by Y. I. Latz
Not only was my kitchen clearly superior to any other in the Israeli Army, including “renowned” mess halls serving pilots in prestigious Air Force bases, but it had also become the darling of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and a must-see destination for VIPs with official titles arriving from abroad.
The Western Wall, Yad VaShem, and “Henry’s Sea Bistro”—
Everyone wanted to have their picture taken with me there as a memento: prime ministers, the American vice-president, Bruce Willis and Barbra Streisand, soccer players from the most prestigious teams such as Chelsea and Juventus.
I’d forged close personal connections with most of the senior officers in IDF. All of them wanted to be my friends. Well, it was also thanks to the complete meals I packed for them so they could “secretly” whisk them off in their cars and enjoy them at home, along with their families.
My kitchen and the adjacent dining hall had hosted formal general staff meetings, along with countless confidential debates. The Tactical HQ converged at my place when the fleet’s fighters embarked on a covert action in Tunis, or when the HQ members were using their screens to track a submarine that had deployed on a sensitive intelligence mission in the Black Sea, opposite the coast of Russia.
In between, I served them whatever I served them, while they licked their fingers.
What I got in return was worth the effort.
The corps commander and I were the only ones allowed to move freely throughout the base, without having to use a magnetic card.
There was not a single door that I couldn’t open.
There was no secret I hadn’t heard.
There was no confidential meeting I wasn’t allowed to enter.
And the highlight of my status: there was not even a single moment when I didn’t know exactly where in the world each of our top-secret nuclear submarines was cruising.
Only six people were in the know regarding this highly guarded secret, outside the closed circle of the soldiers serving aboard the submarines themselves:
The prime minister, the commander of the Navy, the head of the Intelligence Corps, the commander of the submarine fleet, the head of the Mossad.
And me—
The almighty chef of “Henry’s Sea Bistro.”
And now I was laid off.
Me!!
From that moment on, one major question began to gnaw at me. It tore into me painfully, constant and unrelenting.
Could it be, heaven forbid, that they had managed to expose what I’d been hoping, for my entire adult life, would never be exposed?
My true colors.
◊◊◊
Being laid off came at a bad time for another reason.
It was a month and a half before the surprise party to celebrate my fiftieth birthday, which all of the kibbutz members had been “secretly” working on behind my back for many weeks now.
I’m the pride of the kibbutz. The member with the most successful career. The most famous member. Thanks to me and to the superb kitchen I had established for the submarine fleet, the name of our little kibbutz in northern Israel had spread far and wide.
“Unbeknownst to me,” many important and impressive guests had been invited to the surprise party: multiple generations of Israeli Navy commanders, artists and TV stars.
As well as my old friend Singer, deputy director of the Mossad—
All of them had dined regularly in my dining hall, all of them had licked their fingers; I would send many of the senior officers takeout deliveries with the best my kitchen had to offer, for free, to share with their families or their secret lovers.
“Secret”? No secret was kept from me. There was no secret meeting to which I did not have access. There was no confidential submarine mission deep into enemy territory that I couldn’t join.
No door had yet been invented to block the way of trays loaded with delicacies that are a feast for both the palate and the eyes, and no man had yet to suspect the hidden intentions of the wondrous cook.
Or so, at least, I tended to think.
Today I may add—
Entirely erroneously.
◊◊◊
The members of my kibbutz misinterpreted all of this. They were convinced that my occupation in the kitchen was only a cover. That I was more than I appeared to be.
In fact, a lot more than I appeared to be—
That I played a senior role in the submarine fleet; that I was a daring Mossad agent; that I went on regular missions in hostile terrain.
The excessive reputation I had acquired was enhanced by my eloquent English, by our lavishly equipped home, unequaled in the kibbutz, by my generosity toward my friends, by my impressive wardrobe, and mostly—by my frequent trips abroad, to unconventional destinations.
My attempts to disown this reputation were received with dismissal and meaningful winks. They couldn’t understand how someone like me, an ex-fighter in the Naval Commando who had received a commendation from the chief of general staff for a daring mission deep in enemy territory, would settle for work as a military cook, with the status of an army-employed civilian.
A cook with the reputation of a chef, perhaps, but a cook is still a cook.
And now I had been laid off, and become no more than a common man.
I didn’t want to be the party pooper.
But there was another, twisted reason why I didn’t want to reveal my secret:
A month from now, I was set to leave for Mombasa, Kenya, as part of my job. I’ve already mentioned that I was the pride of the kibbutz. I would often fly off to various corners of the globe under Navy funding. There I would board one of our submarines for a week or two, filling in for the regular cook, who had returned to Israel on leave for some R&R.
On every occasion, the kibbutz members took advantage of my trips to send me on various errands. It could be providing them some expensive medication for cheap, procuring garden furniture, or some spices. This was the case on the current occasion as well. They had loaded me with envelopes stuffed full of dollars, presents for their kids who were backpacking through Africa. At least six young kibbutz members were touring Kenya during this season of the year, as were five more distant young acquaintances.
My requests to relay the money to their children through the currency exchanges were summarily rejected. “The fees there are too high,” they said, “and you can never rely on an African currency exchange to pass the money on to our child.”
All in all, I was given seventeen thousand dollars in cash that I was to pass on to the young backpackers.
Of course, the trip was canceled when I was laid off.
But my arrogance prevented me from announcing this. I kept the secret to myself. I continued to go to work as usual. I left at five thirty in the morning and returned at seven thirty in the evening. “As usual”? I no longer returned to the naval base. I whiled away the long hours until I returned home by aimlessly roaming in shopping malls and watching endless movies.
Until I grew sick of both them and myself.
I came to a decision—
Enough was enough.
I wanted to end the deception and tell my wife and the members of the kibbutz that I had been laid off.
But on that very day came the phone call from South America and things veered off track. Then they veered even further.
If I had known all this in advance, perhaps all the bad things that have happened since then would never have happened.
Chapter Eleven
What’s Going On with Neta
Smadar and I failed in our efforts to discreetly locate our daughter ourselves.
We had no other choice. We recruited the entire kibbutz. In the lobby of the communal dining hall, the “Neta War Room” was established. Everyone pitched in, utilizing their connections, sending urgent messages to friends and friends of f
riends. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs was also involved, as were members of the Knesset, businesspeople active in South America, experienced backpackers—and of course, the Search and Rescue unit of the insurance company from which our daughter purchased insurance before she embarked on her trip.
Erasable whiteboards with various colored Sharpies were hung on the walls, along with a giant map of South America. Three laptops were set up on the tables, separated by a battery of landlines. Kibbutz members with military command experience took up these posts. The frenetic activity reminded me of the days when we were sustaining constant bombardment from Hezbollah. Tension was sky-high. Everyone took our distress to heart. As if we were under siege and all of Hezbollah was about to attack us at any minute.
All of this was orchestrated by my Smadar. She stayed wide awake and ate nothing, returning to our home at night only to shower and change.
“Would you do both of us and our Neta a big favor?” she addressed me one night. “Huh? Ask your good friend for some help? Talk to Singer?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?! Is that what you just said?! You? Don’t? Think? So? How about, just for a change, you do what your dear wife does think?”
I wanted to respond, but she beat me to it. “Get out of your bubble! South America is not our kibbutz and not your England! This isn’t the naïve world you live in! If you don’t call your best friend and get him in the picture immediately, I’m going bring the wrath of God down on you! The entire country will be on high alert! Is that what you want? You choose!”
I panicked.
Discretion is my middle name—
I promised.
I didn’t mean to keep my promise.
I maintained my reservations—
You don’t call the deputy director of the Mossad for every silly little thing, even if your daughter has disappeared in the jungles of South America, and he’s not only your best friend, but also owes you his life.
◊◊◊
Neta is our only daughter. We couldn’t have any more children. More accurately, we did. And both of them were born dead. Smadar grew deeply depressed and has refused to try again since.
Neta was an active child. In the absence of a male heir, I sometimes saw her as a substitute for the son I would never have. Since she was two years old, I’ve been training her on the lawn in front of our house to be a soccer goalie. I demonstrated the proper moves to her. She kicked and I leaped to sprawl down fully on the hard grass, as if I were still a fifteen- or seventeen-year-old boy, rather than a man of thirty-five or forty. This was full-fledged professional training, which would have been exhausting even for an adult goalkeeper. She excelled at her role between the beams, fearlessly intercepting the balls kicked at her. For most of her childhood, her fragile body displayed a variety of bruises and scratches, mostly on her elbows and knees. Since our local regional council didn’t have a girls’ soccer team, she joined a group of boys her own age and became a prominent team member.
As a goalie, of course.
When I came back from work, regardless of the time, I’d always toss out, “Netali, want me to kick the ball at you a little?” And she would always come.
Smadar didn’t approve of any of this, which caused quite a few conflicts between the two of us. Smadar knew of my connection to soccer and of my particular personal background, but had never attributed much importance to either. She was unsparing in her criticism toward me on this matter. “You’re an old geezer. You’ll never be a goalie on Israel’s national soccer team, and neither will your daughter. So why don’t you leave her alone?”
But I persisted.
On Saturdays, I took her to see Maccabi Haifa, one of Israel’s best soccer teams, in action. I refused to let other soccer fans from the kibbutz ride along in my car. This surprised them. I was considered a solid guy. My refusal, interpreted as selfishness, tarnished my image in their eyes. At the stadium, I opened my notepad and filled it with lists. I demanded that she pay special attention to the moves made by the goalies in the game. During the long shared drive home, we analyzed those moves.
In my forays abroad with “my” submarines, I purchased expensive goalie equipment for her that was good enough for real goalkeepers playing in professional leagues. Padded training suits, knee and elbow pads, thermal shirts for winter training. For inspiration, I taped photos of leading world goalies to the walls of her room, led by an Englishman, the best of the best. My admiration for him had already become a family joke.
Tottenham’s Ray Clemence—
One day, all this ended. She was fifteen or sixteen. There were no warning signs, and no apparent reason. Overnight, she removed the pictures of the goalies from the walls of her room, and refused to continue training.
I wasn’t surprised. I knew that day would come. But once it did, I experienced pain. And this pain—however absurd its cause might be—has been with me ever since.
Sometimes, I tried my luck. When she came home tired for her Saturday leave during her military service, the first thing I asked her jokingly was, “Netali, want me to kick you a few balls in the grass?”
Smadar’s eyes immediately reflected her blood rage, while Neta would laugh and respond with a kiss. We didn’t go out to the grass to play ball.
I resigned myself to the new reality. But there was one thing I couldn’t get over: the absence of our shared drives on Saturdays to soccer games, while talking about everything under the sun.
Ever since then, I saw no point in going to games. What for? I had no one to go with and no one to talk to.
◊◊◊
Four days later, after Smadar and her friends at the kibbutz managed to reel in quite a few agencies who promised to help us locate our daughter, and the initial excitement subsided somewhat, I decided the time had come to tell her my secret.
It was morning time. We were about to leave, Smadar for her job at the regional clinic, and me for another fake workday, an utter pretense.
We drank while standing in our living room, in front of the TV set, which was tuned to the morning news. She drank instant coffee, while I sipped English breakfast tea.
I decided this was an appropriate moment.
I began, “Smadar. Listen. I wanted to tell you. The thing is. I was called in for a talk. The Navy’s personnel officer let me know. It’s not so terrible.”
She interrupted me, upset. “Henry! Look! Quick! They’re talking about your Navy!”
On the screen was a news story from the U.S. A man and a woman, about thirty-five to forty years old, were being transported to a court in Annapolis, Maryland, in order to be remanded in custody. Both of them were wearing yellow prison uniforms, chained to each other by their hands and feet with heavy iron manacles, as if they were serial killers planning an escape.
The newscaster elaborated. “The man is an Israeli Navy officer on academic leave at the United States Naval Academy in the city; the woman is his wife.”
I tensed up—
What attracted my attention in particular was the odd apparatus tied to their heads. The photographer noticed it as well, now providing a shaky close-up. The picture grew sharper. The TV reporter described in words what we were all seeing.
“Their mouth is blocked with a bridle, as if they were horses. This prevents them from speaking up and expressing their protest to the many reporters surrounding them,” the reporter described excitedly. “The two are suspected of spying for the State of Israel.”
Smadar let out a yelp of pain, covering her mouth with her hand. “Oh no,” she mumbled.
The words State of Israel were emphasized. The American reporter made them sound like the name of a commercial label she wanted to promote.
She elaborated further. The Israeli officer had been taking continuing education classes at the United States Naval Academy in Annapolis. His wife and t
wo of their children joined him. The couple had been covertly arrested about a month earlier. Now they were being publicly transported to court for the first time in order to be remanded in custody. A search conducted in their apartment at the Academy dorms uncovered a stash of sophisticated monitoring and surveillance equipment. Military police personnel claimed that the two managed to hide much more surveillance equipment in the Academy’s auditorium.
The reporter assumed a solemn expression. She paused. Inhaled. She pronounced the next words slowly, emphasizing each of them individually. Lingering after every word. Like a teacher reprimanding a failing student, or an actress on the stage in a particularly dramatic moment.
Which this moment was indeed.
“The senior Israeli officer and his wife are suspected of working in the service of the Israeli intelligence agency, the Mossad.” She placed a special emphasis on this last word. She pursed her brow. She was angry, and wanted us to see she was angry. As if this were a deed perpetrated against her personally. She took a breath and then came out with her revelation: the president of the United States and the head of the CIA had been scheduled to appear in the auditorium together, in a meeting of a closed, confidential forum of the U.S. Army Joint Chiefs of Staff.
The reporter looked straight at the camera, wagging her finger. “A source at the Pentagon told me, ‘You can only imagine the damage that American interests would have sustained had the microphones not been discovered in time, and the top-secret information from the discussions with the president had been leaked to a foreign country, God forbid.’”
Smadar turned to me. “Do you know him?”
“No.”
“It’s a good thing you don’t. He’s stupid, and his wife is even more stupid. And I feel sorry for them both. What a humiliation. Come on, though, let’s get going. We’ll be late for work.”