Peter paced, explaining his logic to the colonel, who didn’t dismiss the idea. “You have to understand,” the officer said when Peter finished, “this is our number one priority. We’ve had patrols out every minute, all day and night, looking for him. Shin Bet too. Those Arabs waiting outside? They’re from the area where he went missing, that’s why they’re here. Someone must have seen something. We’re on it, Peter. And I’ll be straight with you. You being here makes me very uncomfortable. The other poor sod’s family couldn’t come here, you’re pulling rank. I understand, I’d probably do the same. But I don’t want anyone here to know he’s your brother. Just say Mossad has its reasons.”
Peter nodded. He would have said the same. But he didn’t give a hoot what anyone said, he’d turn Gaza upside down to find Arie.
Ben-Tsion entered, a short gruff man with cropped iron-gray hair. He ignored Peter. The colonel didn’t waste words. “Arie Nesher, the MIA. Our friend here from Mossad thinks these people are worth checking on,” Uri said. “You’ll see why in the folder.” The Shin Bet agent took it without a word, glanced at Peter, and left.
“He’s a good man, Peter, but he has his hands full, to put it mildly.”
“Don’t worry, I’m used to it. They’re all like that.”
Colonel Uri chuckled, as a lieutenant rushed in. “Sir, they may have found the MIA. Comms from Gimmel patrol, a mile northeast of the refugee camp along the old railroad track.” The colonel glanced at Peter and back at the officer. “What do we know?”
“Just that. There is a contact now.”
“A firefight?”
“Not clear. Just that first word.”
“Get backup there right away. If they’re not needed they can return but get them moving.”
“Yes, sir.” The lieutenant ran out the door.
Peter raised an eyebrow. “You stay here,” Uri said. “No disrespect, Peter, but this is army. We’re handling it. Nothing you can do. But your timing, as always, is impeccable.”
Peter’s jaw clenched, but again, he knew the colonel was right. All the soldiers would need was more soldiers, not some civilian getting in the way.
He swallowed hard. “Are you going?” he said. The colonel hesitated. The area was calm and this was the biggest operation of the day. An Israeli life was at stake. And he hated the thought, but it was Arie Nesher, the tycoon. What the hell was he doing in a tank? Couldn’t he buy his way out of serving?
“All right, let’s go,” he said. “But don’t say anything, don’t do anything. We may need you to identify him if necessary. I hope it isn’t. Come.”
They raced out of the compound, dust flying: two APCs loaded with the paratroopers delayed from their mission north, led by two Jeeps, with the colonel and Peter in one, medics and their supplies in the other. An ambulance would follow.
When they found the patrol, guarding a single old man in a torn shirt sitting on the railroad track, the colonel cursed. “What the hell is this?” he demanded. “What’s the story here?”
When he came back to the Jeep he told Peter, “There was a language issue. The old man kept saying ‘jesh, yehud,’ which is about all the Arabic our boys know—army, Jew—but now a Moroccan soldier turned up, he’s translating. And this could be it, Peter. The old man says he has an Israeli soldier in his house. That he’s been hiding him.”
“Since when?”
“Five days. It fits. He says the soldier burst into his home at night, bleeding heavily from the head. His neighbors would have killed him, but I guess he’s one of the good ones, he hid him. He couldn’t get away to find a patrol until now because he was scared. He says it isn’t looking good for the soldier. Infection, he’s delirious. So he took the risk.”
“Is this too good to be true? A trap? I mean, if he’s delirious, making noise, the neighbors would have heard him,” Peter said.
“I’m thinking that too. But we have to check. Of course that’ll compromise the old man. The neighbors will know he helped the Jew.”
“One step at a time. Let’s go.”
The man refused to get in an Israeli Jeep in case the neighbors saw him, so the Jeeps and APC’s followed him as he hobbled, twenty yards ahead. Progress was slow. He looked over his shoulder many times, as if he’d changed his mind and was hoping the Jews had gone.
“Hurry up,” Peter muttered. “He’s a good man though,” he said. “We’ll have to look after him.”
“If it isn’t a trap.”
“Yes. What will you do when you get there?”
“Depends on the location. If it’s a narrow alley, in the middle of the refugee camp, we have a problem. And they’re all narrow, it’s like a maze.”
They bumped along in silence. The homes became smaller and crowded, sewage ran down the dirt track and gathered in ditches. It stank, flies buzzed in the jeep. The army had kept out of the refugee camp, one of the largest in the Gaza Strip. It had no strategic value, so there was no reason to risk patrols when every alley and rooftop could hide a dozen fighters who could shoot and disappear in seconds.
When the old man stopped and pointed, a paratroop officer approached him with the translator. The convoy halted behind them. Children stopped playing in the alleys to gawk and their mothers ran out, gathered them up, and scuttled away. Faces appeared in windows, women in scarves pulled back, their places taken by men. It was noon, the sun glared at them, glinting in dark pools of wastewater. Peter wiped the sweat from his face.
“Well, it’s about as bad as it gets,” Uri said. “It couldn’t be narrower. And it’s long too.” He looked down the alley, at Peter, down the alley again. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Uri said. “About how we should handle this?”
“You mean I go in? Yes, it makes sense. I can identify him. And alone, in case it’s an ambush.”
“You don’t have to. You shouldn’t even be here.”
“But I am. And I will.”
Peter’s face was set and grim as he stepped from the Jeep. “Wait until we see the APC blocking the other end of the alley,” the colonel said. “We’ll place groups of three in every side alley. If the shit hits the fan we’ll be with you in less than ten seconds.”
Peter snorted. “A lot can happen in ten seconds. Give me a weapon, at least.” Uri took an Uzi from a soldier to add to Peter’s own pistol. He handed it to him, with two fresh magazines.
One APC with a dozen paratroopers backed up, looking for a way to reach the far end of the lane. Minutes later it appeared, oddly foreshortened. It loomed over the wretched homes. The street was quiet, no children, no faces at the window, everyone hiding.
“Okay, good luck, Peter.”
Peter nodded and gripped the old man by the arm. They made an odd couple, picking their way past dirty puddles and scrap, the hobbling old Arab and the Israeli with a pistol in his belt, an Uzi in his hands.
Peter knew he was taking a big risk but there was no other way. After all, plenty of Arabs speak Hebrew. They could have taken an Israeli uniform from a corpse and put it on one of their fighters, to entice more Israelis to their death. Only he could immediately identify his brother, and there was no point risking anybody else.
The old man’s hands were trembling. Maybe terrorists had forced him to approach the Israelis, Peter thought, either that or he was a brave and good man. He’d soon find out, the hard way.
They crept along the alley, which was silent as the grave. Peter’s eyes scanned each hut, his Uzi following his gaze. Damn. He should have taken grenades. He’d love to have one in his hand right now.
Looking left, his skin prickled. Three Israeli soldiers were kneeling twenty yards down the alley, ready to sprint forward at the first gunshot. He’d feel better if they were at his shoulder, but that could alarm the people holding Arie, if he was here. They could shoot him and run. Better this way.
Seconds later the Arab stopped. “Whooa hina,” he said, “Here it is.” Peter pulled the man closer, scanning the silent alley, the menacing ro
ofs. He gestured at the hut, his Uzi in the man’s back.
The old Arab nodded and saying something in a soothing voice in Arabic, he pushed open the door. It creaked and hung ajar, a harsh line of light cutting the darkness. Peter pushed him in and took a step, waiting for his eyes to adjust. He made out an old woman cowering against a wall, protecting two little children who were pressed into her long skirts. She pointed with her chin toward another door at the head of a narrow, dark corridor separating two more rooms. Sleeping rooms? That’s not right. Why so many? As Peter stared into the gloom, his neck hairs rose.
He prodded the old man, motioned with his Uzi for him to lead the way, but when the Arab glanced at his wife and hesitated, there was a scraping sound. A door opening? One of the rooms? It was too dark to see. Peter leapt to the side, grabbed the man, held him tight to his chest, he’d take the first bullet. He reached back and kicked the entrance door open farther, but it gave no more light. He signaled to the woman to get out. She shook her head and sank to her knees against the wall, still gripping her children. What’s she afraid of? Him, somebody else? He shouldn’t take a chance, he should get out now. But what if it was Arie? If they had him? They’d shoot him if they knew they’d been rumbled. No choice. Move. Fast.
Peter pushed the man forward so that he stumbled into the corridor. Step for step behind him, Peter yanked open one door, Uzi at his shoulder, finger tight on the trigger, he scanned the room. Nothing. He whirled round, opened the other room, and pushed the old man in first. It all happened in a flash, there was no room for failure. At his feet there was a blur of motion and a squeal.
A fat shape with a long thin tail, a rat, bigger and darker than any he’d ever seen, brushed against him, followed by two more. He lashed out with his foot, catching one square in the gut, lifting it feet into the air where it hit the wall. It fell to the ground, its feet scrabbling, and raced out of the door into the street.
Peter’s heart thudded against his ribs. He fought for breath. The area was clear.
The old Arab watched him wordlessly from inside the room. He shrugged and nodded at the wall dividing them from the first room. Peter nodded, picked up a gaslight for the man to light and carry.
The Arab led the way, the flickering light playing on the walls as he opened the door. The stench was overwhelming, a smell that you could feel. The Arab pulled aside a pile of mattresses to reveal a man, motionless, on his back, arms folded on his chest, legs crossed. Peter shivered. That’s how Arie used to sleep, as if in a coffin, when they’d shared a room. The Arab moved the light closer, it reflected off the whites of the eyes, and Peter saw, through the clotted blood on the head and face, it was his brother, with staring blank eyes.
Arie’s face and head were covered in sores, and he was trembling. His chin was slick with drool, his teeth chattered, he lay in his own waste. Peter stared, then burst out of the room and into the alley, shouting at Uri, “It’s him, it’s okay, come!” Two medics raced forward, with a squad of paratroopers. Peter ran back into the room, calling “Thank you, thank you” to the old couple.
“Arie,” he said, kneeling by him. “It’s over, you’re safe; it’s me, Peter.” He raised his brother’s filthy hand to his lips and kissed it, but there was no response in Arie’s eyes. “Arie, Arie?” His forehead was burning, his pulse was racing. Peter turned away and felt his stomach churn.
PETER, ARIE, and TAMARA
TEL HASHOMER HOSPITAL, TEL AVIV
June 14, 1967
A Voice of Israel interviewer was struggling to moderate a radio shout-fest on what to do with Israel’s newly conquered territories. An academic’s “Give it back in return for peace” was drowned out by a rabbi’s triumphant “The kingdom of Israel is restored to its glory,” while a parliament member yelled, “Annex all of it!” a decibel louder than the columnist’s “The age of empire is over, colonialism is dead.” They only agreed on two things: A war between the Jews was more likely than another war with the Arabs; and Jerusalem: the miracle of a united Jerusalem would never be undone.
From this day, the radio journalist said, Shavuot, the feast of the harvest and the day that commemorates the giving of the Torah to Moses, Jews can again visit the Western Wall, all that remained of the Jewish temple destroyed two thousand years ago by the Roman emperor Nero. Already by midafternoon, 250,000 Jews had entered the gates of Jerusalem’s walled Old City, in Jewish hands for the first time in two millennia, to worship and wonder. Inspired by the glory of the victory, the interviewer waxed poetic.
From Sharm el-Sheikh at the scorching southern tip of the Sinai Peninsula in the south, he pronounced, to the frozen white summit of Mount Hermon in the north, and all of biblical Judea and Samaria in between, all had been conquered by Jewish warriors. Every goal had been achieved, and much more. The Straits of Tiran and the Red Sea were open. Israel occupied Sinai and sat on the Suez Canal. Jordan lost half its kingdom. Syria lost the Golan Heights. The Arab armies were smashed, their air forces and their pride crushed. Never again would Israel be threatened, though the price was high: eight hundred Jews dead, twenty-five hundred wounded.
Tamara turned the radio off.
“Water,” Arie muttered, running his tongue over his lips. Tamara filled the glass and held it to his mouth. “Drink,” she said. “The more the better.”
Carmel moved to his other foot. “You like?” He smiled weakly. “More oil?” He nodded, sighing. His daughter poured massage oil from a bottle, rubbed her hands, and began at the ankle, smiling dreamily.
“You’re a lucky man,” said the soldier in the next bed. Arie tried to move his head in acknowledgment, but he was too tired.
Tamara moved closer to him and whispered, “Do you want to move to Assuta? It’s a private hospital, you can have your own room.”
He shook his head weakly. His voice was thin, he had breath for only a few words. “I want to go home.”
A nurse moved some chairs and curtained off his bed. “I’m going to remove the dressing so the doctor can take a look. Maybe you’d like to leave?”
“Carmi, go outside and get some air, all right?” Tamara said. Carmel made a face and left, rubbing excess oil into her arms.
There was a rustling, and Doctor Shimon pulled the curtain aside, reading Arie’s file, while the nurse delicately unwound bandages that covered half of Arie’s face and head. “It will look much worse than it is,” the doctor warned Tamara, who shifted nervously. “All superficial, we took out seventeen small pieces of metal, from the face, head, and shoulder. They’ll leave very small marks, nothing remarkable. Most didn’t even need stitches. A very lucky man. Hair will grow back over the burn marks on the head.”
He leaned into Arie’s bruised face and half-shaved head, examined each puncture mark, and moved to the shoulder. “We had to stitch it up here, but it’s doing just fine, excellently, in fact, just keep it immobile so the stitches don’t come out.”
“That’s good,” Tamara said, trying to control her shock. Arie’s face was red and yellow and blue, and swollen with pockmarks all over the right side, like a side of pounded meat.
“We were very concerned at first about the infection and fever, but it is under control,” the doctor said. “No need to worry.”
“How long … till I go home?” Arie asked.
“Not long at all. In fact, I think the quicker we get you out of here, the better. The risk of another infection is higher than the value of keeping you here. And the wounds we can treat as an outpatient. You can go home tomorrow. Frankly, we need the bed.”
Arie grimaced when he tried to smile and squeezed Tamara’s hand.
“Just keep him rested, clean, away from germs, feed him light food, plenty of water, the swelling will go down quickly. I guarantee you no scars on the face, maybe this one above the eyebrow,” he said, squinting into Arie’s face. “It bled a lot, eyebrows always do.”
“Knock, knock,” a voice said from behind the curtain, “can I come in?”
“Pet
er,” Tamara jumped up, pulling the curtain aside, “I haven’t seen you, I haven’t thanked you.”
“I’ve been busy, and no need. How’s the patient? A bit beat-up, I see.”
“Going home tomorrow.” Tamara said.
“Really, already?”
“That’s all, then,” the doctor said. “The nurse will take care of everything. We can have the dressing off in a few days. Let the wounds breathe. You’ve done very well, Arie. The fever is down, the infection’s almost gone, just make sure you don’t get another one. In a week, ten days, you’ll be back on your feet, ready for the next war, God forbid. Good-bye.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Tamara said. “Arie, I’ll have your bed ready, flowers, fruit, chicken soup, whatever you want.” She looked up at Peter with a sad smile. She wanted to take his hand, to fall into his arms. She had cried when Gingie told her what Peter had done. He had faced death alone to save his brother. That was the truth, Gingie told her, reading between the sparse lines Peter had written in his report to justify his sudden absence from the Office, just when he was needed to prepare Amit for his prime minister’s briefing. She had also seen Colonel Uri’s account, which, in terse military jargon, had filled in the details. The Mossad agent had acted with great responsibility to prevent what could have been a firefight in a densely populated area with many civilian casualties. Who knows, Tamara thought, how conflicted Peter had been, and what love he had shown, bringing back his brother, her husband, his rival.
She couldn’t help herself. She sprang up and embraced Peter, kissed him on the cheek. “We owe you so much, thank you for bringing Arie home to us.” He tried not to respond, not to look at Arie, but he felt her lushness through her flimsy summer dress, while she kissed him again.
He shook his head. “It wasn’t like that, really. I promise you, Arie would have done the same for me.”
Arie, whose eyes had not left Peter since he’d entered the room, feebly raised his hand for Peter to take. Peter sat on the bed, holding Arie’s hand. “You look great,” Peter said with a smile. “Better than the last time I saw you, anyway. Here, I brought you some flowers.”
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