Arie nodded, he was breathing heavily, he tried to raise himself but didn’t have the energy. He pulled Peter closer by the hand, until his mouth touched his brother’s ear, but his whisper was so weak Peter couldn’t hear. “I’ll put these in water,” Tamara said, standing to fetch a vase.
Arie gripped Peter by the arm and whispered again, and this time Peter heard him: “Stay away from my wife.”
THE FAMILY
ISRAEL AND THE TERRITORIES
July 18, 1967
Ido and Alice, arms comfortably around each other, waved good-bye as the family drove off on their mystery tour. Arie had promised them a fun day out, resisting all the children’s entreaties to divulge their destination. “Somewhere interesting” was all he would say. No need for bathing suits, just their ID cards.
“East Jerusalem, of course,” Daniel guessed. “I’m the only one of my friends who hasn’t been there yet.”
“That’s because Daddy needed to recover properly,” Tamara said, looking back. “We’ll arrive soon.”
Ever since the conquered territories had been bared to the victors, Jews had swarmed across the erased borders, touring their holy places and cramming into the Arab bazaars of Jerusalem’s Old City, hunting for exotic bargains: fabrics and rugs, wooden toys and carvings, spices and coffees sold by delighted merchants at double the prewar price. In his column, Moshe quoted Prime Minister Eshkol, who asked Defense Minister Moshe Dayan in exasperation, “Why are our people buying all this cheap rubbish?”
“Because they can,” Dayan replied.
Ido and Alice closed the door behind them. “Great,” Ido said. “We have the whole house to ourselves. Let’s go into the garden, look at the waves.” He took her hand, but halfway through the living room, felt resistance.
“Wrong way,” Alice said, pulling him toward the staircase. “No garden?” Ido said with a smile. “Yes, garden,” she said. “The Garden of Eden.” Still holding hands they walked toward the guest bedroom where they had been staying for the past week, but again he felt a tug. “Now what?”
“Come.” She took him through Arie and Tamara’s immense bedroom, into their bathroom. It was all marble and mirrors, with steps to a raised bath and a shower large enough to host the family meal. “I’ve always wanted to do this,” Alice said, with a shy smile. With her back to him, looking in the full-length mirror at Ido looking at her, she slipped out of her shorts and then out of her T-shirt. She contemplated her naked body, the orbs of her breasts and the sudden darkness between her legs. She leaned forward and ground gently against him, smiling at Ido’s serious face in the mirror. Turning, she slowly pulled off his shorts and stood on tiptoes to kiss him. “Pick me up,” she whispered. “Let’s watch ourselves.”
* * *
Just south of Tel Aviv, where the last houses gave way to fields and orange groves, Tamara saw the Road 1 sign to Jerusalem slip by. “You missed the turn,” she called out. Arie, at the wheel, glanced at Peter by his side, and grinned. “You said Jerusalem,” he said, “I didn’t.”
“Where are we going, then?”
Arie was enjoying himself. “Gaza.”
“Gaza?” Carmel shrieked. “Why didn’t you say so? I don’t want to go to Gaza!”
“Nor do I!” Daniel shouted.
“That’s why I didn’t tell you.”
“Is it open to civilians?” Tamara asked.
“Yes, it is. From today.”
“That’s interesting,” Moshe said. “That’s why you wanted me to come. I know where we’re going. You want me to translate?”
Arie glanced at him with a half-smile and nodded.
“It’s good that Rachel didn’t come,” Moshe said.
“Yes,” Peter said. “It may be a bit much for her.” It was almost too much for him too: he had unresolved business with Arie.
“Isn’t it dangerous?” Tamara said. “And what will we do, you want to eat fish on the beach?”
“Maybe,” Arie said. “But first, there’s something I want to do. And I want you all to come with me. I want to thank the couple who saved my life.”
“It’s safe,” Peter assured them. “We’ll have an escort; I arranged it.”
Carmel and Daniel exchanged glances. “I’d like that too,” Carmel said. “To thank them.” Tamara turned to the backseat and gripped her daughter’s hand, making a kissing sound. “Me too,” she said. “It will be extraordinary to meet the people who saved Daddy.”
She could hardly breathe when he told her: how he and Peled were trapped in the alley, facing certain death. With Arabs inching toward them, bullets all around, he had shot off the metal bolt of a door, barged into someone’s home, run right through and out the other side, run up another alley, and had kept on running, one twisting narrow lane leading to another, holding his head, stanching the blood, until he had no strength left. Along the way he lost contact with Peled.
He hid in a stinking empty chicken coop. His head hammered and wouldn’t stop bleeding. At night he tried to walk east, toward Israel, but was dizzy from thirst and disoriented, and collapsed in an alley. He couldn’t stay like that or he would be caught in the morning and killed, he had to act, trust in luck and God. He’d knocked softly on the nearest door, until it opened. He remembered an old man pulling him into a room. A woman feeding him olives and tomatoes, bread and hummus. He tried not to drink much water, it was too smelly. He woke up once to find the old man smothering his mouth. At first he fought, thinking he was being choked, until the man put his finger to his lips and he realized: he was just trying to stop him shouting in his sleep so nobody would know there was an Israeli soldier. And then he must have drifted in and out of consciousness; he was delirious. He remembered a child, the old woman, water, the muezzin’s call to prayer. And then, somehow, Peter was saying something. Next he awoke in the hospital, with Tamara holding his hand.
What kind of people would shelter a helpless wounded enemy while they were fighting a war? they wondered together. If a wounded Arab soldier fell into the home of a Jewish family, would that family save the Arab from the Jews? They mulled it over and always reached the same conclusion: good, decent, brave people would, that’s who. Like the Christians who hid Jews from the Nazis. Arie had said he wanted to repay them somehow, now Tamara understood why he had brought a backpack stuffed with cigarettes, whisky, medicines, and food, and probably, knowing Arie, a pocketful of money.
They made good time along mostly empty roads. Where the road curved east to the poor young Israeli towns of Sderot and Netivot, Arie continued south through farmland, skirting the Gaza Strip until its very southern tip on Egypt’s border, which had now been erased. There he found the track that led into the now-occupied Arab town of Rafah. Israeli Jeeps and military convoys reassured them.
They drove in silence, each lost in thought. Arie looked for clumps of trees, inclines and ditches, rows of prickly pears, anything familiar to him from not one war but two. They passed a burned-out Jeep and in a plowed-up field, probably a former army staging post, a vast pile of Egyptian ammunition crates with two soldiers standing guard. “I wouldn’t smoke if I were them,” Moshe said.
Never again, Arie was thinking. Never again will I get into a tank. Two wars, two disasters. Three from this tank had died, two in ’56. He was still in touch with Shelly, the wife of Itamar, who was burned alive in the Queen of Sheba. Poor old Itamar. Arie sent Shelly money and flowers for the high holidays.
Peter’s mind was elsewhere, with Tamara. He had tried hard to control himself these past weeks, every day he had wanted to phone and invite her to his apartment, but the scale of the betrayal of his brother, recovering from near death, stopped him every time. He didn’t know how to reconcile that truth with another, that there was always a reason to feel sorry for Arie, always an excuse not to follow through with his love for Tamara. Or was that in itself an excuse? Did she not really want to leave Arie? Did he not really want her to? And what about Arie, why doesn’t he leave her, or let her go? Th
eir marriage was a sham, and they all knew it. Yes, that was it, the essential truth.
Their marriage was a fiction, she wanted Peter, he wanted her, that was where things stood. Now they had to square the circle. But it was up to Tamara, she was in the middle, she was the one to decide. Suddenly he thought of his parents, what would they think of him, how he was letting them down. He shut them out. He looked over his shoulder and his eyes met with Tamara’s, and held. Just long enough for Arie to note in the mirror.
Tamara glanced at the children in the back row of the van. They were staring at the scarred landscape of arid farms and burned-out Jeeps, smashed carts and cars. The dirt roads, piles of garbage, pools of still water in ditches, the stench of dead animals. This will be good for them, she thought, to see the real world, not just the privileged life they lead. How would Carmel and Daniel have coped with the freezing transit camp she had lived in for most of a year? The abuse and the humiliation of losing everything. Their father jailed and beaten. God forbid they should ever experience that. If we had lost the war, who knows what would have happened? Well, she knew, she was Egyptian after all. The Arabs would have slaughtered the Jews like dogs. They promised they would, and they meant it.
Arie looked into the mirror at Tamara, who was staring at the passing countryside. “What are you thinking, Tamara?” She shook her head. Nothing.
She gazed at the back of Arie’s head, and Peter’s, her two lovers, the only ones she had ever had. They were sitting silently next to each other, eyes fixed on the road. As she contemplated the banal: the shape of their ears, the shade and length of their hair, the curve of their necks, knowing the warmth of their bodies, she asked herself bitterly, what devilish design was this? King Solomon had it easy.
She hadn’t slept with Peter since Arie had been called up for reserve duty. And after he had visited Arie in the hospital, Peter had, with great care, presented her with an ultimatum. She had to choose who she wanted, and if it was him, they would face the consequences together. But Peter could not continue cuckolding his brother.
She knew he was right.
And now finally, here, on the edge of the Gaza Strip, staring out at this poverty-stricken battleground, she allowed herself to admit the obvious, with all the clarity imposed by war and death. She didn’t love Arie as she loved Peter, far from it, but he was her husband: troubled, difficult, selfish, nevertheless hers. The father of their dear children. Could she really leave him for his brother?
For she knew with certainty that right now, it was Peter’s neck she wanted to stroke, Peter’s hair she wanted to run her fingers through, Peter who made her heart beat faster.
If it was a choice between luxury, the house, the jewelry, the cars and Peter, she chose a loving, loyal, devoted man over a husband who didn’t know what love was, whom she could never trust. She finally accepted what she had long known: if she didn’t leave Arie and marry Peter she would regret it all her life.
So now she must act. She would tell them tonight, when they got home.
Done.
She felt a lump rising in her chest, a sob almost escaped, a sob of relief and love. The agony was over. Whatever happened next, so be it. Another sob, barely contained. Her father shot a questioning look, laid his hand on hers. She turned to the window, the glint of a smile in her reddening eyes.
They found their way to Peter’s rendezvous in a villa above the grand sweep of water and golden beach. Below them fully dressed Arab women splashed in the low waves, their children ran and yelled, while fishermen sat on colorful rowing boats fixing nets between catches.
“I’ve never seen so many Arabs,” Daniel said.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen one,” his sister said.
“Don’t exaggerate, both of you,” Tamara said. “Here’s your father.”
Arie and Peter returned with their escort for the refugee camp, four tough young men, each wearing khaki pants, a khaki shirt over a white T-shirt, sunglasses and caps, with backpacks.
“They’ll blend in nicely with the Arabs,” Moshe said.
“Should we be doing this?” Tamara asked Peter when he was alone. “Isn’t it dangerous, especially for the children?”
“Arie needs to do this, he wants the children to be there. We’ll be fine. Nobody is expecting us, we’ll just knock on the door and stay a few minutes. And anyway we have the area under complete control. Not a problem.”
She nodded. “All right, I trust you. With Arie you never know, but if you say so.”
They split up, Moshe and Tamara in the Jeep with two of the security guards, the rest in the van. She didn’t want to leave the children but was persuaded that with Arie and Peter, who had pistols, and the two armed guards, the children were safer than she was. Nevertheless, she gripped Moshe’s hand all the way and only noticed halfway that a second Jeep was following with soldiers. It was the only way the commander would permit Peter to enter the refugee camp with his family, and even then only because he was backed by the weight of Mossad.
The children took in the scenery with growing horror. They knew Herzliya, where they lived in one of the grandest homes in the country. They knew Tel Aviv, one of the most modern towns in the Middle East. A trip meant a hike in the desert with picnics and a bathe in a spring, or a trek along the coast to eat hummus and falafel in a café by the water.
But this? Barefoot infants in rags with runny noses and dirty faces? Four-year-olds scampering alongside the van, knocking on the window, begging for money? Old men in torn shirts and women in scarves with vacant eyes and rotting teeth? Donkeys urinating where children played, rows of shacks with cardboard windows and tin roofs?
The deeper they entered the camp, the more concerned Tamara became. Moshe tried to calm her. “You see how few young men there are? It’s all old people, women, and children. Don’t be frightened. How many people get to see this? Israel’s celebrating, having fun in the Arab towns, shopping, eating, hunting for bargains, but this is the reality. This is our future, dealing with this. If we don’t give up the Gaza Strip, and the West Bank, we’ll have to find a solution for these people.”
“They’re refugees. Where from?”
“Israel of course. Ashkelon, all the towns in the south. When we won in ’48 the Arabs ran away to Gaza, or we made them run. We proudly call it the War of Independence, they call it ‘the Catastrophe.’ Either way, here they are. If we occupy Gaza we’re stuck with them. And it looks like we’re staying.”
“Will you write about this trip?”
“Of course. Business tycoon Arie Nesher thanking the Arabs who saved his life? You bet. Look.”
He had brought a copy of the newspaper with a large portrait of Arie, one of very few that Arie had ever allowed to be published. For all his business success, wary of his past, he avoided personal publicity. However, reporters had gone to town with the story of the business tycoon MIA saved by Arabs, rescued by the army, and they needed a photo to go with the story. It was a two-page profile, tracing his comet-like career beginning before he changed his name from Aren Berg to Arie Nesher. There was no mention of Peter, the censor had banned any mention of the Mossad agent. It was as if he had never been there.
“I don’t know if I’ll show it to them though,” Moshe said. “They may not like it. I’ll play it by ear.”
They parked the cars at the end of the alley, on the spot where the armored car had waited with Colonel Uri. “You remember this?” Peter asked Arie.
“Not a thing. It was dark, I could hardly walk, let alone see. Come on, I’m looking forward to this.”
Surrounded by the bodyguards, Arie shouldered his backpack of gifts and holding a child by either hand, led the way along the silent dirt lane, stepping over pools of dirty water that had seeped over the shallow ditch. As soon as their cars had pulled up the alley had emptied of children. Women peered through windows, on a roof a young man followed their progress with a cold stare, and vanished.
Peter pointed out the door, planks of wood
painted green and corrugated iron nailed together, and Arie knocked, with Moshe at his side to translate. A woman’s voice called from inside, “Meen bara?” Who is it?
“Salamu alaykum,” Moshe said, his mouth almost touching the wood. Peace upon you. “I have come with the man you saved a month ago, he wants to thank you, and he has brought some gifts. He is here with his family.”
They heard murmuring from inside.
“Salamu alaykum,” Moshe said again. The family stood in a tight group, shifting nervously by the guards, scanning the alley. Tamara glanced at Peter: maybe this was not such a good idea after all.
The door opened an inch, and then wider, enough to reveal half the lined face of the old woman. She looked frightened and shook her head ferociously.
“My friend just wants to thank you, he…”
She interrupted him with a flow of Arabic, speaking so fast Moshe had trouble following her. He answered her, she continued, fearfully looking up and down the alley.
“Arie,” Moshe said, “I’ll translate in a minute, do you want to give her some money?”
“Yes, I have an envelope with cash.”
“Give it to me, don’t let anyone see.”
Arie looked around and Peter moved to him, shielding him, as Arie took the envelope from his trouser pocket and gave it to Moshe. He leaned against the door as close as he could and pressed the money into the lady’s hand.
“What about all this,” Arie said. “The backpack. Tell her I want to give…”
“She can’t take it. I’ll tell you why later. We have to go.”
Another stream of Arabic followed from the woman, at the end of which she looked at the family, and said something else, more gently now. When her eyes met Carmel’s, she smiled, and put her fingers to her mouth, as if blowing Carmel a kiss. Automatically Carmel made a kiss too, and the woman closed the door.
Promised Land Page 40