by Shlomi Tal
To discover who Monsieur X belongs to, one of our operatives came here around midday and hid at the entrance to the observation verandah. He waited until the moment Monsieur X put his newspaper down on the table. Our man approached Monsieur X and asked him in perfect French if he could glance through the paper for a moment. Monsieur X gestured toward his copy of Le Figaro, as if to say, “Certainly, my friend.” He didn’t actually say a word. Our man glanced at something in the paper, then opened the sports section and uttered a curse about football. But Monsieur X would not be drawn into a conversation. Nor did he respond when our man carefully folded the copy of Le Figaro, returning it to its previous state before replacing it on the table. He addressed Monsieur X, saying, “Thank you very much, Monsieur, you saved me the trouble of buying the paper, because there was only one thing I wanted to know about today. Have a nice day.” Monsieur X didn’t turn his gaze in any direction, not even in that of our man. He nodded as if to say a kind of “Yes,” and that was that. We also attempted to buy coffee immediately after Monsieur X approached the counter, only to hear him say, “Café, s’il vous plait” in French, with an accent that could be from anywhere. In short, we stopped following Monsieur X without finding out who he was or who sent him. It really isn’t important.
“Where is Delta 13?” We check it out and find a table overlooking the spot. “What’s that? Look, Emi, there’s a military plane there, in Delta 15. Whose plane is it?” This whole conversation is carried on quietly and calmly. To an outside observer, we appear to be two innocent people enjoying looking at the movement of airplanes. We don’t gesticulate or point to any particular spot so as not to give away anything to any onlooker—there is not even a hint of what we are talking about. “It really isn’t certain, but I believe that’s a Libyan military aircraft. Didn’t you hear on the news that a high-ranking Libyan delegation was visiting Paris starting today?”
“Do you think, perhaps, that Monsieur Du Pont has lost his mind? Or is he laughing at us?” Emi half asks and half concludes.
My heart is about to explode. Its thumping must be audible from far away. I stop thinking about what might happen. We cannot change anything now. We can only wait and hope for the best. I take two deep breaths to slow my heartbeat and calm myself. Has Monsieur Du Pont betrayed us? If something goes wrong and I am interrogated, as long as I am promised I won’t be in some French prison, I would tell my interrogators the truth—how I disobeyed explicit orders not to give Du Pont any information, and instead spilled the beans, telling him everything. I even gave him an encore of more details! Whatever happens, I’m screwed. It will be better—in fact, a lot better for me—if it all ends well.
“Come, Emi, let’s each take a tray and get ourselves something to eat. Right now I don’t feel like eating anything, but only God knows when we will have another opportunity to get some food.” As we order, I am sure we both have the same thing in mind, a cake that the French call Mille-feuilles (“a thousand leaves,” or Napoleon cake). It consists of a thousand leaves of crisp pastry filled with delicious cream. This is our regular order when we sit waiting with nothing else to do for an aircraft to land or take off.
“Damn,” I burst out, “we are at war, and we have to make the most of the situation. My choice is a little Napoleon.” Emi also piles a Napoleon cake on his tray. The truth is that I don’t know whether I will be able to eat. Adrenaline is streaming through my bloodstream at record speed, and the tension is unbearable. In the movie going through my head, as soon as our plane lands and the engines are doused, policemen and customs officers surround it and arrest everyone, or a guy dashes out of the Libyan military aircraft and sprays our plane with automatic gunfire, making it explode with a deafening noise and huge flames rising into the sky. Oh my God! How can I bear the suspense! I return to reality and go out onto the verandah with Emi. We are carrying trays loaded with food for our lunch. We go to a table from which we can observe the parking bay where our plane will stop any minute from now. The weather is overcast and leaves are falling. In movies, when something dramatic is about to happen, it is usually pouring down rain. It isn’t raining now, so perhaps nothing sensational will happen.
I detach myself from what is going on and turn my thoughts for a moment to imaginary trees rustling in the wind; their leaves have changed color, from green to yellow, orange, and brown, and now they flutter down. Some of the leaves pile up on the ground, and others fly away and disappear. All this is in my imagination. There are no deciduous trees, not in this airfield or any other airfield. There is just the usual noise of airplanes passing under our observation deck, entering the parking bays, and letting their passengers disembark. Emi and I sit, trying to eat, sipping cola, and waiting for the plane. The incoming runway is far from us, and we can’t see the landing from our vantage point. But judging from the way the other planes take off, it appears that we will be able to see our jumbo lift off from our spot on the observation deck—that is, if none of the horrors predicted by my mental movies are realized, and provided the air traffic controllers don’t change the takeoff runway in the next two hours.
“Look to your right,” I say to Emi quietly as I put another forkful of food into my mouth, “our plane is coming in. In another second, you will see it right in front of you. Why did they let it taxi to here, where the whole world can see it?” The plane is white with a blue tail, without a sign or symbol of the national flag or El Al. Only the number, which begins with 4X, reveals its origin to anyone who understands airplane registration numbers. The plane taxis along slowly. Anyone who isn’t familiar with the situation must believe that it is just another aircraft. No one can imagine what it has on board. Only Emi and I, and perhaps some three other people here at Orly, know that it is carrying military equipment—knowledge for which I could spend years locked up in prison, or be expelled from France on the spot.
I have to change the subject preoccupying my thoughts. Autumn leaves. Fall. Chantal! I must call her as soon as I finish eating. There’s a pay phone right here on the observation deck.
It seems that Emi is a mind reader. He comes from a traditional Jewish family; although he stopped being strictly observant, he is still steeped in tradition. “You know Yiftach, let’s get back to our bizarre conversation this morning. While I was waiting for the Regev family at the embassy, I paged through my Bible. I wanted to discover how ‘I love you’ is said in ancient spoken Hebrew. And what did I find for you? ‘My soul clung to you,’ or ‘my soul thirsted for thee, my flesh longed for thee’ from Psalms. There is also ‘For you, my soul yearns,’ written by Rabbi Yehudah Halevy—that one is based on ‘my soul yearneth, though even pineth,’ also from Psalms, verse 84. In the source, it is intended to express the love of God, though, at a later period, the Sages said that it was an expression of love of a man for a woman. Please notice that this refers to your wife and not your lovers. I’ll be damned if I will ever understand your need to always have a hot woman on the side. What’s it good for?” Emi asks in protest.
I don’t actually answer Emi. “What is it that I feel in my body when I say ‘love’? It’s a complicated and multi-dimensional business, and that word that is used for too many things at once. Sometimes I feel longing, like in ‘my flesh longeth for thee.’ Other times I feel yearning, like in ‘my soul yearns for you.’ I also feel fervent desire, as in ‘my spirit wants to cling.’ All these are sensations that are a little different from one another. You see, Emi, I’m using the expressions you quote from the Biblical sources. Sometimes the word describes how I feel about Tzipi, and sometimes I feel that way toward Chantal. During the war, I hardly ever see Tzipi. But I know that she takes the kids to school every day, that she provides food for everyone, and that the house is tidy. I know it all and can feel it in my heart. On the other hand, Chantal is a mysterious unknown factor. I can’t imagine what she’s doing. I know Chantal works, but I can’t envisage it in my imagination, while I can feel Tzipi at any given moment. She is part of me. I can take
it for granted that Tzipi is always there for me. She waits for me in bed, or I wait for her. It’s different with Chantal. With her, there is the excitement of the chase—that is something that doesn’t play a part in married life, and no matter what all the marriage counselors say, they won’t convince me otherwise.”
I use the time left to call Chantal. The direct line to her office rings and rings with no reply. She must have gone out for lunch. In France, the traditional lunch break lasts from an hour and a half to two hours and is observed religiously. I call the switchboard and am transferred to her answering machine. I leave a brief, matter-of-fact message, as if I am a client seeking a service, not a bothersome lover harassing her at work. I promise to call before arriving for our planned appointment.
The refueling vehicle is already waiting at the Delta 13 parking bay. Refueling is done from the ground, not from tankers. The mobile cargo conveyor is also ready and waiting. “Emi, now we’re going to call the plane ‘Bar mitzvah,’ in honor of Delta 13.” I enjoy sipping my Coca-Cola as I watch the plane, which just happens to be in the direction I am looking. A portable ladder is placed up against the opening that is further from me, and I am unable to see the door open. Someone dashes up the ladder. Great, they’ve grasped that they have to finish everything as quickly as possible. My heart rate quickens and I look anxiously in all possible directions without giving away how stressed I am. I move my eyes but not my head, searching for the possible arrival of airport police or customs cars with their sirens whining. Luckily, nothing like that is happening. There is only the normal engine noise of airplanes arriving and departing. Everything is being handled with lightning speed. Refueling has begun, the door to the hold is opened, and the mobile cargo conveyor is slowly approaching just as it would to any other aircraft. Is it only me who thinks everything is being done very slowly? I glance at my watch. What’s happening? My heart races. My watch seems to have slowed down—the hands on the dial have barely moved. The cargo conveyor finishes loading and reverses away. The refueling continues at full speed. In another twenty minutes, the nightmare will be over, I assure myself. Emi and I look like a pair of tourists observing the planes as they eat their lunch, or like two airport administration workers spending their lunch break on the observation deck.
“Glance to the right, Yiftach, look what’s coming our way.” I turn my gaze slowly and see a large military aircraft. When it passes the deck, I can clearly see the logo in Arabic and English: Libyan Republican Air Force. The Libyan flag adorns its tail. The plane is taxiing straight to the parking bay at Delta 11. Great, now we can really celebrate the “Barmitzvah” with one Libyan plane on our right and another on the left. “What has he done to us?” I say out loud. The question is directed at Emi, as if he knows. What was Monsieur Du Pont’s idea? I think I will faint right away from the tension. My legs tremble, and I am unable to move. To change the subject while we wait, I send Emi to bring me a double espresso. “Short and strong!” I tell him.
As I sip the coffee, we keep on watching the plane, and casually, I change the subject: “Emi, what are we going to do with the one hundred and fifty kilos?”
“We’re going to need a lot of brown paper, and we’ll also have to ask for help from the people at El Al. Afflalo doesn’t have a permit to enter the airport, so he won’t be able to help get the cargo loaded. How many people will we need to lift a crate like that? Do you have its dimensions? Will it even be able to get through the entrance to the 707’s hold? If we had the shipment now, we could add it to one of the pallets. We could send it with the jumbo without a problem and be rid of it. We have to get more data from Afflalo to plan and calculate the space. It’s a pity to speculate now, without information,” Emi sums up. He changes the subject. “As to the units of blood: the ambassador’s wife held a gathering of women a few days ago and received donations to purchase a hundred and fifty thousand bags for blood donated in Israel. Magen David needs the bags urgently, and we received instructions to prioritize their dispatch. Every day, I ask when we will receive them and each day the answer is ‘Don’t know.’ Oh, look, Yiftach. ‘Barmitzvah’s’ door has closed now, and I see the steps rolling back. Itzchaki is making contact with the cockpit to instruct the captain to start moving out. Did you notice that none of the crew exited the plane, not even for a compulsory check? They should have changed the team of pilots, according to IATA[6] rules.”
Not long after that, the jumbo begins moving and is taken to the line of planes waiting to lift off. Two aircraft are ahead of it. It’s twenty minutes past one o’clock. The jet will take off exactly on time at the appointed hour without any changes. Our instructions are to wait at the airfield until the aircraft lifts off, and then wait for another fifteen minutes. We leave as soon as the jumbo takes off and disappears into the gray clouds, but I have to drop in and express my appreciation to Monsieur Du Pont. I have to thank him. I will recommend he be invited to visit Israel after the war as a guest of the government. He deserves it.
Emi waits in the corridor while I enter Monsieur Du Pont’s office. Because all the tension has now left me, I forget that I only wanted to simply thank him. Instead, I explode in a loud voice, which doesn’t sound pleasant, “Monsieur Du Pont, what’s the idea behind the two Libyan military planes? Is it a private joke to drive me crazy?”
“Calm yourself, Monsieur Cohen. After what you told me, believe me, that was the most secure spot at the airport. Security and safety were the only considerations that guided my decision of which parking bay to use for your aircraft’s stopover here at Orly. As you see, everything went off smoothly, as I promised you. So why are you so agitated? Relax, I will order coffee for you.” What can I say? I hadn’t thought about it like that. I apologize to Monsieur Du Pont and explain that I have to return to the embassy immediately, so I must turn down his kind invitation. I apologize once more, thank him as I had planned in advance, and flee from his office.
On our way back to the embassy, I report our conversation to Emi. He is driving, and I lower the back of my seat and recline. Emi laughs out loud, partly from the release of tension and partly because Monsieur Du Pont was quite earnest in everything he said to me. There was no intention of getting me into any trouble, but the statement that Delta 13 was the safest place in the airport made Emi laugh until he had tears in his eyes.
“What’s so funny, you piece of shit? I almost had a heart attack, and you’re laughing!” I say, actually getting angry.
What’s to be done? Monsieur Du Pont’s explanation—that the two Libyan military aircraft provided our jumbo jet ‘Barmitzvah’ physical protection with their presence—had made Emi laugh. But now I am one hundred percent certain: Monsieur Du Pont is helping us wholeheartedly. We hadn’t asked to add anything to the plane’s cargo, only to refuel and get out of there. Monsieur Du Pont surpassed himself by confirming a routine landing, loading, and refueling stop!
At the embassy, I first go through the mail that had arrived in the morning from Israel. There are newspapers, and I skim the headlines. “Golda Meir Declares That We Will End the War Victoriously”; “The IDF Breaks the Syrian Axis. Egyptian Incursions Repulsed.” The commentator on Haaretz: “Assad Fearful of Revolution Following the Failure of the Syrian Army”; “Jordan Calls Up Its Reserves”; “The Syrians Set Up a New Line of Defense Fifteen Kilometers from Damascus.” The press in Israel is much more optimistic than we are here. Perhaps it’s just the opposite? Maybe the media is more accurate there, and here they are selling us lies? I put that thought out of my mind. We live in reality, and we have to stay with the reality and not with what the press feeds us. I report to the CDSE about the jumbo that refueled and continued on its way. He shrugs as if he takes it for granted that it would work out. He couldn’t care less that I almost went out of my mind, nor does it matter to him that I risked my head to do it. After all, it’s my head, not his.
When I return to my office, they are finishing dealing with the shipment of DIP that arrived from Israel on t
he morning plane and is about to be dispatched to its various destinations. From now on, I will be busy with Emi, dealing with the one hundred and fifty kilos of parts for the IAF. I prepare the brown wrapping paper. The wax seal is ready, and we will stick it on afterward when the wrap the packages. It is suggested that we spray the crate with paint to cover the French Air Force symbols, but the idea is immediately rejected. If we do something to cover up or blur the markings of the French Air Force and we are caught, it will be tantamount to an admission of guilt. Transferring cargo as DIP to shorten the procedures is accepted in diplomacy. For example, it is forbidden to import wine into a particular country in Africa; we asked for special permission to bring “Kosher for Passover” wine for our ambassador and his staff for the Seder, and the response suggested sending the wine as DIP rather than seeking complicated permits.
The phone rings. It’s Yechiel, from Israel. “Yiftach? What luck to catch you. There is a German drug we have to fly here on tonight’s plane. I have already informed our people in Bonn, and they are handling the acquisition. I sent a telegram to your CB. You will receive it in a few minutes. It’s really urgent; the drug must be on tonight’s flight.”
“What’s the urgency? It’s tough. It’s not as if we don’t have anything else to do here. Why have you left it till now? Will it be such a big tragedy if we don’t manage it today and send it tomorrow?” I am letting out all the steam that has accumulated in me since the morning on Yechiel.