Promised Land

by Martin Fletcher

  She was unsure what to do with her arm and finally laid it on his. In the hot muggy room, sleep overtook her too, until she felt a stirring at her side. Ido was turning, discovering her, his eyes opened in delight, until he closed them again, as if asleep, now facing her. Each lying on their side, their faces close, they both pretended to sleep. Their breath mingled, Alice hoped she didn’t smell of milk. Ido sighed, his hand moved and found Alice’s hip, and rested there. Alice responded, edging closer. A moment passed until Ido, sleeping of course, moved his hand to rest gently on Alice’s breast. The tenderness of the moment swept over her.

  Eyes still closed, she raised her lips to his and found them. Rested, aroused, Ido pulled her to him, in an instant their bodies wove around each other like twine, his legs through hers, her arms around him, their mouths as one. During all the classes on how to treat wounded soldiers, Alice had prayed Ido would never be one of them, but swore if he was she would always care for him. She felt an overwhelming urge to keep him safe, to never let go. He rose to an elbow, pulled off his T-shirt, he was so muscled, his skin sleek, his body hard. He pulled off her bra, his hands were at her waist, pulling off her pants, she helped him unbutton his own, his underpants came off, and hers. She was naked now, and so was he. She raked him with her fingers, felt him hard against her belly, he was heavy upon her, stroking her everywhere, kissing her wildly, touching her, pushing into her. “Gently,” she whispered, “please, slowly, it hurts. Inside, it hurts.”

  Ido rose to his elbows, brushed her hair from her face, kissed her eyes and her nose and her mouth. “Have you done this before?” he whispered.

  “No,” she whispered back. “But I want to. Now, with you. I love you. But, please, slowly, don’t hurt me.” Alice held his hard buttocks, pulling him in while holding him off.

  “I won’t, I won’t, I love you too,” his voice rising in ecstasy. She shifted beneath him, her legs wider than they’d ever been, she strained against him, trying to make it easier, but it hurt. Her eyes were squeezed so tight her face contorted, she felt herself being opened, being filled, it stung, it hurt, oh it hurt, but his kisses sweetened her, and her lips clamped onto his so that he shouted out and she relaxed, her mouth relaxed, she kissed him gently, her body relaxed. She moved with him, welcoming him, her legs felt free and wrapped around him, and they moved together as Ido kissed Alice’s throat, taking her, until she felt his whole body shudder again and again, he groaned and groaned, collapsed on her, and rolled over onto his back, glistening. She lay by him, in shock and joy.

  “God,” Ido gasped, while Alice lay with her eyes closed, in a trance, her heart leaping, bounding like a doe in a field of flowers. Every nerve tingled, every sense was piqued. She brushed her nipples, they were hard as diamonds. Ido lay his head on her chest and suckled at her breast. She cried, and he held her, both sighing with satisfaction. She felt warmth on the inside of her thigh and knew it was blood, and was glad.

  They made love again, and this time it was slow and tender, at first. Alice was confused when Ido slid down the bed and kissed her toes and brushed his tongue along the inside of her leg to the velvety top and stayed there, exploring, probing, but she allowed herself to be transported, clinging to his head with one hand, clinging with the other to the bed frame, her body arching higher and higher until she exploded, jerking and shaking, and finally collapsed, laughing hysterically.

  Later she walked him to the kibbutz gate, where he would hitchhike back to base. She held his hand with both of hers, and chatted gaily. But the closer they came to the road the more subdued she became. “Can you come back tomorrow?” she asked.

  “I’d come back tonight if I could, but I can’t. Yes, I’ll come tomorrow but…” He sighed. “Who knows what will happen tomorrow? We’re all just waiting for the order.”

  “Do you know where you’ll go?”

  He squeezed her hand. “It’ll be up there somewhere,” he said, looking toward the looming Golan Heights. Shade crept up the escarpment as the sun sank in the west, behind the mountain of Gilboa, where King Saul fell in battle with the Philistines. “The Syrians can see half of Israel from the Golan. We must take the Heights, and it won’t be easy. Uphill all the way.” As if in confirmation, they heard distant booms. “Very steep. They’re well dug in, it’ll be bloody. But we’ll do it.”

  Alice pulled Ido against a tree and rested her head on his chest. He leaned into her, his thigh between her legs, his rifle over his shoulder. “I love you,” he said.

  “I love you too,” Alice murmured, and pulled back so that she could look him in the eyes. “But I want to say something to you.” He smiled and raised his eyebrows. “I want to say,” she went on, hesitating, “it’s sort of a confession, I told you that you are the only person I ever made love to. I want to say that I didn’t lose something, my virginity, I found something, you. And I am glad that if you do go to war, that you will have me to think of, and you will know that I will always be here, waiting for you, however long it takes. Because I love you, Ido, and I always will. And I ask only one thing in return.”

  “Of course, my darling, anything. What?”

  She smiled and kissed him. “Don’t tell my mother.”

  He burst out laughing. “I promise.” How funny she was, yet so sincere, how beautiful, how American. No Israeli girl would have said what she just did. All he wanted right now was to take her back to her room and do it all over again. He felt he should say something in return, but what? She looks like she’ll cry. “Don’t be sad,” he said, “I’ll be back, I promise. It’ll all be over in a few days, we’ll kick their ass.”

  “Kill them all, and come home to me.”

  Ido shook his head slowly, his eyes distant. “No. It isn’t like that. We train and go on missions, but when it comes to it, all we really want is to go home. I’ll do everything I have to do, and more, but if I’m really, really lucky I won’t have to kill anyone. Who, after all? They’re not so different from us, they’re just people. I bet right now some poor Ahmed up there is kissing his girl, just like I am, hoping he’ll get back in one piece too. No, I’m not looking forward to this. We’re all just doing what we’re told to do, isn’t that the story of every soldier in every war? I just want to get it over with. If there’s no more war, I guess it’s worthwhile. Me? All I want is to stop them from shooting at us. At you.”

  Alice knew she loved him, now she knew he was worth loving. She clung to him until he whispered he’d better go, and she clung to him all the way to the road. There, too quickly, a pickup truck stopped. Ido climbed into the back and saluted Alice, who looked after him and kept waving until the truck faded into the long dark road.

  TAMARA and MOSHE

  TEL AVIV, ISRAEL

  June 3, 1967

  The waiting was the worst. The country crept, hanging its head. The Holocaust and the terrible price of the war of liberation hung over the people. They trembled, hoarded food, and listened to the radio news with dread: Arab leaders called for the annihilation of Israel, boasted of Arab strength—they had more soldiers, more warplanes, more tanks, more guns, more of everything and all was aimed at the slaughter of the two million Jews of Israel.

  Egypt declared a mutual defense pact with Jordan and sent it two commando brigades; Iraq joined the pact and sent more commando brigades and tanks, while its president swore, “No Jewish survivors.” Syria moved four infantry brigades to Israel’s Golan border, promising “a battle of annihilation.”

  “They’d kill every last one of us if they could,” Moshe was saying, “but we have the ultimate weapon—we’re small and alone. Our weakness is our strength.” Moshe repeated the phrase, savoring it.

  “Is that your column today?” Tamara asked, stacking weeks’ worth of eggs, cooking oil, rice, cans of vegetables, candles. She didn’t consider herself a hoarder, but with her children and Peter’s in the house, and her parents, she had to stock up for the war.

  “Yes. I spoke to Peter, he told me something interesting.
Egypt was all set to surprise us last week. Their plan was to attack our airfields, destroy our planes before we had time to react, bomb the runways, our ports, and at the same time invade with tanks to cut our country in two. Without our air force, we’d be helpless.”

  Tamara looked up, holding bags of rice. “So why didn’t they?”

  “Russia stopped them. I don’t know why.”

  “Peter said that?”

  “Yes. He’s in a position to know.”

  “I thought Russia wanted them to attack us?”

  “Who knows what’s really going on?”

  “Is it true that making Moshe Dayan defense minister means there will definitely be war?”

  “Of course. Why else do it? We have to attack, there’s a limit to how long we can call up the reserves.”

  The soldiers’ frustration was no secret. Army camps were like summer picnic areas, with families bringing sandwiches, soup, fridge-loads of food for the fighters. Women played chamber music, barbers offered free haircuts, children played paddleball as if they were at the beach—anything to relieve the strain of the long wait.

  Daniel and Carmel also clamored to visit their dad, but Tamara was torn. Arie’s parting note had been like a dagger, and after Peter had told her about the fight, she didn’t know what to think. How she must have hurt Arie. Yet he had hurt her for fifteen years and even now probably still had a mistress in some Tel Aviv apartment.

  In their one phone call since he had been called up, Arie had sounded beaten. It was their first real talk, beyond children and the house, for months. He sounded so needy. And when he said good-bye, Tamara had said, I love you. How could she not? Her husband, her children’s father, was going to war and he was troubled. What else could she say? she asked herself now. Did she mean it? Did he mean it too, when he said the same? After all, he was sleeping by his tank in the desert, soon to kill or be killed. For any man, a time for reckoning, and Arie had more to reckon with than most. But who else was he calling for sympathy? How many other women? All she knew for certain was that Arie was in pain, so was Peter, and so was she.

  Their fight had exposed all she had denied or concealed: their failing marriage, her love for Peter, the need to choose. Arie had to choose between his wife or his lovers. She had to choose between Arie or Peter. Peter had to choose how long he could wait for her. They could not all keep hurting each other, hiding and cheating. Had her mother told her father? She must have.

  “It’s complicated,” Tamara said to herself, unaware she was speaking aloud.”No it isn’t,” Moshe said without looking up. “With ‘weakness is our strength,’ I mean, that gives us a motivation Arab soldiers just don’t have.”

  Tamara sighed. “That isn’t what I meant. Life, Father. Life is complicated. Do you know what I mean?”

  Now Moshe did raise his head. He had been waiting for an opening for weeks. “I think I may know what you mean. Tamara, my child, yes, it’s complicated. How can I help you?”

  Tamara’s eyes became misty and she kissed the crown of his head. “You can’t, Daddy. You can’t.”

  PETER

  TEL AVIV, ISRAEL

  June 4, 1967

  With most of the outer windows dark, an observer could think it was just another early night for the workers of Mossad. But in the inner rooms of the Office, hidden from the street, lights were ablaze, years of work were coming to a climax.

  Peter finished reading a cable and sighed with satisfaction. War was coming, and the Egyptians didn’t have one rocket worth firing. Most couldn’t even be launched, and those that could were inaccurate and couldn’t carry a payload. Much of his early career had been dedicated to just this goal—eliminating the rocket threat at time of war. He handed it back to Gingie with a short smile. “What’s next?” he said, dismissing a decade of danger. “What else is there?”

  “I hate to tempt the gods,” she said, handing him another sheaf of cables, “but it’s all looking good.”

  The government had dithered for weeks, weighing if and when it should attack Egypt. But the wavering had one critical benefit: it told the Arabs Israel was afraid of war.

  It confused their patron too. Peter nodded in approval as he read a cable intercepted from the Russian ambassador in Tel Aviv to Moscow estimating that any Israeli attack was at least two weeks away. The British ambassador’s intercepted report said fifteen days.

  Peter’s smug smile was interrupted by a long, loud yawn. He hadn’t left the Office in two days, managing his agents, who were spreading the lie that Israel was not ready to strike.

  He read another cable summary. Chatter on Egyptian army comms was all about preparations to counter Israel’s opening move, which would be a massive attack on the ground. Egyptian forces had about fifteen days to get ready.

  In fact, in eight hours Israel would launch a massive air attack. At 07.50 the next morning, Monday, June 5, Israel would go to war.

  Gingie sat down heavily across from Peter. “I’m exhausted,” she said. “So are you. Our work is done. It’s eleven o’clock. Go home.”

  “You go home.”

  “I think I will. But you should too. At least for a few hours.”

  He shrugged. “You’re right. I’ll get some sleep. I’ll be back by seven thirty.”

  “Me too. But I’m not leaving till you leave. I don’t trust you.”

  Arm in arm the two friends left the building, to be driven home in a Mossad car. “You first,” Gingie said, “where shall we drop you off, your dump or the palace? I mean, your apartment or Tamara’s place?”

  “Drive north, I’ll decide on the way.”

  The dark, deserted streets slid by, the sliver of moon cast the merest of shadows through the trees that lined the boulevards. It was the calm before all hell would break loose, when the fate of Israel would be decided.

  Peter tried, but failed, to shrug away the thought that had bedeviled him for days. It was unworthy, evil, but he couldn’t shake it off. He didn’t mean it, he didn’t want it, the thought horrified and dirtied him, but he couldn’t help himself. All his thoughts of Tamara led him to the same vile place: wouldn’t it be simpler if Arie was killed in his tank? He commanded his mind to stop going there, that foul stinking corner of his soul. He did not want that. Yet how much easier things would be. His fight with Arie was just on hold, hostage to the war, but when Arie came home in one piece, as God willing he would, the day of reckoning must come.

  Peter sighed and unfolded his arms. He pinched the wheel and wound his watch, and felt a weight upon him: how unworthy he had proven of his father’s trust. How painful for his parents’ memory that their sons should fall out over a woman.

  He couldn’t bring himself to go to Tamara’s now, even though his children were sleeping there. He’d hardly seen Tamara since Arie had been called up two weeks earlier. He was too busy and she said it seemed too deceitful. As soon as the war was over they’d have to deal with Arie, come what may.

  “The dump,” he said. “I mean, my place.”

  ARIE

  SINAI, EGYPT

  June 5, 1967

  At 07:45, with Egyptian pilots on coffee break, their command staff stuck in Cairo traffic, and their Sinai command’s radio frequencies partially jammed, four Israeli Mystère fighter-bombers hugged the ground over southern Israel, engines flaming, jet stream shimmering. They flew so low that Arie flinched, he swiveled his head so fast his helmet slipped over his eyes. As he adjusted it, another rumble from the north and four Israeli Mirages thundered by, skimming the dunes, so low Arie could count their missiles.

  This must be it, at last. A tremor went through the men. They had been on red alert since first light, tank engines idling, systems warmed, radio silence. Needing no order, they climbed into their tanks, ready to move. The young gunner at tank eight waved and cheered after the warplanes, but most moved deliberately, lost in thought. If the eighteen-year-old conscripts were exhilarated at the prospect of drawing their first blood, all these family men want
ed was to get through the coming slaughter and go home. But first they needed to protect it.

  At 08:00 a siren pierced the radio silence, startling everyone, and the code, “Red Flag, Red Flag.” Nothing fully prepares for the shock: War.

  Two helicopters clattered overhead as the four tanks of Platoon 2, D company roared from the eucalyptus groves onto the track south. A hundred yards to the left, more tanks appeared through the trees, ripping up the potato fields, while behind them APCs chased them with squads of infantry sitting in rows. Arie, like all the commanders, stood tall in the turret, a warrior at war, and he felt the power of the mighty killing machine course through his body. He held out his hand. No, it wasn’t shaking. Twice that morning he had found himself trembling, from anticipation more than fear, or so he told himself. He was by now a veteran of death. He raised his fingers to his lips and kissed his wedding ring.

  The massive war machines kept a rough formation, spread over a mile, five deep. Plunging forward, Arie felt the heat of raw power, the thrill of battle, a thrill also at what this mighty force stood for: victim no more. He had survived the Holocaust, barely able to walk, and grown into a fighter: in the War of Independence, then in the Suez war; now he was again at the tip of the Jewish spear: this would be their war to end all wars. As for Peter … No. Not now, he ordered himself. First of all, stay alive.

  The radio crackled with the commander’s call to arms: “God is with us, for Israel.” Arie’s skin prickled, he flagged that he understood, and he ducked into the command cupola. They had entered the sands of Egypt. Death could come at any instant, a bullet, a missile, a mine, a freak accident. With a tight grimace, Arie glanced at the sky: God, don’t forget, I’m on your side.

  Tamara heard the same siren, as did every citizen and soldier of Israel. She gathered the children and her parents and ran to the bomb shelter, where nervous neighbors collected around the radio. Would the Arabs bomb Tel Aviv? Ashkelon and Ashdod were farther south, closer to Egypt, would they be hit first? At 9:00 instead of the news the Hebrew announcer read in a flat voice a list of coded mobilization orders: No information here. Later someone tuned to the BBC, and Rachel went white. For weeks the nation had trembled with fear, threatened with another Holocaust, and now there was no escape. The Egyptians were already bombing the towns of Israel, destroying the army, they had shot down 124 Israeli planes and that was just their opening shot. The BBC quoted Arab boasts: Jihad was triumphing, the Jews would be slaughtered. An Arab speaker turned to Radio Cairo and translated in a trembling voice: “We are drowning the Zionist cowards in our hellfire. Now, Jews, you will see how your cowards die.”