When he reached Lemmy, the captain patted his shoulder. “Nervous, Gerster?”
“No,” he lied, reaching up to unclip the strap from the wire. “I don’t need this.”
The light above the door made the captain’s face red, adding mischief to his grin. “Count to three, then pull the strap.”
“Yes, sir!”
A minute later, the red light turned yellow. When the light turned green, they would jump in twenty-second intervals, which meant a half a mile between each soldier. After landing, he would be on his own. They had memorized individual routes through dry streams and over rocky hills. Like a nighttime treasure hunt, each soldier had to find and jot down codes painted on rocks at various destination points and reach the gathering spot by dawn.
Lemmy shut his eyes and imagined the topographic map he had memorized. He recalled the desert paths that served deer in search of water, the wadis — dry streams-that were always at risk of flash floods, the sharp-edged palisades that spiked along the rolling dunes. For a good navigator, the maps gave rich information in shades of brown and green that told of the forms taken by the earth. Lemmy’s Talmudic mind, trained to digest complex facts and weigh conflicting scenarios, found it easy to interpret the map, visualize the three-dimensional landscape, and memorize the details of his route. The rest depended on his stamina.
The green light went on. Zigelnick pushed open the door, and wind whirled into the plane. Lemmy shut his eyes, leapt into the darkness, and immediately regretted it. The wind grabbed his body and tossed him like a piece of paper. A moment later his fall stabilized somewhat as the colossal magnet of the earth pulled him downward with relentless force. The acceleration screamed in his ears. The pressure grew in his chest as his guts rose to his throat. He searched blindly for the release strap, his mind intoxicated by the thrill of free fall. A voice inside his head counted, Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Twenty-four.
He reached farther down for the strap.
His hand grabbed empty air.
Grabbed again.
Nothing!
E lie Weiss examined the photograph closely. The woman was smiling. A lock of light hair dropped nonchalantly across her forehead. Moshe Dayan, in uniform, stood behind her, his hands on her hips. They were looking up, possibly at a bird or a plane. Behind them was Dayan’s staff car and in the background, a sandy beach and a cluster of buildings. The date on the back of the photo placed it about a year before Dayan retired from the IDF.
“Bella Leibowitz,” Agent Yosh said. “Her husband was Lieutenant Colonel Gabriel Leibowitz. He was found dead in their apartment, his service Uzi set on automatic. The place was quite a mess. She discovered the body and called Dayan, who was then chief of staff. He sent army medics to clean up. It was ruled an accident, but there were rumors.”
Elie touched the photo. “Did he leave a note?”
“None was found.”
“She probably destroyed it.” Having run out of cigarettes, Elie took one from his agent’s pack-Royal, a filter brand. He lit it and, taking a draw, twisted his face in disgust. “Any evidence? Letters? Witnesses?”
The agent examined his notes. “Her neighbor said Dayan had visited her whenever the husband was away. Dayan stayed for an hour or two while his driver waited in the car. It went on for a few months but ended when the husband died. His mother made a scene at the funeral, but it was all hushed up.”
“We need more evidence,” Elie said.
The other agent, Dor, pointed to a photo of Dayan holding a ceramic object.
“What’s this?” Elie looked closely. “A cow?”
“A wine jar shaped like a bull.” Dor pointed to the eyes and ears. “Wine pours out of the mouth. It’s at least three thousand years old. Biblical.” He took out another photo, showing an outdoor collection of antique jars, tapestries, small fountains, and tools. “Dayan’s backyard garden. It’s full of these. Worth millions.”
“So?”
“Ancient artifacts must be handed over to the Antiques Authority.” Dor pulled another photo, showing General Dayan standing near a gaping hole in a hillside with a group of young soldiers holding shovels. “And Dayan regularly used military personnel and vehicles on his private digging expeditions.”
“It’s a good start.” Elie collected the photos. “Keep digging.”
T he speed of descent was beyond anything Lemmy had expected. The voice in his head kept counting. Twenty-five. Twenty-six.
He had to find the strap and pull, or in a few more seconds he would hit the ground and die.
Twenty-seven.
He felt the strap on the tip of his fingers. Then it was gone again.
Twenty-eight.
It touched his palm, and he clasped it, pulling hard.
Nothing happened.
Twenty-nine.
Crack! The canopy popped open, and the straps yanked his shoulders. The howling wind suddenly quieted, and he was swaying in midair, surrounded by silent darkness. The plane’s buzzing sound faded into the night. He looked down, trying to estimate the distance to the ground. It was too dark.
The rocks appeared suddenly, leaving him little time to bend his legs, double over, and roll.
Everything hurt, but he managed to move all his limbs. He unstrapped the parachute, folded the canopy, and stuffed it into a backpack.
The skyline separated the starry sky from the hills. He recalled the map, visualizing the topography. From his landing point he was supposed to see a wadi ascending north, with steep rocks forming the right bank and more shallow, round hills on the left. He looked at his compass. The tiny arm glowed with yellow phosphorus, pointing north. He followed the skyline and exhaled in relief, recognizing the formation he had memorized back at the base.
He made sure the Uzi was loaded and the safety latch secured. The Egyptian border was only a few miles south, a porous line often crossed by Palestinian terrorists heading for the Israeli farming communities in the Negev Desert. Their attacks had intensified recently. Only a few days earlier Lemmy had read in Ha’aretz that Egyptian president Gamal Abdul Nasser had ordered his generals to transfer all remaining Egyptian forces from Yemen, where they had taken part in a bloody civil war, to the Sinai Peninsula, declaring: The Arab nation is ready to remove the last foothold of imperialism from our land. PLO leader Ahmad Shuqairi had told reporters at his headquarters in Gaza: Very soon the Jews will be repatriated to the countries they came from, but I estimate that none of them will survive the war.
The thought crossed Lemmy’s mind that PLO infiltrators might be lurking in the darkness, ready to welcome him with a burst of automatic fire. He pushed the thought away and focused on the task ahead. With a strip of cloth tied around his head to keep the sweat from his eyes, Lemmy ran up the narrow wadi, his boots stomping the rocks. He counted his steps to measure the distance. After two thousand steps, he held up his compass and searched the skyline, finding the boulder at the top of the hill on the right-a massive rock, wide and flat, reminiscent of the boulder his father had mounted every Friday to pray in view of Temple Mount.
Once on top of the boulder, he cupped his flashlight with his hand and turned it on. The series of letters and numbers had been painted on the boulder in black, and he copied them down on a piece of paper. He shoved everything back into his pouch, leaped off the boulder, and ran.
By the third target, Lemmy’s feet ached, his leg muscles burned, and his shoulders grew sore from the heavy backpack. The landscape had flattened, the skyline harder to decipher. He looked at his watch. He was making good time, but one erroneous turn and his advantage would disappear. He closed his eyes and concentrated, imagining the path ahead: Down a moderate slope at exactly thirty-seven degrees from the north, turn right and head east into a wide valley. He adjusted the strap of the Uzi and shifted the backpack slightly higher.
At the bottom of the hill he turned right. His throat was dry and his shirt was wet with sweat. But he kept going, determined to reach the final destinati
on before anyone else. The army had become his new home, his new family. He hoped to be chosen for officers’ training and pursue a military career like Captain Zigelnick.
A wide valley should open before him any minute now. He had not been able to tell from the map whether the valley would be bare or cultivated. Such valleys had rich alluvial soil, and farmers from the kibbutzim traveled hours on their tractors to farm every piece of fertile land.
Lemmy sprinted across the field, happy to gain some distance at high speed, but his boot hit a hard object, and he fell. The packed parachute landed on his head, pushing his face into the dirt. He cursed, rolled over, and spat out the sand.
When he realized what had tripped him, his anger turned to joy. He lifted the watermelon with both hands and let go. It dropped and split open. A second later, his teeth sunk deep into the juicy, sweet flesh. It filled his mouth, dripping on his chin and onto his shirt.
Earlier that year, Israel had opened the largest manmade waterway in the Middle East, connecting Lake Kinneret in the Galilee to the Negev Desert through open canals and underground pipes. The immense project had been the brainchild of Prime Minister Levi Eshkol, whose dedication speech predicted: This waterway will transform our barren land into fertile soil, like blood flowing in countless arteries to every part of the human body.
The Syrians responded with efforts to divert the Yarmuch River, intending to dry up Lake Kinneret. When diplomatic mediation proved futile, Israeli fighter jets destroyed the Syrian dams. Lemmy thanked the anonymous IDF pilots whose attack had kept the water flowing south to nourish this watermelon field.
He was chewing on the last piece when rocks tumbled from a nearby hillside. He placed the watermelon on the ground, rubbed his sticky hands against his pants, and reached for the Uzi.
A man’s silhouette appeared against the starry sky.
Lemmy pressed the Uzi to the inside of his forearm, aimed at the figure, and threaded his forefinger into the trigger slot.
A watermelon burst open.
Lemmy’s forefinger eased out of the trigger slot. He picked up a piece of watermelon skin and tossed it.
A cry came in response, and an Uzi was cocked.
“Don’t shoot,” Lemmy yelled, laughing.
“Gerster! I’ll kill you!” It was Ronen, who had jumped from the plane right after Lemmy.
“Chill out. And let me help you with this watermelon.”
“Steal your own watermelon!”
“I already did. They’re so good.” Lemmy strapped on his backpack and shouldered the Uzi. “How many targets have you found?”
“Only two. The first was real close, but I got lost, had to go back and start over.”
“Don’t shoot anyone unless they speak Arabic.” Lemmy started running, and a piece of watermelon chased him.
Chapter 32
The IDF lent Elie Weiss four reservist officers to assist him in setting up the Civic Defense operation. They put up a tent near the entrance to the IDF command center and posted signs in Hebrew and Yiddish. It was Passover Eve, and large numbers of Orthodox men showed up to volunteer. He watched with satisfaction as they arrived by foot or by bus, chattering in Yiddish as they queued up to register. The stories of Arab atrocities in the Old City in 1948 had been told and retold over the intervening two decades, and now the Jews of Jerusalem seemed determined to prevent a repeat.
Per Elie’s instructions, each volunteer had to present a form of identification and provide the names of their community, yeshiva, and rabbi. For Elie’s Special Operations Department, this was a treasure trove of new information, to be added to the existing files. He estimated that the next few days would double his already vast database of potential religious agitators who were hostile to secular Zionism.
Many of the black hats mentioned Rabbi Abraham Gerster’s proclamation, which had been printed and plastered on walls all over West Jerusalem: The duty to guard Jerusalem supersedes the duty to study Talmud until the evil forces of the Muhammadians have been repelled from our sacred city. Such words from the leader of Neturay Karta-the most virulent anti-Zionist sect in Jerusalem-left all the other rabbis no choice but to permit their followers to volunteer for the trench-digging effort.
The reservists at the makeshift desk took down the information, handed out the shovels, and sent the volunteers to dig trenches near their homes, not only for their convenience, but to create a closer association between the physical work, which they were unaccustomed to, and their own families’ safety.
Shortly before noon, Elie noticed Tanya Galinski arrive at the building. She wore a light-blue dress, and her hair was gathered under a khaki cap. Elie followed her inside.
The office of Brigadier General Tappuzi was filled with officers, who congregated around a map of the city. Elie poured himself lukewarm coffee in a paper cup and stood in the back, listening.
“I have some bad news,” Tanya said. “General Bull has allowed the Jordanians to run cables from their anti-aircraft batteries to the UN radar station. There was some talk about safe passage for UN personnel to the airport in Amman, where General Bull’s private plane is kept.”
“There you have it,” Tappuzi said. “If we don’t disable that radar, Jerusalem is lost!”
“Not if the front remains quiet,” Tanya said. “We’re still hoping to avoid war or at least keep Jordan out of it.”
While they argued, Elie elbowed his way between the uniformed men and looked closely at the map. He found Government House on a ridge south of the city, controlling both parts of Jerusalem while guarding the roads to the southern half of the West Bank and east to Jericho and the Jordan River.
Tappuzi fingered the point on the map. “I’d like to get over there and blow up the radar, but there’s the Armistice Line, the Jordanian bunkers and patrols, the UN observers, the fences and landmines around Government House-”
“Getting caught by the UN,” Tanya said, “will make Israel look like the aggressor and destroy any chance of obtaining American and French support..”
“And in the hands of the Jordanians?” Tappuzi passed a finger under his throat. “Immediate execution!”
One of the officers said, “How about destroying the radar with artillery shells in the first moments of the war? We could later claim it was a mistake, a misfire, or something.”
A major in olive drabs and a large mustache said, “I don’t have precision artillery for something like this. The radar operates on Antenna Hill in the rear of the compound, protected by sandbags and concrete. It would take a lengthy barrage to do real damage, and I’ll probably hit the main building multiple times, kill a couple of hundred UN observers, and so on.”
“Forget it,” Brigadier General Tappuzi said. “The only option would be an attack from the air, which can’t be done until the radar is disabled, It’s the chicken and egg thing.”
“Same with the Jordanian anti-aircraft batteries,” the artillery major said. “Their bunkers are vulnerable only to surprise attack from the air, but our planes would be detected by the radar and shot down.”
Elie had heard enough to outline an operation in his mind that would save Jerusalem from Jordanian bombing and allow him to pluck Abraham’s son from the paratroopers’ corps. But a room full of loudmouthed sabra officers wasn’t the right forum. He would approach Tappuzi in private.
L emmy reached the final destination in the early morning, finding Captain Zigelnick and a driver roasting potatoes by a campfire. He showed Zigelnick the codes he had jotted down at each of his destination points, which the captain compared to a list. They were correct.
Sanani showed up almost an hour later and cursed at the sight of Lemmy chewing on a piece of potato skin. His dark face shone with sweat as he dropped to the ground, panting. “I’m going to beat you next time, Gerster!”
“Good luck,” Lemmy said.
The rest of the soldiers trickled in, handed in their lists of scribbled codes, and unloaded their gear while sharing experiences with the ot
hers. Meanwhile, the surrounding yellow dunes began to heat up under the morning sun.
Captain Zigelnick beckoned Lemmy. He was only a couple of years older than his trainees, but his rank and seniority made him seem like an adult. “Training is almost over. You feel ready for battle?”
Lemmy realized his commander wasn’t joking. He was talking of a real battle, with Arabs shooting to kill, with blood and death all around, like the war stories Lemmy had read in Tanya’s books. “I’m ready,” he said. “We’ll beat them back and then some.”
Zigelnick smiled. “That’s the spirit. Just remember, you don’t have to prove anything to anybody.”
“Prove?”
“Your father is a famous man.”
Lemmy felt his face blush. How did Zigelnick find out? Pretending to watch the other soldiers load the gear into the canvas-covered back of the truck, he regained his composure. “He’s not my father anymore.”
Captain Zigelnick’s forehead creased.
“I’m dead to him.”
“Then you don’t have a reason to die again.” Zigelnick patted his shoulder. “I don’t care about your father. He can go on preaching nonsense. But I don’t want to see you showing off when bullets start flying. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Once the truck was loaded, Zigelnick jumped in the cabin next to the driver, and they began the long drive back to the camp in the hills south of Beersheba. Lemmy sat with the rest of the soldiers in the back of the truck, surrounded by piles of gear and backpacks.
As always, Sanani was the center of attention, drawing on his endless fountain of jokes. “Do you know why the black hats grow long payos?” Sanani paused for a moment then answered his own query. “So that when they walk down the street and see a sexy woman, they can cover their eyes with the payos but still see her tits through the hairs.”
The roaring laughter was louder than the constant humming of the truck.
“And why do they wear black hats and black coats?” Sanani looked around. “Because it makes them invisible when they prowl the parks at night to find a whore.”
The Jerusalem inception Page 22