by Mark Helprin
Now, high above the sea, she gave it plenty of thought in view of the wheat farm. She had arrived at the trustee’s office, in blue jeans. The receptionist had given her an extremely dirty look, and later she had felt entirely out of place as the trustee attempted to delineate her wealth.
“Well, how much is it?” she had asked.
“I can’t give you an exact dollar estimate,” he had answered. “I can give you an inventory with assessments, but these are often imprecise.”
“Can you give me an idea?” she asked, pained, for she knew nothing whatsoever about money, economics, or banking, and her checkbook was trench warfare. “Just an idea?”
“Sure. Let me illustrate it this way, Miss Levy. About two thirds of your holdings are in real estate. Of this, most is here in D.C. Of the real estate in D.C., about forty percent is represented in this building.”
“What do you mean, represented in this building?”
“You own the building.”
“This building? I own this building?”
“Yes,” he said, “all eight floors, and you also own that one.” He pointed to a similar building across the street.
“Oh God.”
When Marshall finished the Army, they would buy a wheat farm in alpine country—in Colorado, in Montana, or in the high plains of Oregon, someplace like Columbine if not Columbine itself. It could be several hundred acres, or several thousand acres. That was not important. What was important was being on the land and what it taught in balance, restraint, redemption, love, and beauty.
Above the sea, she dreamed of the dry golden grasses, the cool clear sunlight, the air. She saw a white farmhouse with black shutters, workshops lit by fluorescent light, equipment sheds as extensive and clean as those at Kfar Yona, shiny new tractors and combines, a forest of blue pine growing on the hillside, waving wheat, and a view of mountains—all within reach.
After some minutes of this dream, she walked over to the glass and stared at the sea. The waves were like tiny scratches, like light rays dashing and breaking across an interferometer. She glanced at the lovely terraced city, the Hadar. It was time to go to the headquarters of the Second Mountain Brigade. She felt ready, for she had lost some of the simplicity of a kibbutznik, in the contrivance of eating a fancy pastry in a fancy hotel.
Arieh Ben Barak’s deputy was a middle-aged colonel, a turkey farmer in real life, named Steimatzky. Steimatzky was rather portly. That is an understatement. He was the Titanic. Every now and then his chief would order him to reduce, explaining that no infantry soldiers, no, not even nonheadquarters units officers, could not afford not to be not slim. Then he gave up on beating around the bush by use of the infamous permissible and reversible Hebrew double negative and came right out with it. “Weigh your right arm, and then lose that amount of weight.”
“But my right arm is where I wear my watch and my class ring.” “Take them off.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“My fingers are too fat.”
“What about the watch?”
“It stretches, but not enough.”
“Steimatzky.”
“Yes, Arieh.”
“Weigh your right leg. You can take off your shoe, can’t you?”
“My leg...?”
“And Steimatzky, this is a mild climate. You don’t need to eat those American things, what are they called...‘flapjacks’? Especially in the summer. That’s what makes you fat.”
A secretary poked her head in the office and announced that there was a visitor.
“Who is it?”
“A wife, General. A new immigrant.”
“Bring her in. I’m not busy now.”
Lydia was nervous and tense on a hard bench in the fortress courtyard. Soldiers walked rapidly from one office to another and from level to level. Messengers covered with dust sometimes ran up the wide stairs, clutching their pistols and their code cases. On her left, Lydia saw an arsenal. Two soldiers with automatic rifles slung from their necks guarded wide double doors. Inside, light effused from heavily barred windows onto two dozen armorers hard at work, bending over weapons in various states of disassembly, stacking cases on long counters, polishing, cutting, drilling. Against the walls and in the middle of a long corridor leading to the windows were metal racks on which were closely stacked thousands and thousands of rifles, machine guns, pistols, heavy machine guns, recoilless rifles, ATR tubes, rockets, mortars, and bangalore torpedoes. They glistened with light gun oil and were frightening to behold. A soldier leaned over and pointed inside. “In one hour,” he said, “two thousand men can walk through there and come out fully armed. I bet you never saw anything like that in America.”
Remembering that she had determined to win battles of station, Lydia turned to the soldier. “My brother,” she said, “commands more than five hundred warships. This is a tiny little arsenal, a tiny, tiny little arsenal. In Norfolk, there is a place for small arms which has trucks and streets inside, and is five stories tall.”
Arieh Ben Barak awaited Lydia. His office, too, had a high view of the bay. Map screens stretched across the walls; a large campaign table stood in the middle of the room; ten field telephones were arranged on a rack; a tattered Syrian flag was draped over a pole in the corner; and the Blue and White was hanging regally above the windows. Arieh Ben Barak wore his olive-colored uniform quite well, had a fatherly air, and had taken off his pistol belt to receive his visitor—the young woman that he did not know was his daughter-in-law. He was very gentle with her, understanding that wives who came on behalf of their husbands were always completely terrified.
Lydia was still somewhat nervous. The office was old-fashioned and rough, like a field command. Paul Levy’s office was like a study, and his operations rooms were crammed with computers and electronic displays. But Arieh Ben Barak was surrounded by a purely utilitarian forest of maps, charts, and ancient telephones. His fat deputy was ready with clipboard and pen. Undoubtedly she had interrupted something of great moment.
“I know I should have made an appointment,” she said, “but I didn’t know where to call. I’m interrupting something. I’m sorry.”
“No no no. You’re not interrupting anything. What can I do for you?”
“My husband is in your command. But at Bakum he was sent to Company T in the Fourth Daughter.”
Arieh Ben Barak leaned forward. “What did he do?”
“He didn’t do anything; it was a mistake; his Hebrew isn’t even as good as mine.”
“How long has he been in the Fourth Daughter?”
“He’s out now, but he was there for a month.”
“In what classification?”
“Stage C.”
“Stage C? Is he mad, retarded, a criminal?”
“Certainly not. He’s wonderful. Now he’s at Base 034.”
“Nashqiya,” said Steimatzky.
“He wants to get back to the Second Mountain Brigade. That’s why I’m here.”
“How long is he in for?”
“A year.”
“Then it might be better for him to stay at 034. He couldn’t have gotten any decent training at the Fourth Daughter. Our training cadres are inactive until June; I don’t see how we could use him.”
“He doesn’t need training.”
“Why not?”
“He’s been doing dangerous things all his life. For example, when he was sixteen, he fought in the Jamaican back country and was badly wounded. My brother is Commander of the U.S. Navy Atlantic Fleet, which,” she said quite demurely, “also includes the Sixth Fleet, and he says that Marshall is a born tactician. At home in Charleston we have a naval game. It’s British; it’s called Dover Patrol. Paul plays everyone, especially the NATO admirals when they come to visit, and he never loses. One day he played Marshall. Marshall had never heard of Dover Patrol, but he beat Paul easily. Paul thought it was beginners luck. They played three times that weekend; Marshall won all three games and has yet to lose. I
know it may not mean much for an infantry private, but he has a theoretical sense...”
“It sounds quite extraordinary. However, I’m not sure that we can use your husband even in light of his alleged capabilities. We have, for example, a commando force, but to be in it, you have to know Arabic.”
“He knows Arabic. He studied it for years.”
“But you say his Hebrew is not very good.”
“It’s not that bad, either.”
“I’ll tell you what. I’ll get Steimatzky to look at his records, and we’ll see what we can do.” Lydia smiled. The General added, “And I’ll make sure to try and get him back to the Second Mountain Brigade, which seems to be where he belongs.”
“Her brother is the Commander of the Atlantic Fleet!” said Steimatzky after Lydia had left. “How can you say no to such influence?”
“First of all, I didn’t say no. And sometimes you are very innocent indeed. That was the biggest lie I ever heard, but a charming, interesting lie.”
“So why did you agree to get him back to the Second, if it’s only for a year?”
“It’s only a year, but then he’ll be with us for reserves. He’s educated. Maybe he speaks Arabic. Who knows? Look at his file, call Nashqiya, and send him wherever we can use an extra man. If he has Arabic and if his physical rating is above ninety-six, mark him down for training this summer with the Special Force at Tira.”
“Okay. But that doesn’t explain why you reversed yourself.”
“Did you see her smile?”
Lydia walked down to the post office and sent a telegram to the trustee in Washington. It read: PLEASE PROVIDE INFORMATION ON AVAILABILITY OF APPROXIMATELY 1,000 ACRES HIGH COUNTRY WHEATLAND-CALIFORNIA, OREGON, ESPECIALLY NORTHERN COLORADO. SITUATION AND ESTHETICS PARAMOUNT. YOURS, LYDIA.
The telegraph clerkess turned to her partner after Lydia had left. “How much is an acre?” she asked.
“An acre is one kilometer square,” her friend stated with great authority.
“Are all Americans crazy?”
“She was lovely.”
“Well, yes, for a lunatic.”
17
LOOKING NORTH from Haifa, it is possible to see the mountains of the Lebanon. That they are only one hundred miles distant is unimportant. They are another world. From December until May, they are white, and appear to float above the horizon like a vast construction of linear cloud. Illuminated from before sunrise to beyond sunset, they shine with disconcerting brilliance as the rest of the land from the foothills to the sea darkens in soft night. They look to be a kind of heaven, and the city of Haifa is rigorously positioned so that their magic light may infill its various lucky chambers.
Quite often, civilizations turn on assumptions that they do not truly understand. As a minor example: archeologists are forever excavating special places in search of legend. Such a place is Carmel, and the scholars seek out its quality in close examination, combing the mountain as if it were their prize bay gelding, leaving not even spit unturned. They seek at their feet the Giants of Carmel, not realizing that the magic of the place is that from it one can see great masses of land floating above the horizon in an alpine gleam. The Giants of Carmel did exist, but not in caves as some have conjectured: they were the mountains to the north, forever far, cut off by silence, a thin air bridge to the world of light.
Looking at them from the comfortable sea slopes, it is hard to imagine that men are there. But most frontiers have soldiers, and on this one, two armies were stalemated in the snow. The Jews had captured the mountains and built fortresses. With their great telescopes they could see palms in Damascus and Syrian soldiers on the plain below eating dinner by their tanks and howitzers, their knit caps pulled over their ears. The Jews had come so high that they had only to pivot, and Damascus, Tyre, Haifa, Jerusalem, and Amman would come easily into view. The Mediterranean was a foggy blue band. The Jordanian desert was tan and purple. To the north—more white mountains; to the south—Lake Kinneret, and, beyond a range of stratified hills, the Dead Sea, the Red Sea.
Fortress Six was interminably separated from the lush valley of Kfar Yona. The altitude made lungs ache, and, upon descent to sea level and below, the fortress troops felt confused and dizzy, tired out by the miring air. Marshall had traveled to the mountains painfully resigned. It had been his own fault; his impatience had whipped about and struck him. He would spend the winter in the mountains and rarely see Lydia.
Fortress Six really was a fortress—built on a cliff, hanging over a vast Himalayan chasm, its concrete towers riddled with gun ports, heavy steel doors sealing it off from a tortuous approach, underground chambers driven deep into the rock. A cistern held a two weeks’ supply of numbingly cold mountain water. The wide courtyard was jammed with armored vehicles intended to control the winding roads. Artillery pieces lined the ramparts; great mortars were stationed below. In places, anti-aircraft guns stood five in a row, pointing skyward with double barrels. Electronic arrays lined tall steel towers; metal dishes were aimed at the army-choked plain. Soldiers were everywhere—leaning against walls, cleaning the AA guns, tickling the mounted aerials, exercising in drill, servicing their tanks and halftracks, returning from patrol, on line at the dispensary, praying to the East, rushing from place to place, arguing, cleaning their weapons, cleaning their boots, cleaning the ground. There was not a speck of dirt up there. The air was pure. And yet everyone spent his days shining equipment—as balance for the other major activity, which was to stare into the void and tire the eyes in observance of the enemy army, which one came to know well.
There was no war, no peace. People danced in Tel Aviv, and tourists came to Haifa for the gardens and the sea. But Fortress Six was in another era. The commander, a colonel of the Second Mountain Brigade, looked very much like Frederick the Great of Prussia. His cheeks were red, his hair white; and many deep lines fled from enormous round eyes of slate gray. He had been up there for half a dozen years. His life was war, validated by the continual presence of the enemy, the rugged sleet storms, the all-night shelling, the commando attacks, the mines, the casualties, the problems of supply and morale. For him, it might as well have been the maneuver of armies in classical European war, far back in history, universal in its stroke. One day it snowed heavily and the troops wore white winter tunics. One day a truck came up from Tel Aviv, fragrant with oranges. One day the Syrians moved about in a frenzy, and Fortress Six came alive with alarm. Soldiers had breakdowns. There were accidents. Winds arose from nowhere and blasted at the armored doors. There were seldom enough men for patrol, and they worked outside during fourteen-hour days—sometimes in pure sun, and sometimes in wild storms which billowed like an explosion of gray cotton—which was just as well, for the barracks were chambers in the rock and dreadfully crowded with weapons and boots.
Guarding the northern border of the new Jewish State, within sight of a hundred thousand enemy soldiers in depressing steel brigades, nearly at the summits of snow-covered mountains, they were always active and alive. How could it be that there was war in this high white pocket, and love affairs down below in the sweet peace of the cities? It was true. It made them feel like soldiers in history, completely caught up and out of control. It made them feel as if they were in another time, a desperate untrammeled time, a time when cannon seemed to be the most important things in the world, when one awakened and went outside to assure oneself that the massed opposing ranks were quiescent. And it was all embodied in the face of their commander. Strangely, they took great pleasure in seeing him worry. When he rushed through the yard he looked like an eighteenth-century painting. The hart which symbolized Northern Command bounced on his shoulder patch. His insignia, trees and stems in dull green, made a soft muted statement against the mountain ice. He was tentative, suspicious, always thinking, always on guard, with red cheeks like those of Frederick.
18
MARSHALL AWOKE at four o’clock on a freezing January afternoon. For the fifth time in a row, he was going on an
outside patrol. The barracks were quiet. A Russian slept soundly on an upper bunk and the others were off somewhere. Moving quietly according to the strictest code they had (not to disturb precious sleep), Marshall began to dress for twelve hours of lying at ambush in snow and sleet.
He pulled on a complete set of fishnet underwear, including fishnet socks. Over this he put silk underwear and silk socks. These two layers provided much warmth but were mainly to permit room for ventilation and to wick away moisture. He pulled on down-lined pants and a down shirt. A third pair of socks overlapped the cuffs of the down pants. Then a fourth pair of socks and heavy combat fatigues. Over this went a pair of pants and a shirtjack as thick and coarse as a rug, and yet another pair of socks. He pulled on his heavy winterized boots, and shoved his legs into an enormous pair of quilted battle pants, three layers thick. He covered all this with a heavy down parka and the standard battle jacket—like the pants, quilted in three layers. Both the parka and the battle jacket had thick hoods. Nevertheless he wrapped his head and throat in a kafiya of soft gun flannel he had stolen from the artillery stores. An outer suit of drab nylon went over everything else. A pair of light gloves and heavy mittens with a gap for the trigger finger protected his hands. He strapped on an ammunition harness. It had pouches in which were seven clips of ammunition, three hand grenades, and toilet paper—the impossible of impossibles. He slung his submachine gun across his chest. One clip of ammunition was inside, another was held perpendicularly on a pivot. In a rucksack which slid over the small of his back, he put three bottles of Coca-Cola, a thermos of hot tea, and a dozen candy bars of the worst possible quality. Also over his chest he hung a pair of heavy weatherproofed night binoculars. So attired, he increased in weight from 145 pounds to 190, and he looked just like the Michelin rubber boy.