Tom waited as the phone continued to ring.
“What’s the matter?” Rhoda asked after a minute.
“No one’s answering.”
“Well, don’t give up too quickly. You may not get another call through for a long time.”
New York, New York
Decker was already in his chair at the conference table when Ambassador Hansen and the other members of his senior staff arrived for a special meeting. The excitement of Decker’s new job was still fresh.
“Decker,” Hansen said before he even sat down, “I need one of your best speeches for this.”
“I’ll have the draft ready by one o’clock, sir,” Decker responded. “I’ve done a search in the computer archives for any speeches you’ve given in the past on the makeup of the Security Council and I ran across one where you talked about reorganizing the Council on a regional basis. Of course we don’t want to detract from the main issue, but if you like, I think I can work that in as a minor theme.”
“Yes, that will do nicely. That’s been a hot topic for years with the countries not on the Council. Peter,” Hansen said, turning his attention to his chief legal council, “what’s your final prognosis for this effort?”
“Well, for the benefit of the others in the meeting, let me just restate that there’s no way on earth that this measure will ever pass, if for no other reason than simply on the grounds that it violates the United Nations Charter. There is no provision for removing a permanent member from the Security Council. You might, however, expand on Decker’s suggestion and go for a complete reorganization. Another option you might consider would be to attempt something along the lines of what was done in 1971 when the Republic of China was removed from its seat in the UN because the General Assembly recognized the People’s Republic of China as the true representative of the Chinese people.”
“Let’s not get carried away, Peter,” Hansen said. “Remember, this is entirely for effect. We don’t actually want to get the bloody thing passed.”
“Jack, what about the poll of support from the other members?” Hansen asked his legislative assistant. “Are we sure that we can at least get this thing to the floor?” Jack Redmond was a native of Louisiana and the only other American besides Decker on Hansen’s staff. When Hansen came to the UN he had wanted someone who understood American politics and this outspoken Cajun seemed just the man for the job.
“There should be no problem getting it to the floor, but I can’t guarantee seconding support,” Jack answered.
“That’s fine. As long as we can get the proper coverage of my speech, I think we’ll be all right.”
“Ambassador,” Decker interrupted, “from a media point of view, I think that may be a mistake. Unless we can get someone to second the motion, there’s a good chance that the press may focus more on the hopelessness of the motion than on its symbolic nature.”
“Good thought,” Hansen said after mulling it over for a second. “I think you’re probably right. If nothing else, perhaps we can get one of the Arab countries to second the motion. After all, they’re not very happy with the Russians right now either. Jack, find me that second.”
“Okay, any other thoughts or objections before we pull this thing together?”
There were none.
“Jackie, do you have anything to add?” Hansen asked his daughter.
“Your meeting with Russian Ambassador Kruszkegin is set for noon tomorrow in the Delegates Dining Room.”
“Okay,” Hansen said, “then we’re set. Tomorrow at three o’clock, in plenty of time for the evening news in America and the morning news in Asia and Europe, I will make the motion that in response to their invasion and occupation of Israel, the United Nations General Assembly should permanently remove Russia from its position on the Security Council.
“All I have to do now is have lunch with Ambassador Kruszkegin and convince him it’s nothing personal.”
Tel Aviv, Israel
“Are there a lot of Russians on the streets?” Tom asked as Rhoda drove him to the ophthalmologist’s office.
“Too many,” she answered, but then added, “Actually there are not as many as you might expect. They patrol the streets, but the main forces are camped in the hills in the wilderness areas. Apparently they’re trying to limit the resentment of the people. I think they realize that filling the streets with soldiers would just result in more violence, both by the soldiers against the people and vice versa. Besides, if they had a bunch of tanks rolling through the cities it wouldn’t do much for their claims that they’re just a peacekeeping force. It’s really the best possible arrangement for the Russians, I suppose. They keep their soldiers on a short leash in the unpopulated areas and maintain a minimum show of force in the cities.”
“Sort of the ‘iron fist and silk glove’ approach,” Tom interjected. “Is it the same in the other cities?”
“Yeah, as far as we can tell. In Jerusalem the Russians shut down work on the Temple to pacify the Arabs. But they want it both ways, so to keep from further angering the Jews, they haven’t destroyed any of the work that’s already been done.”
“Is there any kind of organized resistance?” Tom asked.
“There are reports of small groups sniping at the Russians in the hills, but I don’t think they’re very well organized. In the cities the people are less violent, but they’re just as resistant.”
“What about the Russians’ ultimate goal? Your brother seemed to think the whole thing had been planned out from the very early stages. Does anybody know what the Russians want with Israel? Have there been any public statements of their long-range plans?”
“They say they’ll leave when the threat of a nuclear/chemical war is removed from the region. But Joel says they already control all of Israel’s nuclear weapons. If they planned to dismantle them they would have started by now. Of course if they do leave we’ll be sitting ducks for the Arabs. The Russians have confiscated and impounded all military equipment as well as most of the small arms from the people. It’s a lousy situation, but right now if the Russians left we’d have no way to protect ourselves except with picks and shovels.
“I suppose I’m not looking at this very optimistically, but at best this is going to be a long-term arrangement. At worst the Russians will declare the occupation a success and leave us to be slaughtered by the Arabs. It’s actually quite clever—it’s a perfect excuse for them to stay indefinitely.”
“I wonder when the next plane leaves for the U.S.,” Tom mused, but Rhoda didn’t laugh.
When they arrived at the ophthalmologist’s office, Tom took Rhoda’s arm and she led him to the door. Inside, the receptionist greeted her like an old friend.
“So this is the special patient you called about. How’s he doing?”
“Well, that’s what we’re here to find out. How long before Dr. Weinstat can see us?” Rhoda asked as she surveyed the nearly full waiting room.
“Dr. Weinstat said to handle this as an emergency since the patient may still have some particles in his eyes. He’s finishing up with a patient now, so it should be only a few minutes.”
Tom continued to hold Rhoda’s arm as they sat down to wait. The chairs were closely placed and it seemed natural to continue the contact. It was a moment before Tom realized he was still holding on. His first thought was to let go, but at the same instant it occurred to him that Rhoda did not seem to object. Even through the soft fabric of her blouse, the warmth of her skin seemed to penetrate the cold darkness that surrounded him.
The two sat silently. The receptionist’s comment about him being the “special” patient had not escaped his attention. He didn’t want to assign it too much meaning, but he thought briefly about asking Rhoda to explain the reference. No, he thought. If he spoke he would disturb the moment and she might feel compelled by propriety to lightly pull away her arm, and then he would be compelled by the same propriety to release it. Better to leave things as they were.
Unexpectedly,
she spoke. “Dr. Weinstat is a good doctor.”
“Good,” Tom answered, inanely.
It was only small talk. Apparently she was as aware of the silence as Tom was. What was important was that they were carrying on a conversation, however unimaginative, and she gave no hint she wanted him to let go of her.
In the examination room, it took the ophthalmologist only one quick look in each eye to make his diagnosis. “I’m sorry, Mr. Donafin. The damage to your corneas is very severe. The scarring from the shards of glass and the corneal burns have formed a nearly opaque cover over about 90 percent of your crystalline lens, and the rest isn’t much better. As bad as it is, I’m surprised you still have any light perception at all. Ordinarily we might consider corneal transplants, but in this case, with the ancillary burn damage to the retinas, I think we’d only be causing additional suffering with no real hope of improvement in your sight.”
It was all so quick. So quick and so final. In those few short words, stated with such stark clinical coldness, the doctor had pronounced him permanently blind.
“If you’ll lean back, I’ll put some fluorescein in your eyes so we can locate the glass that’s still bothering you,” the doctor said. When he finished, the doctor put an antibiotic ointment in Tom’s eyes and reapplied pressure bandages to keep the lids from moving. “Now, leave that on and come back tomorrow so we can see how you’re doing. Dr. Felsberg,” he continued, now addressing Rhoda, “will you be bringing Mr. Donafin back in tomorrow?”
Rhoda nodded, and then stated her intention verbally for Tom’s benefit.
“If you’ll let Betty know on your way out, she’ll try to set up a time convenient with your schedule.”
“Thank you.”
“Oh, and ask her to give you some pamphlets about learning to live with blindness.”
Tom knew that it was entirely normal for doctors to carry on conversations as if their patients were nowhere within earshot, but right now what he knew made little difference. What he felt, there in the blackness that he had just learned would be his permanent home, was that he was being talked about and not to. It was as if he weren’t a real person anymore because he was blind. He knew it was just the beginning. He had known blind people over the years. He knew how they were obliged by their blindness to always wait for the conversation of others. Even in a crowded room he had seen blind people forced to stand silently until someone spoke to them. The day before, Tom had joked about it, but now the reality of the end of his career as a photographer hit him full force.
In the car he was silent as Rhoda got in the other side. “How are you doing?” she asked sympathetically, as she put her hand on his.
“Not very well,” he answered. “And what’s worse, I don’t think the whole thing has really hit me yet. I keep thinking that I’ll just get these bandages off and I’ll be able to see again.”
“Well,” she began as she caressed his hand to comfort him, but she obviously couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Tom turned his hand to hold hers; he needed all the support he could get right now. “I have no idea what to do from here,” he said. “I can’t work. I have some savings and three years of pay from NewsWorld in the bank. That’ll last me for a while, but then what?” He felt like saying something cliché like, “I’d be better off dead,” but the warmth of Rhoda’s hand told him that wasn’t true.
“Tom, I know you’re feeling angry right now, and cheated, but there are things in life we must simply accept, because even if we don’t they remain the same.” She sounded as though she was speaking from experience.
They sat for another few minutes in silence holding each other’s hand. “Tom,” Rhoda said finally, “there’s someone I want you to meet.”
Tom thought he knew who she was talking about. “Your rabbi?” he asked.
“You’ll really like him,” she said, confirming Tom’s question. “He asked me to bring you by when you were back on your feet.”
“Yeah, I guess it’s about time I thanked him for digging me out and bringing me to you.” Reluctantly, Tom let Rhoda’s hand slip free so she could drive.
15
Plowshares into Swords
Two months later
Tel Aviv, Israel
SCOTT ROSEN SAT IN A SMALL CAFÉ eating a bowl of soup, waiting for his friend Joel Felsberg. Soon Joel entered, removed his coat, and sat down without speaking.
“You look upset,” Scott offered, in what seemed to Joel to be a rather irritating tone.
“I hate these arrogant Russians—always stopping you on the street and wanting to see your papers.” Joel was exaggerating; most people went days without being stopped. “They’re never going to leave, you know.”
“Yeah, I know,” Scott answered with uncharacteristic resignation as he sipped his soup. “But everything is not so gloomy,” he added with equally uncharacteristic good cheer. “I heard the resistance hijacked a supply truck, stole all the supplies, and then loaded it with dynamite and sent it into a Russian camp by remote control. They say it killed nearly a thousand Russians.”
Joel ordered his lunch before responding. “I’ve heard that story twenty times in the last three weeks and it gets more ridiculous with every telling,” Joel responded.
“You don’t believe it?”
“Yeah, I believe it. But I believe it the way I heard it the first time: The resistance hijacked a truck and drove it into a Russian camp, where it ran into a water tower, accomplishing next to nothing.”
“Well, at least there is a resistance.”
“Yeah, and they’re outgunned and completely disorganized. If Ben Gurion had used their tactics we’d still be a British protectorate! No matter how you paint it, Scott,” Joel continued after stirring his coffee, “we’re still occupied! I don’t care how many water towers we run into or supply trucks we hijack! We were a free, independent state and now we are not!”
“What do you think the resistance should do differently?” Scott asked, as if Joel’s opinion made a difference.
“I don’t know.” Joel shook his head in resignation. “Nothing I guess. That’s the whole problem—there’s nothing we can do. Even if we got rid of the Russians, as soon as they were gone we’d be attacked by the Arabs, and we’d have nothing to fight them with.”
“Yes, but—”
“Stop it, Scott! Is that why you brought me here? So I could wallow in my anger and frustration?!”
Joel and Scott were zealous in their love for their country; either could easily be brought to a fever pitch when it came to Israel. But strangely, on this occasion, only Joel’s blood pressure had risen. An unusual calm accompanied Scott’s speech, but Joel didn’t notice it. Neither had he noticed that since his arrival no one had entered or left the café, nor that the café owner had turned the sign to read “Closed.” Likewise, the two men standing watch outside the café had escaped Joel’s notice entirely.
Suddenly Scott became animated. “We must drive the Russians from Israel and bloody their noses so badly they’ll never come back!” he said.
“Big talk. Big talk,” Joel responded. “I suppose you think the resistance will accomplish that with their puny disruptions to the Russian supply lines. And just how do you propose we deal with the Arabs when and if the Russians leave?”
Scott studied his soup. “If only we had used our nukes on the Russians instead of just waving them around as a threat to the Libyans.”
“You’re a fool, Rosen! By the time we knew we were being invaded, the Russians were all over the place. The only way we could have nuked them was to launch on our own soil,” Joel said, growing even more angry.
Scott Rosen did not allow his friend’s anger to distract him. He had a mission to accomplish and all was working exactly according to plan. “Yeah, I guess that’s true.” Scott’s voice seemed resigned to the hopelessness of the situation, but he continued. “Too bad we can’t get control of the nukes now. With the Russians all concentrated in the hills, we could wip
e out 90 percent of them with just a few well-placed missiles and the resistance could take out the other 10 percent in the cities.”
“You really are a fool,” Joel said. “What about Moscow? You think they’re just gonna sit back and let that happen without responding? What’s to stop them from striking back against our cities?”
This was the question that Scott had been waiting for. Suddenly his mood grew much more serious. The gravity of what he was about to say was clear even to Joel. “Our strategic defense,” he whispered finally.
Joel stared coldly at Scott, studying his expression. Twice he opened his mouth to speak, ready to accuse Scott again of being a fool, but he held back. It appeared that Scott was serious and when it came to strategic defense, Scott Rosen deserved to be heard. Next to his late father, Joshua Rosen, Scott knew more about Israeli strategic defense than anyone. Finally Joel responded, “You’re talking impossibilities. Even if a plan like that could work, there’s no way in the world our puny, disorganized resistance could get control of the Strategic Defense Control Facility.”
“We don’t need to go anywhere near the control facility,” Scott said confidently.
Suddenly Joel became aware of his surroundings. When he’d thought he and Scott were just griping, he hadn’t cared who heard them. There was nothing unusual about two Israeli men complaining about the Russians. Everyone in Israel was complaining. Indeed, it might have been considered unusual for them to be talking about anything else. But now they had crossed the line; they were no longer just complaining. The wrong person listening to their conversation might easily have mistaken this for a conspiracy. He looked around quickly to make sure no one had overheard them.
Scott didn’t interrupt him to mention he had nothing to worry about; each of the seven people in the café had been handpicked for the occasion.
In His Image Page 23