“What I’m trying to say,” Arie went on, “in a very roundabout way, is that I don’t have so much to give anymore, and I can’t talk about it to Tamara, or really, anyone.” He came to a halt.
Moshe put in, “Is business that bad?”
“You were the only one who warned me, everybody else was pushing me to invest in this and that, and only you warned me of the recession around the corner. I remember you telling me it was all smoke and mirrors, that I was far too heavily invested when I should be hedging my bets. Anyway, you were right and everybody else was wrong.” Again, he halted suddenly.
Rachel quietly closed the door. Thank God that’s all it’s about. Maybe it really was just once and would never happen again.
Moshe prompted him. “And?”
“Well,” Arie said with a short laugh. “Nothing really. I guess I’m just looking for sympathy. And for someone with their finger to the wind. What do you think will happen now? I’m trying to sell the grocery chain but there are no buyers. No foreign investment either. And frankly, between you and me, servicing the loans is killing me. If one of the banks calls in a loan, and word gets out, and investors panic, which they would, there could be a landslide, an avalanche.”
“But just last week Maariv ran a story on you and your new investments in mining.”
“It’s all a bluff. Putting a brave face on it all. I told them about potential investments, not actual money on the table. I may have blurred it a bit. As you said yourself, smoke and mirrors. There’s another strike in Kiryat Gat in the textile factory, and that could spread to my other plants. Car sales? In the toilet. Construction? No loans to build; we’ve halted three large projects in the middle but we still have to service the debt. The pharmacies? Too many of them. Electronics? Nobody’s buying, taxes are too high. Believe it or not, the only real growth area is chicken featherbeds. They’re huge in Romania.”
They both laughed.
“I missed my vocation,” Moshe said. “But seriously, you know that for the first time since the founding of the state, more Jews are leaving than coming?”
“No, is that so? Why?”
“It’s just too hard for many people. The recession. People won’t come if they can’t work.”
“It means business won’t pick up anytime soon.”
“Exactly. The only way there’ll be more business is if there’s a war. And going back to where we began, it’s coming.”
Arie nodded. “Well, I refuse to hope that war will save me. When I think of Ido, I’d rather go under.”
Moshe studied him. You know, he thought, I think he just may mean it.
IDO
GOLAN HEIGHTS, SYRIA
February 1967
The order was to take one alive, information now being more critical than deterrence. That meant hand-to-hand combat, so the burliest fighters of the 3rd Company of the 12th battalion were up front. Leading the squad was Captain Ido, brother of Tamara, son of Moshe.
Family was important to Ido; early on he had taken heat from other soldiers for being a rare Mizrahi among mostly Ashkenazi kibbutzniks. The dark-skinned, black-haired exception among the tousle-haired, weather-beaten Europeans. Behind his back they called him Kushi, which meant Blackie.
But they didn’t have to go to a bar with him; they only had to trust him with their lives. And now, to a man, they did. Stay close to Ido, was the word, he’ll get you home again. After a dozen missions across the border they competed to buy him drinks.
Clouds half obscured the silver sliver of moon that glinted weakly on the dark waters of the Sea of Galilee. On the eastern shore, on the slopes of the Syrian Golan Heights, the rock escarpment which loomed seventeen hundred feet above the lake, the squad suffered through their third freezing night, camouflaged among the trees and shrubs above kibbutz Ein Gev. Lying in ambush, four soldiers turned the infiltrator route into a kill zone for the Fatah terrorists that intel reported would creep down from the Heights to lay land mines along the border patrol road. Four more soldiers hid higher up, dug in among the rocks so that when the surviving Arabs turned and fled, they would run right into them. One would be spared, bound, blindfolded, and taken for interrogation. The main question: How much are the Syrians helping you? Israel needed to know whether the weekly raids by Fatah, the fighting arm of the newly formed Palestine Liberation Organization, were merely a local irritation, or part of a larger plan. Was Syria’s goal simply to farm the demilitarized areas or was it preparing for all-out war on the Jewish state? What Ido couldn’t know was that one of the people who most needed the information was his brother-in-law, Peter Nesher.
All night the soldiers maintained total silence, the dark scented by groves of eucalyptus trees. They lay in two semicircles, communicating only by touching feet and pointing. To urinate they rolled over, avoiding leaves. In the all but moonless night they saw only shadows of shadows, every distant hoot or bird tweet could signal the coming enemy.
Ido’s focus was constant. And it was Ido, highest up the hill, closest to the enemy, who heard them first. He glanced beneath the leather flap covering his watch face. 02.15. At last.
First, a cracking twig, murmurs, light footsteps. Then, so close he heard labored breathing. Reflected moonlight pierced the gloom, glinting off a swinging wristwatch between the outline of two trees. He figured three or four Arabs, treading softly, right into the ambush.
Along the line, one soldier’s foot connected with another, fingers pointed. Painted faces rose from the damp earth, Uzi semiautomatics at the men’s shoulders.
Three silhouettes loomed in the dark, menacing, outlined like hunchbacks. They’re carrying backpacks with land mines. Ido let them pass, fifteen meters away. He wondered, for the briefest moment, which one would live. Who chose him to see his family again, one day, while the others would die here and now? A spasm of fear gripped him, would it all go wrong, was this his night to die? It passed as quickly as it came; he knew fear was greatest before the first bullet was fired. Who won’t return? Who’ll be wounded? Not me. Never me. Someone else. But if so, why not me? Who says I’m special?
Focus! It’s just another mission.
He had five seconds, the time for them to enter the kill zone. Two would die, one would bolt in panic, vulnerable, and five to ten seconds after the first shots were fired the terrorist would run into the arms of his men, who would seize him alive. That was his plan anyway.
Ido rose silently to one knee. He was trembling. He welcomed it, he needed it, he knew it wasn’t the lack of fear that would keep him alive, but fear itself. Fear was good. The familiar fury built inside him, as if he must kill to avenge his own death. Twigs and leaves stuck from the webbing of his steel helmet above his blackened face. He saw the identifying white lines on the back of his men’s helmets rise slowly with him. He breathed a short prayer.
Four guns fired simultaneously, in short bursts, then again, and again, raking the trail, there was yelling, screams, the thud of bodies falling, dogs barking far away, heavy feet pounding the earth, a call in Arabic for mercy followed by a single gunshot, and another, and Hebrew shouting, and the third man burst through the bushes, thrashing with his arms, firing wildly as he fled back the way he had come.
And then it all went to shit. There was a second group. As two of his men tackled the fleeing gunman’s legs and the third grabbed his weapon, yanked it from his hand and smashed him on the head, more yelling came from above Ido, the pounding of feet, and more Fatah fighters popped out of the dark, spreading into the bushes and jumping through them. They’re not running away, they’re fighting, Ido thought before he reacted. How many are there? He would never let them take back their man. Or shoot his men while they struggled with the prisoner. He spun behind the tree for cover and as an Arab ran by he dropped him with one shot to the head and finished him with another. He crouched, saw running shadows, aimed higher, fired three short bursts, two more, saw one man fall, bullets slammed into the tree by him, a branch fell catching him in the e
ye, stinging him, he raked the area with fire and saw a second shadow fall, he fired another burst toward the sound of feet thumping and crashing through some ferns. Ido rolled over and over to switch position, find new cover behind a rock, but all fell silent and as quickly as that it was over. His men were shouting, the barking dogs were louder, but all he heard was his own rapid rasping breath. He slumped against a rock. He was dripping with sweat and his eye stung.
When his heartbeat calmed he called out his number. One! The answer came: Two! Then, Three! and so on, all accounted for, not a scratch.
A groan came from the trail, a plea in Arabic.
Switch positions, Ido called. We wait for light.
His men blindfolded and muffled their captive, hid in secondary ambush positions in case of more Fatah infiltrators, and waited for the first rays of dawn.
The night was punctuated by the groans of a second Arab, wounded and abandoned on the trail, his calls for water and for his mother growing weaker, but Ido refused to approach until he could see him clearly. He wouldn’t let himself be surprised by a knife or a gun. As the sky began to clear over the Heights, and the first hint of light gleamed on the wounded enemy, Ido finally crawled over, made sure he was unarmed and helpless, and called the medic to dress his wound.
The wounded Arab had a hole in his chest with an exit wound the size of a hand above the shoulder blade, and another hole in his stomach. He had lost a lot of blood, he was pale and weak, and was chattering with cold. Sergeant Eli, husky and bearded, wanted to finish him off. “Our orders are one prisoner. Now we’ve got two, this bastard’s extra, and he’s dying anyway. Put a bullet in his head and let’s go.”
Ido glared at his men. They avoided his eyes. Eli was stamping his feet, trying to circulate the blood. They were all freezing, they needed to get back to camp before daylight. “We have orders to bring in one,” Eli said again. “We have two, so one of them’s gonna get it right now.” Eli glared at the wounded Arab, who looked blankly at the bodies of his comrades, their faces now covered by leaves. Before the fight Ido had wondered who decided which Arab would live or die. Now he knew. It wasn’t God, nothing so grand. It was him, a twenty-one-year-old army captain who had that power. The blindfolded prisoner, the first one, a powerfully built man, stood with his head slumped, his arms handcuffed behind his back, a soldier on either side gripping his arms.
The sky was lightening with rose streaks above the Golan Heights. Dawn pinked Eli’s angry eyes.
“Eli, you’re a great soldier,” Ido said at last. “But you’d make a lousy prisoner. Because if you touch this wounded man, or the other guy, it’s a war crime and I’ll make damn sure you go to jail. So shut the hell up. Yoram, get out the stretcher.”
“I’ll be damned if I’ll carry him,” Eli said, and it was clear from the way they stepped back that his mates agreed. “Finish him off,” two more muttered.
Ido stepped between them and the prisoner. “You do what I say. Get the stretcher out. Put him on it.”
Ido understood his men. If it was the other way around the Arabs would have cut the tongues out of the Jews and slit their throats slowly, one by one. He knew it, his men knew it, and most of all, the wounded Arab knew it. He begged for mercy, babbling in pain and shock.
The soldiers stood among the trees, damp and cold. Their blood was up, but Ido was cold and calm. The men’s only responsibility was to follow orders and kill the enemy. His responsibility was greater: to protect his men and fulfill the mission. To do this he had to get them and their prisoner back to base before daylight. Where did committing a war crime fit in? Nowhere, as far as he was concerned. But he had to keep the peace among his men. Their lives were in each other’s hands, their first loyalty was not to Israel or the general or a rule book, but to each other.
Ido decided. He pulled at the first prisoner’s arms and ordered, “Free his hands. He’s a big bugger, let him carry his mate.” Eli shrugged and turned away. So be it.
Thirty minutes later the eight soldiers and their two prisoners dragged their feet into the base beside the kibbutz. Before the first debrief, Ido delivered the wounded prisoner to the clinic, where a medic cut off the Arab’s shirt and got to work. He soon called for a surgeon. But the long exposure to the icy night, the massive loss of blood, and the jolting and shaking of his journey had sapped the unconscious Fatah fighter so much that after two hours the doctor gave up and pronounced him dead.
THE FAMILY
TEL AVIV, ISRAEL
March 1967
Rachel had still not told Moshe about Tamara and Peter, and the deceit was killing her. To make it worse, while babysitting Diana Rachel sometimes found herself in Peter’s apartment, where, against all her instincts, she couldn’t resist looking for signs of her daughter. Almost sick with guilt, she searched in drawers, careful not to disturb the clothes. She peered under the bed for any discarded items. She didn’t want to be nosy but she couldn’t help herself, for this wasn’t only about two people, it was about two families, her whole family circle, her little world, that Tamara and Peter could bring crashing down.
Rachel would stand in Peter’s bedroom, staring at the bed, feeling miserable and helpless. She knew Arie would find out one day, and there would be hell to pay. She should tell Moshe, she could not bear this alone.
She was right about one thing. Peter and Tamara were in love and his modest bedroom was their lovers’ den. In Tamara’s phrase, here pleasure united with truth. Their truth. Honesty was another matter, for they still could not bear to tell her husband, his brother.
As for Arie, who had barely touched Tamara in months, all his energies went into saving his empire while not losing face. In his struggle to stave off the banks, find investors, and sell declining assets, image was everything. If rivals smelled blood, he was finished. So he hosted business dinners at the Hilton hotel, paraded his new Peugeots, and attended gala events, always giving the most generous donation. He was helping build the new children’s wing of Ichilov Hospital, all with his company’s dwindling funds.
Only at home did he slump morosely in a corner, as he did now, avoiding conversation. When your best business bet is a loony Christian using the Bible as a treasure map, he thought, you must be in trouble.
It was Moshe’s sixty-fifth birthday and the family was gathering in Arie and Tamara’s reception room. Peter, a colorful box under his arm, greeted Tamara with a peck on the cheek and added his present to the pile on the sideboard. Rachel fussed over the long dining table, adjusting napkins and straightening knives and forks.
Upstairs was a special guest. Tamara’s daughter, Carmel, was lying on her bed with Alice, her pen pal who had finally fulfilled her dream and come from America to work on a kibbutz. Carmel was showing photographs of a hike with friends by the salt waters of the Dead Sea, where they floated on their backs. Everything excited Alice, especially the idea of visiting the Christian holy places in Jerusalem, Bethlehem, Nazareth, and the Sea of Galilee.
“I’ve never been to any of them,” Carmel said, feeling slightly guilty. “But I think you can’t see them in Jerusalem, they’re on the Jordan side. Same with Bethlehem.”
“Well, I have an American passport, I can just cross over.”
“Don’t tell my parents then, they’ll say they’re responsible for you and it’s too dangerous.”
“Nonsense. I can’t come all the way from America and not see where Jesus was born and crucified. I’ll go by myself.”
“Would you really, go by yourself?”
“Of course. I’m seventeen. Or I can join a tour group. Anyway, who’s that?” She pointed to a photo of a boy chasing Carmel out of the water. “He’s cute!”
“Oh, he’s stupid,” Carmel said. “He splashed me in the Dead Sea. I got salt in my eyes and it stung like anything.”
“Did he lick it clean?” Alice launched herself into the air, laughing. “Just joking. He does look cute though,” she said, taking the photo again. “What’s his name?”
> “Reuven. You wouldn’t like him. He’s full of himself, chases all the girls.”
“Including you, in the photo anyway. Did he catch you?”
Carmel blushed. Alice laughed with delight. “He did, didn’t he! Come on, tell me. Everything. What did you do? With him? What? Tell me?”
“No, I can’t.”
“Of course you can.”
“I can’t.”
“Why? Is it rude?”
“Stop it, you’re embarrassing me! What about you, have you got a boyfriend?”
Alice raised her eyebrow, turned her shoulder, winked over it. She laughed. “Oh, one or two. But they’re just boys. From school. I can’t wait to go to the kibbutz. I’ve heard so much about them. Is it true boys and girls shower together?”
“Until the age of ten. I think. Or twelve.”
“And they sleep in the same room?”
Carmel shrieked. “Not at our age! Still, you’ll love it there, it’s very different, free and easy.”
“Hmmm, I’m so looking forward. You have a lovely family.”
“You think so? Sometimes I’m not so sure. Everyone’s coming this evening for Granddaddy’s birthday. Even Ido, if he can get special permission.”
“Ido?”
“My uncle. But he’s like a big brother. He’s only four years older than me. He’s in the army and he needs a pass to come home. He hasn’t been home for a month, so I hope he comes. You’ll like him. He’s special.”
“In what way?”
“You’ll see. If he wasn’t my uncle … put it this way, all my friends are in love with him.”
“In that case, I can’t wait. Let’s hope he comes.”
Downstairs Peter, Moshe, and Arie were solving Israel’s problems. “All the signs are that Syria and Egypt don’t want war, and precisely for that reason I’m suspicious,” Peter was saying. “When all the security agencies agree on something, and the government agrees too, well, that naturally makes me doubt them. Anyway, we’re prepared for anything, and that’s the way…”
Promised Land Page 32