by Herman Wouk
“And spends it all, with these prices”—another voice—“and he’s no better off, and he’s just washing dishes. That’s the fact of it. Sam is right, and Sarah and I are talking about going back as soon as Irma finishes high school.”
Arguments broke out all over the room, so vehement and cacophonous that the departure of Pasternak and Yael, slipping out one after the other, went almost unnoticed.
“Not very tactful,” she said, getting into the front seat of a rented Ford.
“I was tired. Let them chew on the truth, for once.” He drove up Fairfax Avenue too fast, and jammed on brakes at a red light.
“You’re in a bad mood.”
“My nephew Uri was there. Did you see him? Red sweater, glasses? Brilliant mechanical engineer. Wouldn’t look me in the eye. Sat in a corner eating pumpkin seeds.”
“It didn’t go well in Washington?”
He gave her the heavy-lidded look, and said no more until they were speeding along Sunset Boulevard. “I don’t blame those State Department guys. They haven’t changed their line since the Balfour Declaration. There are seven hundred million Moslems, and after Hitler about ten million Jews. There are eighty million Arabs, and maybe a million Israelis—the ones who haven’t leaked away yet. The Arabs have oil, the Jews have bopkess. Where does the interest of America lie? Any question? That’s assuming the striped-pants boys, as Truman called them, aren’t anti-Semites. Some are, but that’s beside the point.”
“You were right about Los Angeles, Sam. It’s the Garden of Eden. If I leak away, this is where I drip to.”
That brought an affectionate side-glance. “Seen a lot?”
“Sheva Leavis has this Chinese houseman. He drove me all over in a Silver Cloud Rolls-Royce. You just have to drive up to the Griffith Observatory at night, Sam, to decide on yerida, if you’re going to.”
“Never been there.”
“Tell me about Leavis. How can a man be that rich? Own a gorgeous estate in Beverly Hills that he stays in maybe ten days a year? Equipped with a Rolls and a Chinese couple?”
Pasternak grunted. “Beverly Hills real estate is oil land. The Rolls too keeps going up in value. He has the use, and while it all stands idle he makes money. That’s Sheva.”
“He seems to be really religious.”
“So were the first Rothschilds.”
Stop-and-go as the lights changed, they drove a long way west without further words, into the sharper curves of Sunset Boulevard through shadowy trees and scattered lamplit mansions. Yael had half expected a hand on her knee (or higher) along the way, and would not much have minded, actually. It was always good to know that Sam’s desire was there. She had not forgotten his remark in the darkened plane that his marriage might not last.
“So President Kennedy makes no difference?” She broke the silence. “None at all?”
He held up a hand. “I didn’t say we had a failure. There’s a difference. But you know, Kennedy said that the biggest surprise in his presidency so far is that he gives orders and nothing happens.”
“Then he’s a weak President.”
“Yael, Presidents come and Presidents go. The bureaucrats sit there, and fudge orders they don’t like. At fudging, these State Department guys are world masters. They wait the Presidents out. So far this time they’re like viziers handling a boy king. I think he’ll surprise them if he’s reelected. He got in by a hair, so he isn’t sure of himself or his power.”
“Sheva’s place is just past this light, to the left.”
“I know where Sheva’s place is.” He pulled under the stone archway, stopped, and turned to her with his old crafty grin, barely visible in the archway lamplight. “Too bad you’re not in the hotel.”
“Why?”
“I’d try banging on the door.”
“You’d just get sore knuckles.”
“I’ve never changed, Yael.”
“The guesthouse is up there. Do I walk?”
He started the car, drove up the knoll, and braked with the engine running. “There. Could Wang do better?”
“Thanks.” She gave him a cool kiss on the cheek, pressing his hand. “Israel isn’t leaking away, thanks to guys like you.”
He said, “And Don Kishote.”
“See you in the temple, Sam.”
Pasternak took the curves of Sunset Boulevard too fast as he drove off to his dingy motel, perturbed by a hunch that Yael might well leak to America; not on this trip, but someday when she could work it all out. She was good at that, and in the end Yael did what she wanted to. The notion of Israel without Yael there—even as Don Kishote’s wife—gave Sam Pasternak a disagreeable feeling of emptiness. The rented car swerved and rocked down the winding boulevard, and coming around a curve he had to jam on squealing brakes at a red light. He sat there wondering why lights in America took so bloody long to change, thinking of Yael and of that hard night long ago in Tiberias.
***
The fast-dancing wipers could not keep up with thick rain beating against the windshield, and Wang had to slow down. A few yards ahead of the Rolls, Sunset Boulevard was a gray blur of blowing water.
“Well, no Frank Sinatra, I guess,” said Yael.
Sheva Leavis’s reply was a brief upsliding smile. Arriving from Hong Kong on Friday evening just before sundown he had looked dead-white and decrepit, and his dinner talk had lapsed into long silences. Today at breakfast he had been in high spirits, and he was looking healthier.
“We be late for ceremony, Mr. Leavis,” said Wang, “but faster dangerous.”
“They’ll delay it, Wang.” To Yael he added, “Or if Sinatra can’t come, they’ll postpone it.”
She looked to see whether he was smiling. He was not, but his eyes were crinkled. “Sheva, when were you in my Dizengoff shop, anyway? I feel such a fool, not to remember it.”
“Why should you? I brought my niece there, two years ago. An orphan, I married her off, gave her money and let her pay the bills. You run a nice shop. Efficient. Good value.”
“I have to do something.”
“Yes, army pay is not much anywhere, but in Israel it’s bad.”
“Probably I married the wrong brother.”
He grinned at her. “Your husband is a great fighter for our people. Lee buys and sells real estate.”
“That’s all Lee does now?”
“Lee does several things. Some with me, some on his own. He does well.” Leavis shrugged. “He likes Las Vegas too much.”
Limousines were piling up at the temple entrance. In a raincoat and bareheaded, Sam Pasternak leaned against a tall pillar of the portico, smoking a cigarette. “Ah, there you are, Yael. You’re to go right to the bride’s room. Lee is running around without a head. He’s afraid Sinatra’s plane has gone down. Hello, Sheva.”
“You’re not serious,” said Leavis.
“Well, the charter company told him Sinatra took off in the rain, and now they can’t contact the pilot. Lee is phoning them every five minutes. Come, Yael.”
“Why the bride’s room?”
“You’re his only relative at this thing. She asked to meet you.”
In the foyer Lee Bloom came pushing through the crowd in a morning coat and striped trousers, his ascot tie askew, his hair disordered. “They heard from the pilot! Frankie is safe! The storm messed up the aircraft frequencies.”
“That’s a relief,” said Pasternak.
“Yes, isn’t it? Everybody’s late anyway. What a day! The organist and the choir have plenty of music to kill time, so that’s no problem. Sheva, you’ll be sitting up on the stage with the rabbi, Congressman Milstein, State Senator Harrigan, and Frankie. Come, Yael, Mary keeps asking for you.”
Leavis reached into a breast pocket of an exquisitely tailored black suit, and put on a small skullcap.
“You won’t need that here, Sheva,” said Pasternak. “It’s Reform.”
“Well, there are Torahs in the building,” said Leavis.
Lee Bloom led Yael t
hrough the noisy foyer and down a pink-carpeted corridor. “Why am I the only relative, Lee? What about all those Blumenthal cousins in Buffalo?”
“Look, I offered to fly them out, three families! They’re Orthodox, they wouldn’t come to a Reform temple. Crazy. So I’m damn glad you’re here. Why didn’t Yossi come?”
“The army, Lee.”
Lee shook his head. “He’ll never get to the top in that army. He’s not a Palmakhnik, he’s not a kibbutznik or moshavnik, he’s not a B.G. protégé, he’s an outsider, he’s nobody. Maybe he’ll make brigadier. Maybe! Both of you should come here, you can do more for Israel here. This is the bride’s room. Go on in, I’m not supposed to see her.”
Mary Macready threw her arms around Yael. “My sister-in-law! Mama, here’s Yael Nitzan, she came all the way from Tel Aviv!”
The mother, a small woman in a floor-length dress, said, “Hello. I’m Jewish.”
“So I understand,” said Yael.
The bridesmaids fussing at Mary were so pretty that Yael supposed they were showgirls. But none compared to Mary Macready. Lee had picked himself an exquisite piece of work: immense green eyes set in her head like slanted emeralds, a small uptilted nose, a lovely mouth with a full underlip, a cascade of glossy black hair, and an improbable figure, tiny-waisted, slim, and big-bosomed.
“If only Bill had lived for this,” said Mrs. Macready. “Bill was my husband, Methodist but very tolerant. Bill was a great fan of Frank Sinatra.”
The ceremony was not long delayed by the storm. Sinatra came walking down the center aisle of the nearly full temple in a white skullcap, greeting the buzzing wedding guests with smiles, waves, and handshakes. The rabbi left the platform to escort him up carpeted steps to a high-backed chair between the Holy Ark and Sheva Leavis.
“Why on earth has he got on that yarmulke?” Yael asked Pasternak. They sat together in a front row. “Can’t he see nobody else has one, except Sheva?”
“At a Jewish function that’s what he wears, I guess.”
“And who are all these people anyhow?” She looked around at the rows on rows of guests.
“Lee does a lot of business in Los Angeles. And he flew down two planes full from Las Vegas.”
The happy couple were soon standing under the flower-banked canopy with the rabbi. The cantor, a handsome black-robed young man, was pouring out a rich Hebrew nuptial song, backed by an unseen choir.
“If Ruth and I can’t go on,” Pasternak murmured, touching Yael’s fingers, “is there any chance for us?”
She pushed his hand away, muttering, “Oh, Sam, shut up.”
“I’m absolutely serious.”
“I have a husband, thank you. A wonderful one. Quiet!”
“I know why Don Kishote married you.”
Badly jarred, keeping a straight face, she said, “I like this music. Sh!”
Someone behind them echoed, “Sh!”
Sheva left before the wedding brunch began, in a social hall where a large jazz band played and long tables were piled with a lavish buffet. Lee started the dancing with Mary Bloom to great applause, which redoubled when Sinatra, skullcap gone, next twirled the bride. Waiters continuously passed champagne. Pasternak and Yael drank a lot of champagne, ate heartily, and even danced. “You’re stepping all over my feet,” Yael said. “Why did you drag me out on the floor? You know I can’t dance. Neither can you.”
“I can with any other woman.”
“Thanks.”
They continued to clomp around. Afterward he drove her to Sheva Leavis’s guest cottage. “You can come in if you want to,” she said, as he shut off the ignition.
“I have to turn in this car.” He glanced at his watch. “We stayed too long at that balagan. My plane’s at one.”
“What did you mean, you know why Yossi married me? What kind of nonsense was that?”
The strong face went grave. The heavy eyes drooped almost shut. “I knew long ago.”
Yael’s mind raced through the possibilities of some disclosure, inadvertent or not, to Sam Pasternak. Yossi would never talk about it, of course. Shayna Matisdorf knew, and might well hate her, but she was not capable of injuring her in that way. What then? Aryeh’s early arrival? Sam Pasternak was not guessing. When he said he knew something, he knew.
“I haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re talking about.”
“After KADESH, Yael—months later—we were talking about your trip to Paris. I asked you how you liked the Galeries Lafayette. You said you didn’t go to Paris to waste time in a department store. But during KADESH, when I was about to take a nap in the bunker, you told me you’d bought some oo-la-la underwear there.” They looked hard into each other’s eyes. “Yossi didn’t have a French whore in that Georges Cinq bedroom.”
With a light laugh, Yael replied, “If you think I slept with Yossi in Paris, fine. It didn’t have to be the Georges Cinq, Sam, we were in the same third-rate hotel for two nights.”
Pasternak nodded, the half-closed eyes not leaving her face. “So, I’ll see you back home. Or are you leaking to Los Angeles here and now?”
“I wouldn’t blame Ruth for throwing you out.” She leaned to him, kissed his mouth, and let the kiss linger. “You’re an animal and a pain. Quite a wedding, wasn’t it? Worth the trip.”
“Definitely.” He started the car. “When will we get that close again to Frank Sinatra?”
Pasternak was used to the unfolding grandeur of America under a transcontinental flight. Shutting out thoughts of Yael and that teasing kiss—she was a fiend at getting her own back—he passed the hours of his return to Washington scribbling a first draft of a report for Ben Gurion, which he meant to show to Christian Cunningham first. It ended:
Conclusion
Accomplishments of this mission, nil except for keeping Hawk AA missile negotiation on track. Bloodhound diversion successfully eliminated. In time we will get this crucial American weapon, but to avoid offending the Arabs, delivery will be put off as long as possible, and we will be asked to soft-pedal the whole matter.
The State Department negotiators could not argue against their own intelligence, which confirms ours, that the Soviet delivery of bombers and fighters to Arab countries threatens our national survival. But the fundamental American position is unchanged: (1) they will not introduce any major new weapons systems into our region (2) we will have to look elsewhere for our main source of supplies (3) they will under no circumstances supply us with weapons of offense. Translation, tanks.
Still, it is not all negative. There has been a change. They have reviewed our entire defense posture with us, and that in itself is a development. They are willing to listen, and to have another review “if and when the situation warrants.” Probably the real difference is a different President. However, by the time the will of the President filters down through the bureaucracy, it is diluted and fogged over. Direct contact with President Kennedy on these matters might help. Of that there seems to be no present prospect.
27
The Yellow Flowers
Knuckles rapping at the door of Shayna Matisdorf’s hot windowless office in the Technion Institute. “Come in!” She glanced up from the design manual of the Mirage aircraft and fell back in her chair, pulling off black round glasses. “You!”
“Come with me for a ride in the country,” said Don Kishote. “You look pale.”
Speechless, she stared. In the more than two years since the visit to Aryeh, she had not seen Yossi Nitzan or heard from him. She habitually scanned military stories in the papers for his name, and leafed through each issue of the army journal in the Technion library, so she knew of his promotions; and she had cut out and kept one picture of him, half-hidden among armor officers standing with hands on hips around a map on a jeep hood.
Now here bursting on her was this same antic Kishote, glowing with health, lean, looking no older, bewitching her with a grin. She was appalled that he should see her shiny with sweat and unkempt from the futile blowing of a n
oisy fan, in a sleeveless old dress so thin as to be scarcely decent; her brown brassiere at least was opaque, however obtrusively ugly. She had not come to the Technion planning to charm anyone, just to stay cool if she could in a third day of hamsin.
“What the devil are you doing in Haifa?” she managed to say without gasping.
“I’ll tell you on the way. Come on, a nice ride will cool you off.”
“How’s your wife?”
“That’s it, she’s coming home, so I have to pick up Aryeh at Nahalal. It’s not far, we’ll be back in a couple of hours. Wouldn’t you like to see Aryeh? He’s all grown up.”
“She’s coming home? From where?”
“California. She went to my brother’s wedding. We talked on the phone today. Frank Sinatra was at the wedding. He didn’t sing, though. I asked.”
Shayna shook her head at him, exasperated, excited, at a loss. “Look, go along to Nahalal.” She gestured at her desk. “I’m working. Falling in on me like this is preposterous, it’s just like you, couldn’t you have phoned? You phoned Yael in California.”
“She phoned me, from some rich guy’s house. I can’t afford to call California. Aren’t you glad to see me? I’ve missed you, Shayna. It’s stupid to be so out of touch.”
Resisting an urge to jump up and throttle this fellow, Shayna said, “You picked the wrong day, sorry. I have to help Michael with his pots.”
“What pots?”
“Oh, he and Lena have separate cooking pots in their kitchen. He keeps kosher and she doesn’t. She had a party and used his pots, and they had a big fight. I said I’d help him make his pots kosher again. His cutlery, too.”
“But that takes no time at all.”
“That’s how much you know. It’s very complicated.”
“Where’s Dr. Berkowitz?”
“Next door.”
“Come with me.”
Michael sat by an open window, in a breeze so strong that it flapped the collar of his sport shirt and tousled his thinning hair under the skullcap. Beyond the window the blue bay sparkled, and two patrol boats were heading out to sea. The desk papers were held down by a paperweight, a pair of binoculars, and a framed picture of Lena. But it was a hot wind, and his shirt was sweated through. He listened to Yossi, pursing his lips and nodding.