90 Minutes at Entebbe

by William Stevenson

  Later, Peres stood over Yonni’s body and intoned: “I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan: very pleasant has thou been unto me,” quoting from 2 Samuel 1:26. Then he added, “It is a short path from Jonathan, son of Saul, to Jonathan the son of Ben-Zion.”

  A PERSONAL NOTE

  You have to share Israel’s communal life to recognize the integrity of the sentiments expressed by Defense Minister Shimon Peres, whose love for his people was expressed in his words over the body of Yonni. The name in English, of course, is Jonathan and in the aftermath of the raid on Entebbe, in a gesture that reflected a national sentiment, Peres and the rest of the cabinet agreed that the mission should be remembered under the title Operation Jonathan.

  A young nation needs its heroes. Israelis are not a notably melodramatic people. Their romanticism is expressed in less obvious ways. The last few years had been hard and sometimes discouraging, and outsiders are apt to forget the strain.

  When I returned to Israel after the War of Attrition in the 1970s, the mood had changed on the surface. The people were adapting to new threats. There had been the struggle to build a nation; the struggle to resist attacks upon settlements; and then the wars, frontal and clandestine, growing more and more technical until it seemed the burden must pass beyond endurance.

  Then Israel took on the Russians—the smallest of modem states pitted against the largest totalitarian regime in history, with unlimited resources in weaponry.

  I remember fearing that Israel had gone too far—stealing modem Soviet missile systems, lifting out of Russian’s client Arab states the most secret weapons, recovering Russian warplanes that were still unknown to the West—in general, making the Soviet Union—which has become arrogant and imperialist—look silly.

  I remember Motti Hod, the Israeli-born chief of perhaps the best tactical air force in history, warning Washington: “The Russians are flexible and fast. Don’t make the mistake of supposing they are weighed down by the bureaucratic delays of dictatorship. In matters of war, they respond within minutes to situations that you mull over for months.”

  Russia’s response to Israel, since she exposed weaknesses in Russian weaponry, has shifted. Part of the shift is terrorism, the supply of arms, the training of fanatics, the provision of experts, done through clients who have no visible link with Moscow.

  Israel would become a nation of hostages. Her close enemies pursued the logic of earlier attacks, to isolate the state of Israel.

  Terrorism was a refined weapon in the hands of these traditional enemies. Groups of fanatical malcontents could be recruited in any country. The Palestinian cause was only one, created from the deliberate isolation and the world’s neglect of refugees on the borders of Israel in the 1950s.

  Terrorism graduated from bazooka attacks against a kibbutz to the hijacking of aircraft for political ends. All forms of guerrilla warfare sap the victim’s energies.

  If terrorism succeeds against Israel, it is only a matter of time before every democracy confronts the same threat on the same scale. For as Daniel Moynihan said at Hebrew University, at the time of Thunderbolt, “Israel has become the metaphor for democracy as much as the utterly unprincipled attacks by terrorists on Israeli civilians has become a metaphor for the general assault on democracy and decency which is the sustaining ethos of totalitarianism in our time.”

  After Thunderbolt I talked with the task force ministers and generals, the soldiers and airmen, and remembered again how this democracy works and why it is both an offense to the Russians and an invitation to further attack.

  The soldiers and the politicians were exhausted. Thunderbolt was, as one said, “just a routine commando raid that happened to be a bit further in distance.” But it had taxed the conscience of those who made the decision. Then, while it took place, everyone came together in a formidable and talented team.

  When it ended, old arguments revived—arguments that invite Israel’s enemies to underestimate her in a crisis. Certainly, the habit of democratic argument is precisely why the best possible solution to the case of Flight 139 was discovered. Nevertheless, the habit of argument encourages her enemies to think that next time file community will collapse.

  These enemies fail to understand the role that deeply felt emotions play. The romanticism of Israel is its final and decisive weapon. This sabra mentality, prickly outside and soft within, came out best in the story of an entire Israeli family that was captured on Flight 139 and taken backward in time to the days of the pogroms and the concentration camps: the Davidsons, Uzi the father, Sara the mother, Roni (17) and Benny (13) their sons.

  Sara, the mother, is a handsome and unafraid young woman—unafraid of physical danger or intellectual challenge, as she demonstrated in conversations with the Germans who held guns to her head. Here are excerpts from her diary, and that of her husband, delivered with the first Hercules to return.

  Uzi looks at me, and I look at Uzi. As though we had reached an agreement, we tell the boys: “We won’t die. We’ll get home, to Israel. We’ll be together, all the time.”

  I said “together” and a great fear arose in my heart . . . You know, you say something and suddenly you understand how important that “together” is, and what danger awaits us if we are separated and that togetherness is destroyed.

  The whole family understood. Without a word, we snuggled up together, within ourselves, hugging one another. Uzi was like the commander of a little unit. He whispered: “If they take the men and separate them from the women, you boys, stick close to mother, all the time with mother. You, Ron, you’re the older, you understand . . .”

  My little men. Ron and Benny. Only yesterday they were my little children.

  Not everyone can keep calm. Our children are quiet and sad. From various directions, I have heard hysterical voices—“They’ll kill us, they’ll massacre us. They’re waiting to slaughter us.”

  I had a long talk with the German hijacker. I asked him: “When we were flying from Athens how did you know that the pilot was really heading toward Benghazi? He could have pretended to obey your instructions, but fly to Lod or some other place.” He looked at me, smiled, and said: “I learned the subject thoroughly in several Arab countries. I spent several months learning to read maps and instruments. I knew where the plane was flying.”

  He was silent and then said: “You have a beautiful country, really beautiful.” I asked, “Have you visited my country?” He did not reply. In place of an answer, he smiled again. I said, “Maybe I shouldn’t have asked you that,” and he smiled again.

  The German “captain” reads a statement: “The French are the enemies of the Arabs. They gave Israel a nuclear reactor. The Americans are the enemies of the Arab people: they give the Israelis murderous weapons. But the principal enemy is Israel, and the Israelis.”

  A nice feeling! We are being prepared for our fate, different from the others. The “captain” reassures us. “No harm will come to you. The whole history of hijackings proves that we did not kill the passengers. We shall negotiate. We have demands. If they are met, we shall release you and you’ll return home.”

  The handclapping kills me. It makes my blood boil. Every time the “captain” makes a speech: handclapping. Every time Idi Amin appears: a storm of applause. I’m no heroine; there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to save Uzi and the boys. I can’t do what I would really like to do—to straighten up and tell Idi Amin, or the terrorists: “I don’t give a damn about you! I’m a Jew! I’m an Israeli!” But as long as we can preserve a little human and national dignity—what’s the point of humiliating ourselves, welcoming them with handclaps? We have to show respect toward Amin, because we’re in his hands and he can determine our fate. Respect—all right! But not fawning, not this self-abasement! It seems that under these circumstances it’s hard to keep one’s human and Jewish stature erect.

  Rumormongers. The Ugandans are laying strings outside. What’s this? One rumor says it’s a way of eavesdropping on everything we say. The area
is being prepared for booby-trapping with explosives, says another “report.” A Ugandan soldier comes in: “We’ve put up strings for you to hang up your washing. Every woman can do her laundry in the toilet and hang the clothes outside.”

  What a relief! Not mines, not eavesdropping, just washlines. There’s a human touch about it.

  The “captain” smiled at me. I plucked up the courage to go up to him. He was not nervous. I asked about the fate of our luggage.

  He explained they were prepared to let us have it, but the suitcases were inside the plane, in special containers, and Entebbe did not have the equipment to unload them. He spoke freely. I thought: Should I stop? Go away? Something about him encouraged me to go on talking. I said, “How can you keep us in such conditions, without mattresses or blankets, so crowded?” He brought out a piece of paper and a pen, and wrote down my requests: mattresses, blankets, soap and washing power, thorough cleaning of the toilets. He promised to take care of it. But here he was no longer in command—he was the leader only on the plane. Here it was the Arabs who were the bosses, and he was a soldier who obeyed orders.

  The man aroused my interest. He was a cipher to me. I could understand the Palestinians, from their point of view. But he, a German, made the impression of being a well-educated and intelligent young man. I asked, “Why are you here?” He hesitated for a moment, and then replied at length. He believes in the rights of the Palestinian people. They’re an unfortunate people, without a homeland. He can’t live his life indifferent to their fate. He had to help them. Therefore he was here, and he was prepared to do everything for this unfortunate people.

  I said: “Let’s suppose that you and the ‘Front’ and all the other enemies of Israel in the Arab countries and elsewhere succeed in destroying Israel, heaven forbid, and the surviving Jews will be dispersed all over the world again—what will you do? Hijack planes to help the Jewish people return to their homeland, or do you only do that for the Palestinians?”

  He said: “I agree that you should have a state of your own.”

  I said “Are you in favor of the existence of Israel?”

  He said “Yes, certainly. But, either a Palestinian state should be established alongside your state, or you should live together with the Palestinians in a single state.”

  I said: “That goes contrary to the concepts of the people in whose service you are operating, and risking your life. They aren’t prepared to recognize Israel’s right to exist.”

  He replied “I’m not the spokesman for the front. I have views of my own. Have you ever seen a Palestinian refugee camp? Have you ever seen how those people live? Have you seen their children?”

  “In the end,” I told him, “the Middle East problem will find its solution. The war can’t go on forever. What will you do then? Where do you belong?”

  He was almost offended. “I’m a German. I love my country. Not as it is now. I want another Germany. I live in hiding. In constant flight. The German police are looking for me all the time. I know that I’ll end my life either with a bullet in the head, or sitting in prison for a long time. I have a feeling that my time is drawing near . . . it will soon happen.”

  I said: “You are wasted, young man. You have high intelligence. If you studied something useful, you could serve humanity and its values far better than in hijacking planes. You are living within a framework where you are wasting your strength in vain.”

  He said apologetically, “I’ve studied a lot, though I’m young.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But you are wasting yourself, and you are not made proper use of.”

  He was silent.

  I said: “Tell me the truth: How do you feel, standing before women and these children at play, with your machine gun cocked, as it is now? If you have to fight us, we have soldiers. Why don’t you fight against our soldiers?”

  He lowered his eyes. “Believe me, I feel bad, standing like this, facing the children and you . . .”

  All these years, I could not comprehend the Holocaust. Year in, year out, I read what is written on the subject, and I see the films and hear the horrifying testimonies—and I don’t understand. But why did the Jews enter the gas chambers so quietly? Why did they go like sheep to the slaughter, when they had nothing to lose? I needed that nightmare at Entebbe to comprehend, and now, but only now, I do comprehend. It’s easy to trick people when they so want to live. The Jews in the Holocaust did not know what was in store for them, and believed the lies about the work camps and the showers. We were also easy to deceive. The German woman was like a wild animal. Frustrated as a person and as a woman. But she was less dangerous. Because she was frank about what she was, and wore no mask. It would never have occurred to me to talk to her. She was an open enemy.

  The German man adopted a pleasant manner. He was a concealed enemy, pretending, tempting his victims to believe in his good intentions. He was so quiet, so pleasant, so affable—that, after my conversations with him, I found myself accusing myself: You believed him! He succeeded in deceiving you!

  If he had said to march in a certain direction, where his colleagues were awaiting us with machine guns, ready to mow us down—we would have gone. Because he knew how to smile and pretend. He didn’t miss any opportunity to tell us: “You are not to blame. You are all right. Nothing will happen to you. Don’t worry. Your government will agree to an exchange, and you’ll go home.”

  And because we so wanted to believe that he was different from the others, better and more easy-going than the others—we believed him. It’s easy to believe. If the matter hadn’t ended as it did, no one would have had to urge this “good German” to fire off his cartridge clips at our children and us, or to blow us up with the grenades and explosives.

  It’s the first time I’ve comprehended the Holocaust.

  Uzi Davidson kept notes too:

  On the last night of our captivity, I was reading about Winston Churchill—and from outside, I heard two or three bursts of fire. Then another single bullet I raised my head, and saw the hijackers jump from their places. We were at the edge of the hall. I had no idea what was happening. I thought one of the Ugandan soldiers had accidentally fired his gun. I feared there was going to be trouble.

  I lost any sense of time, but I think that within two seconds I had the family crawling toward the toilet. There was a wall there where we could take cover. I thought it better to get there. I don’t know how long we lay there. It must have been minutes. It seemed like five years, going on and on.

  Outside, there was a serious clash in progress, with shooting and explosions. We did not exchange a word. I did not see the terrorists.

  Somebody in the hall straightened up and called: “Yes, yes, Israeli soldiers, Israeli soldiers,” and while I was still wondering why the man was shouting such nonsense, I saw one of the most wonderful sight I have ever seen: Next to us there stood an Israeli soldier, of Yemenite extraction—short, thin, carrying a Kalach-nikov rifle two sizes too large for him. He was as cool as though he had dropped by to invite us for a drink, just by chance. He said “Shalom, fellows. Everything is all right. Get up calmly, and come with me. We’re taking you home.”

  It seemed unreal and impossible. I didn’t know for sure whether I was dreaming or not, daydreaming, or taking part in some abnormal drama—but that quiet voice was so convincing, so simple, so undramatic, that we stood up and followed him to the plane and we boarded it quietly . . . as he requested.

  Sara’s last entry was this:

  There is a verse: “The Lord’s redemption cometh like the twinkling of an eye.” When we heard the sudden shooting I repeated the “Sh’ma Yisrael!” that a Jew says when the hour has come.

  And a soldier leaped toward me with Hebrew on his tongue. I felt goosepimples. I would not die, but live to tell the deeds of the Lord.

  Ninety minutes at Entebbe arose because Israel refused to barter innocent lives for terrorists. Three days later, the very woman whose freedom was demanded by Flight 139’s hijackers w
as helped to escape from a maximum-security jail.

  Terror International had again exposed Israel’s isolation in the struggle against a worldwide conspiracy to destroy civilized society.

  The terrorist whose freedom had been demanded against the lives of innocent civilians, women, and children was Inge Viett.

  When the Entebbe attempt at blackmail failed, Inge Viett’s freedom was secured by another branch of Terror International. With guns smuggled into their cells, Inge and three other German women terrorists overpowered the guards in their West German prison and vanished into the night.

  “Words fail me,” said Justice Minister Hermann Oxfort in West Berlin. And well they might.

  Inge Viett was imprisoned as a terrorist who secured the release of five other jailed anarchists by helping to kidnap Peter Lorenz of the West Berlin assembly. Lorenz was threatened with execution until the anarchists had been delivered at West German expense in the luxury of their own airliner to freedom in South Yemen.

  Any defeat inflicted by Thunderbolt on Terror International was diminished by Inge’s escape. With her terrorist companions, she was out of Europe within 48 hours, in time to read the opening debate in the United Nations Security Council where Israel stood accused of “flagrant violation of Uganda’s sovereignty.”

  The juxtaposition of this ironic debate and the terrorists’ breakout may appear to future historians to have been inevitable. Inge Viett, The Jackal, Dr. Hadad, and the terrorist operational commander killed at Entebbe would be comforted by it.

  The debate was greeted elsewhere as a vindication of Israel. This was surely a measure of how international morality has been corrupted. In the nine years since the Six Day War, virtually every United Nations resolution condemning the Jewish state has passed—except in the Security Council where the U.S. veto has saved us from total disgrace.