have armed Egypt and Syria to the teeth. Besides the old SAM missile systems, they’ve got hundreds of new portable SAM-7s.”

  “They’re antiaircraft launchers that can be used by ground forces,” George offered.

  “I won’t sit and watch the Soviets turn the Middle East into their own country club!” Nixon pounded his fist on the desk. “We’ve got to upgrade the Israeli armory. I want you guys to tell Defense to get the supply line going.”

  “Mr. President,” Kissinger cautioned, “a massive rearming of Israel is not going to please certain members of Congress.”

  “Neither would the sight of Brezhnev drinking vodka in Tel Aviv. Now start the ball rolling and we can debate later.” As they left the Oval Office, George could not help whispering to Kissinger, “I didn’t think Nixon liked Jews that much.”

  “He doesn’t. But he hates the Russians more.”

  “Well, Henry, I’d better get on the phone. I’ve got a lot of generals to convince this morning.”

  “Let me deal with the Secretary of Defense, George. Schlesinger needs special handling.”

  “Okay. But if things get rough you can always sing a few Harvard songs in his ear.”

  Henry smiled and patted his protégé on the back. “Let’s meet in the Situation Room at five o’clock. By then we’ll have a better picture of where Israel stands.”

  “You mean if it’s still standing,” George replied.

  After haranguing the mechanics mercilessly, Jason had provided Yoni with a dozen tanks that could at least move. The young paratroop officer had immediately set off to counterattack the Syrian tanks.

  Meanwhile, Jason led a small group of young and panicky soldiers in trying to recapture the Nafa camp. As they were nearing their objective, three huge Russian-made Ilyushin helicopters packed with enemy troops appeared on the horizon.

  “Listen, guys,” Jason shouted urgently, “the key element is surprise. Catch them before they get their bearings. As soon as they touch down, start firing and scare the shit out of them.”

  His men nodded wordlessly.

  The minute the first chopper hit the ground, Jason called out, “Follow me!” and led the charge, firing as he ran.

  The first Syrians to land returned their fire, killing several Israelis. But Jason continued to rush forward. Still in motion, he pulled a grenade from his belt and hurled it toward the disembarking commandos. It exploded near the helicopter and created a panic. The enemy began to scatter in every direction.

  Yet these were elite Syrian troops, and some stood their ground, poised for hand-to-hand combat.

  Though Jason had long trained for this kind of fighting, this was the first time he had done it with his life at stake. The first time he could see the faces of the men who would be his victims—or his killers.

  At last the Israelis prevailed. The other two helicopters were frightened off. The ground was strewn with the dead and dying of both sides.

  Seeing his shirt drenched in scarlet, Jason thought he had been wounded. He then realized it was the blood of the men he had fought—and dispatched.

  One of his soldiers came up and said, “We nailed thirty of them, saba. I don’t think they’ll try to take Nafa again.”

  “How many did we lose?”

  “Four,” the soldier replied. “And two or three are pretty badly cut up. I’ve radioed for the medics.”

  Jason nodded numbly and looked off into the horizon.

  Slowly the tide of battle turned.

  At long last, their ranks were swelled with mobilized troops and they began to advance into Syria, ultimately regrouping within artillery range of Damascus.

  By Saturday, October 13—one week after Yom Kippur—the Syrian front was quiet enough to allow some of the Israeli troops to be transferred to the Sinai, where the battle was still fierce.

  Jason boarded a helicopter, saw Yoni, and sat down next to him.

  “Hey,” he joked wearily, “I’ll bet you a beer I’ve slept less than you in the past week.”

  “I haven’t slept at all,” replied the younger officer.

  “Sorry I asked,” Jason said. “I got a magnificent two hours last night. I owe you a brew.”

  “I won’t forget it,” Yoni smiled.

  And they flew off to join the fighting in the Sinai.

  They had courage to spare. The only thing they were running out of was ammunition.

  Richard Nixon had ordered George Keller to appear immediately in his office. “Goddammit,” he fumed, “the Russians are pouring arms into Egypt and Syria. What’s happened to our airlift?”

  “Apparently the Pentagon
is arguing about whether we should use private or government planes. Some protocol thing, sir.”

  The President rose and leaned on his desk angrily. “Listen, Keller, you get right on the phone and tell them to use every damn plane we have. I want that equipment in the air. And I want it now!”

  On the eleven-o’clock news that evening, State Department spokesman Dr. George Keller appeared at a brief press conference announcing that the first transport planes with weapons for the Israelis were now en route to Tel Aviv.

  Fifteen days after the war had begun, Henry Kissinger and George Keller boarded a plane to Moscow to work out a cease-fire between Israel and Egypt, which went into effect on the following day. President Sadat of Egypt showed his gratitude for these efforts by establishing a new and direct relationship with Washington.

  Historians will long argue over which side won the Yom Kippur War. But without question, the victor in the battle for world prestige was Henry Kissinger.

  George Keller’s conscience ached. What was originally a small subterfuge had been magnified in his mind into an act of high treason. He was too frightened to discuss it with anyone—including Cathy.

  Though he scoured every science magazine for mentions of the RX-80, nothing he read gave the slightest suggestion that it could be of strategic advantage.

  Nevertheless, George lived in constant fear that his actions would be discovered. And he knew it would do him no good to plead humanitarianism. When you are a government official, you must let your father die if he’s on the other side.

  He had received no word of Istvan Kolozsdi’s fate. He had been afraid to contact Yakushkin at the Russian Embassy, lest observers begin to think they were getting a little too chummy.

  George tried to assuage his guilt pangs by convincing himself that he had done nothing legally wrong. And that with the amount of paperwork flowing between State, the Pentagon, Commerce, and the Oval Office, the chances of detection were nil. Only then was he able to get a night’s sleep.

  But world events constantly rekindled the spark of fear in him. No less a figure than Willy Brandt, Chancellor of West Germany, had to resign in May 1974, when his close aide was exposed as a Communist spy.

  George sometimes imagined he was being followed—and he had long suspected that his home phone was tapped. Even while accompanying Kissinger on his Middle East shuttle jaunts he did not feel secure. He could not trust the phones at the King David Hotel in Jerusalem or at the Nile Hilton in Cairo.

  Late one afternoon, after a long and fruitless day of negotiation with the Syrian authorities, the Secretary of State was flying back to Israel.

  Kissinger signalled to George to come and sit by him. “Listen, my boy,” he said confidentially, “I’m under a lot of pressure from back home. Certain factions in Washington think I’m spending too much time out here and neglecting other business. They don’t seem to understand that I can’t be in twenty places at once. So I’m going to have to put more responsibility on those young shoulders of yours.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “As you know, the President plans to tour the Middle East and then go on to Russia. I could do with a trustworthy advance man to lay the groundwork in Moscow. And, George, there’s no one I trust more than you.”

  “You flatter me, Henry.”

  “I have to,” the Secretary joked, “otherwise you wouldn’t work for me. The pay’s too low. Anyway, I want you to fly to Paris tomorrow morning. Brent Scowcroft and Al Haig will meet you there in three days and you can go on together to Moscow.”

  “Fine,” George replied, genuinely pleased to have such prestigious responsibility. “But, Henry, what am I supposed to do while I’m waiting for them?”

  Kissinger’s reply shook George as if turbulence had struck the plane.

  “Go to Budapest.”

  He did not know how to react.

  “Listen,” the Secretary of State continued in a soft voice, “your father hasn’t got very long to live. I think you should make peace with him.”

  “How did you know?” he asked (And how much? he wondered).

  “It’s my job to know. You can pull the same trick I used when I first went to Peking. Check into the Crillon, fake a cold, then quietly slip out to the airport. It’s only a two-hour flight. You can go and come back and no one will be the wiser.”

  George was still searching for words. All he could manage was to stammer, “I—don’t know what to say.”

  “Don’t say anything,” Kissinger replied, patting him on the arm. “It’s the least I owe you for the years you’ve helped me.”

  As the air-force plane began its final approach to Ben Gurion Airport, George thought, How can I tell him I don’t want to go? How can I tell him that I have nothing to say to my father before he dies?

  I can’t. Because it’s not true. I do want to see him one last time. I have to.

  Customs in Budapest was perfunctory. Except that the officer questioning George took a long look at his red diplomatic passport before saying, “Welcome home, Dr. Keller.”

  It was a strange feeling being back in his native city. Though it was brighter—and the stores fuller—than during those dark days when he had fled, it seemed relatively unchanged. Rakoczi Street was like it always was. Here and there an ultramodern structure stood comfortably beside the old.

  The terrace of the Hilton—a Hilton Hotel in Budapest!—looked out toward the ancient spires of St. Stephen’s Church. The huge Duma Intercontinental, where George was staying, was a concrete imitation of any new American hotel.

  He checked in quickly, washed, and changed his shirt. And braced himself for the meeting that had brought him here.

  Before George left Jerusalem, Kissinger had given him complete details on where his father was receiving treatment—even the phone number.

  Now, he asked himself, should I call the hospital and say I’m here? Or should I just show up? My God, the shock of it might kill him then and there. No, it would make better sense to phone one of the doctors, announce his presence, and solicit advice.

  In a matter of minutes he was speaking to Dr. Tamas Rozsa, chief of medical services at the People’s Municipal Hospital.

  After the physician had repeated for the third time what an honor it would be to receive a visit from him, George finally exacted precise details of Istvan Kolozsdi’s condition.

  “Ah, what is there to say,” Rozsa answered philosophically. “There’s so little one can do in cases such as his—”

  “Did you give him medication?” George interrupted forcefully.

  “Yes. Yes, of course. The very newest—right out of Switzerland.”

  “Is he in pain?” George asked.

  “He is and he isn’t.”

  “Can you explain that?”

  “It’s quite simple, Dr. Keller. If we drug him so strongly that he feels nothing at all, then he is comatose and cannot communicate. Of course, at night we help him to sleep comfortably.”

  “So, in other words, in order to speak he’ll have to forgo some of the painkillers?”

  “I’m sure your father will want it that way,” said Dr. Rozsa. “When he awakes I’ll inform him that you’re here, and ring you back. That should be about five this afternoon.”

  “Is anybody with him now?” George asked.

  “Of course. Mrs. Donath practically sleeps in the hospital.”

  “Who’s she?”

  “Comrade Kolozsdi’s daughter. Your sister, Dr. Keller.”

  “Oh,” said George, as he slowly let down the receiver. And thought, I’ve got a second confrontation here in Budapest.

  He now had several hours to kill and summoned the courage to go out and look at the city of his birth. To revisit all the places he had known when he was Gyorgy Kolozsdi.

  His first entry into Budapest was like that of a swimmer into ice-cold water. But once he was actually in it and in motion, he began to feel warm and good and exhilarated. He reveled in the sound of his mother tongue
being spoken everywhere.

  Oh God, he thought, it must be fifty thousand English words ago that I felt so at home.

  But his euphoria ended when it neared five o’clock. He returned to the hotel to wait for Dr. Rozsa’s phone call.

  It came at about quarter to six.

  “He’s awake now and I told him you were here,” the doctor said.

  “And?”

  “He wants to see you. Grab a taxi and come over right away.”

  George snatched his raincoat and hurried down to find a cab.

  It was the evening rush hour and even the modern traffic underpass on Kossuth Lajos Street could not ease the traffic jam sufficiently. The ride seemed endless.

  George walked slowly up the hospital stairs trying to calm his beating heart.

  The building was someone’s idea of modern—amorphous glass and drab stone. It did not appear to be bustling like an American hospital.

  He walked up to an old, fat lady perched behind a desk and softly stated his purpose. She responded quickly, lifted the receiver, and an instant later Dr. Tamas Rozsa, a jowly little man, appeared and greeted George obsequiously.

  As they marched briskly down the halls toward his father’s private room (“Very rare in Socialist states, I assure you”), Dr. Rozsa gave a tedious account of how the hospital was only partially completed. And how much he envied all the medical technology the Western powers had developed.

  What the hell does this guy want, thought George, a handout? Maybe he thinks I can just tell Congress to send him a few million bucks’ worth of equipment.

  As they turned down a narrow, dimly lighted corridor, George spotted the far-off silhouette of a woman sitting by herself.

  His instinct told him that this should be his sister, Marika. But she was three years younger than he. The person sitting there looked positively middle-aged.

  As they drew nearer, she glanced up at George.

  The eyes, he thought. Those are my sister’s eyes in an old woman’s face.

  “Marika?” he said tentatively. “It’s me. Gyuri.”