No Medals Today

by Shlomi Tal

  “If the drug doesn’t get here on tonight’s plane, there is a grave likelihood that two officers will die of burns and their complications. That’s all,” Yechiel continues calmly. “They are a pilot and his navigator who were severely burned when their plane landed, and they are dangling between life and death. Does that answer your question?” Now I get it: Yechiel’s life is also not a piece of cake.

  “Why are you scolding me, Yechiel? I understand when you just explain things calmly. Thanks, I will deal with it right away.” I hang up. Why does Yechiel always play on my conscience? Yes, we are at war. He’s right, we’re all working hard. But I feel that we are being sent all the problems from Israel, and we’re being told to “Make it happen! If you don’t, someone will die.” How much can they offload on us while they continue plucking the strings of our conscience?

  ***

  The telegraphed request for the drug to treat extensive burns reached Yaakov Avneri, the administrative officer at the Bonn embassy in West Germany, a few minutes after ten in the morning. Yaakov insists on being called Yaakov and not Kobi or Yakov. Right after the telegram he, too, receives an explanatory call from Israel. In Bonn, as in Paris and in the other European cities’ Israeli diplomatic offices, the staff are busy acquiring equipment and calling up reserve soldiers in addition to their usual tasks. The administrative officer searches for the drug, aided by Jewish German- and Hebrew-speaking student volunteers, who have, till now, been making phone calls to locate IDF reservists. Most of the Israeli students who are registered at the embassy as being eligible for reserve duty have already been sent to Israel for speedy enlistment. Most have been sent from Frankfurt, and a few from Zurich. All this work is abandoned in favor of phone calls to all the leading pharmacies in Frankfurt and its environs to find the rare and very expensive drug, which has—as becomes apparent—a very short shelf-life: a mere two months! After much effort and with great luck, the medication is located at a central pharmacy in Dusseldorf, a forty-minute drive from the embassy in Bonn.

  At noon, at the Israeli embassy in Bonn, Eldad, the assistant to the administrative officer, is called to his boss. “Eldad, the drug is at the pharmacy in Dusseldorf. Drive there and fly with it to Paris. We have no flight to Israel from Frankfurt today, and I don’t know whether there will be one tomorrow. I will ask Yiftach to await you at Orly. Deliver the medicine to him and return immediately on the first available flight.”

  “Yaakov, you know that with this lousy fall weather, flights are being delayed and cancelled because of morning fog. What will happen if I can’t fly due to cancellation or delay?”

  “Okay, we have no choice; take Itzik with you. You will fly, and Itzik will drive to Paris in an embassy vehicle. We’ve ordered several lots of the drug. Divide them between you. You each have to take at least two lots—we were asked for at least two, but they want as much as we can get. The two of you will meet up in Paris and drive back together in the car, possibly as soon as tonight. Even if you only get there after the plane has departed, there’s no reason for you to sleep over in Paris. I need you both here tomorrow morning, at eight o’clock sharp, as usual.”

  Yaakov, the administrative officer of the embassy in Bonn, waits for a report. Eldad calls at ten minutes past three, and says, “Yaakov, keep Paris informed. First of all, at the pharmacy we were told that this drug has to be packed in ice all the time, so I purchased dry ice for Itzik and for me. Itzik left for Paris at two-fifteen, and I took a cab to the airport and have already checked in. The expected time of departure is delayed for fifteen minutes. I’ll call you again a moment before I board the plane.”

  Yaakov calls me in Paris and brings me up to date, giving me the flight number. He adds, “Eldad and Itzik are on their way. Send them back in their car at once, and please ask your administrative officer to supply them with diplomatic gas vouchers for the trip back here.”[7]

  ***

  In the afternoon hours, Afflalo arranges all the shipments heading to Israel today in the El Al cargo department at Orly. It’s a bitter struggle. A Boeing 707 can carry a total weight of thirty-five tons. Every day there are fights about the amount of cargo each unit can send to Israel. The IAF has priority status, although sometimes it is imperative to delay shipments that aren’t urgent. When there is a serious problem, a cargo plane is ordered. All the jumbo jets are being used to transport equipment from the United States, but there are two 707 cargo aircraft that are bringing urgent shipments from Europe. Afflalo checks again whether the crate, whose dimensions are now known, will be able to pass through the middle door of the hold. An El Al representative goes out to the aircraft, takes the door’s measurements, and confirms to Afflalo that the crate will pass through the entrance, though not with ease.

  At five o’clock, as agreed with Monsieur Castagne from the Dassault Company, Afflalo calls him to verify that the “crate,” as he has been instructed to call the shipment, will indeed arrive in Paris on time. Castagne reports that there are problems. There is a chance that the helicopter flight will be delayed or postponed until tomorrow. The final decision will be made at about five thirty. Afflalo does not report the possibility of this change in schedule to El Al. He knows from experience that if he gives up space on the plane and the shipment does, in fact, arrive, he won’t be able to get the space back.

  The Lufthansa flight from Dusseldorf to Paris is running very late. Takeoff has been postponed until six-fifteen because the plane was held up in Munich by thick fog. Its expected time of arrival in Paris is ten past eight in the evening.

  Itzik is stuck in traffic at the border crossing between Belgium and France. He calculates the distance still ahead of him, hoping to reach Orly at approximately eight thirty, but it depends on how snarled up the cars are on the Boulevard Périphérique, the circular road that surrounds Paris. The peak hours there are between five and eight o’clock in the evening. When he stops to refuel, he calls Yaakov in Bonn and is told that Eldad’s flight is running late and that it isn’t clear yet whether he will reach Orly before the El Al flight departs for Israel. Itzik grabs some coffee, climbs back into his car, and leaves immediately. Just as he accelerates, he remembers that he has forgotten to buy a sandwich, and hunger begins gnawing at his stomach. Lucky for him, he brought two apples from home, and he quickly eats one of them.

  I sit in my office and try to resolve the next complication: The flight to Israel is due to lift off at eight thirty p.m. If the one hundred and fifty kilos arrive, they will have to collect them, bring them to the plane, and repack them. This procedure will necessitate delaying departure till nine or even nine thirty. Someone has to meet Eldad, who is coming from the embassy in Bonn, at the entrance of the Lufthansa aircraft arriving from Dusseldorf, and I have to be at Orly to sign off on the flight. How will I manage to be everywhere I’m needed at the same time?

  I decide that I have to be on the spot to respond to any possible developments, so I depart for the airport at six o’clock. This will give me enough time to get organized there and ensure that everything is properly handled. That means that before leaving for the airport, where I am going almost an hour earlier than usual today, I must report to all those who usually bring their DIP to send to Israel at the last minute, as if sending more mail will change the outcome of the war. At fifteen minutes to six, I am notified that the French Air Force helicopter bringing the crate will touch down at seven-fifteen. The Dassault representative will receive the crate a few minutes later and will meet Afflalo in the parking lot at the exit from the landing pad, where he will transfer it to Afflalo. Afflalo, on his part, will bring four more people from his office, who will transfer the one hundred and fifty kilos to their vehicle. The five of them will drive to the parking lot at Orly airport. There, in the lowest basement, far from unfriendly eyes, I will wait for them, and together, we will wrap the crate in paper and attach diplomatic seals to it. Because I hold the required permit, I will drive the vehicle into the sterile area of the airfield, right up to th
e aircraft, and with the combined effort of our people and the El Al team, we will load the crate onto the plane.

  At seven thirty-five p.m., Emi and I arrive at the El Al counters, where people are checking in for the flight. The classified DIP of the day has already been placed in the aircraft’s safe. The place is bustling and noisy. There are many enlistees today; Yossi Ben-David, the military attaché, has almost finished transferring the reservists who are being sent to Israel—thirty in number today. Their luggage has distinctive markings. It was decided in the first days of the war that if there was a shortage of space in the hold, they would leave the enlistees’ baggage in Paris. Anyway, they are being taken directly to their units from the airfield. No harm will be done if their luggage reaches them a few days later and is delivered to their homes by El Al.

  I bring the El Al station manager up to date with developments regarding the crate and the drugs, and we mutually decide to delay the closing of the gate and the departure time of the plane till nine. The El Al station manager reminds me that his instructions are that the aircraft must lift off at no later than nine thirty. This is due to the high-force winds on the way, which will necessitate a flying time of four and a half hours, a half-hour longer than usual. Because of the time difference, the aircraft will land at Tel Aviv airport at three in the morning. The plane is to take off for Paris no later than four-fifteen, just a little more than an hour later, following security demands and instructions from the IAF, which provides a protective escort for El Al as far as the skies over Cypress.

  I go and check the time of arrival of the Lufthansa flight. It’s expected to land at eight twenty-five, and it should reach the gate and stop ten minutes later. I decide that Emi will wait for Eldad at the entrance to the plane and take him, together with the drugs, to the El Al plane. We need all the loading help we can get, and Eldad’s extra pair of hands from Bonn won’t hurt.

  I consult Robert, the station manager: “Bob, we’re playing for time, and every minute counts. How would you handle it? You know that the crate and the drugs have to be on this plane. How, today, in this whole mess, with everything at the last minute? What should we do?”

  “I think we should get the passengers boarded more or less on time. I asked the operations department to request a slot for takeoff at nine twenty-five. That means the doors will close a quarter of an hour earlier. You will check that everything is loaded into the belly of the plane and make sure that the ground crew leaves enough room for your crate. I have already notified the head purser that he will receive the expensive drugs and hand them over at the door of the plane as soon as it lands in Tel Aviv.”

  There is still one unknown issue that is troubling. What’s happening with Afflalo and the crate? He can’t access the internal area of the airfield because he doesn’t have a permit or a proper license to drive there. I passed a quick course and am licensed to drive in the sterile area, if necessary. We decide to meet in the parking lot where I am supposed to wait for Afflalo at exactly eight thirty. Emi will deal with Eldad from Bonn and the drugs.

  I go to the El Al plane to check what is happening with the loading and make certain that there will be space for the crate. Today there are two captains at the controls—one English, John from Manchester, the second American, Gary from Tucson, Arizona. Both are experienced veterans who have volunteered to replace pilots on El Al passenger planes during the war. I met John a very short while ago under the aircraft as he inspected the loading and refueling—he permitted us to exceed the load limit by two tons without reporting it. It’s forbidden to infringe the overweight restrictions, according to IATA instructions. But it’s wartime, and John believes nothing will happen if yet another two or three tons are added. It’s only a matter of being sure there is sufficient fuel, and it is his responsibility to check that the plane is properly loaded. I take another look at it and see that today there is a problem of volume, not weight. I wonder what would have happened if we hadn’t sent off the twenty-two tons of airfreight at noon! We do have a practice—when there is a problem of space, we leave behind the baggage of those we call “the war tourists.” The first time we left their suitcases in Paris and loaded high priority freight instead, I felt bad. Movies of the Second World War ran through my mind, telling the story of Jews sent to the extermination camps: they brought suitcases containing all their possessions that stayed behind at their point of departure, the contents confiscated by the Nazis and sorted later by Jewish prisoners…

  At eight thirty the passengers will begin boarding the aircraft. It isn’t parked at the terminal, so they are transported to it on buses, and this takes longer. At exactly nine, the passengers will board the plane, and the front door will be closed when the drugs arrive. The aircraft’s engines will be started at nine twenty-five at the latest. If the crate does not come by then, it will be sent the following day. Why nine twenty-five? We have a departure slot for this time! Itzchaki is on the spot and pacifies me. “We asked for an alternative slot at nine forty-five and reported that we are waiting for transit passengers.” We are already accustomed to telling lies at every turn.

  Afflalo receives the crate in the parking lot of the French Air Force Headquarters, near Port de Sèvres, at seven forty. He and his four assistants sweat hard to transfer it to the El Al vehicle and immediately set out in the direction of Orly airport. The air force headquarters are close to the Boulevard Périphérique and the access to the fast Paris beltway, and the traffic proceeds slowly, like any weekday. At ten past eight, they exit the Périphérique onto the A6 Highway to the south. At eight thirty-two they enter the parking structure. Two cars precede them, driving slowly, as Afflalo curses the drivers and their forebears for three generations back in fluent French. He bangs hard on the driver’s door of Damian’s Volkswagen out of frustration and the fellow sitting beside him in the passenger seat thanks his lucky stars that this German car is exceptionally durable and can withstand the beating. At eight forty-two Afflalo finally meets up with me. I am tensely waiting for him and point to my watch to say that he’s late, and Afflalo merely shrugs. He is doing the best he can. We begin the business of wrapping the heavy crate at once. The work is carried out silently. Only the sound of the paper being folded and the ripping of the sticking tape being quickly and efficiently applied break the silence. Together with the repeated curse in French coming from his mouth that sounds like a song: “Merde! Merde! Merde!”[8]

  ***

  Emi waits for the Lufthansa plane, which has landed and is taxiing slowly to gate thirty-nine. He glances at his watch. It’s eight thirty-seven. On its last turn, the Boeing 727 reduces the revs of its engine as if it is hesitating, then accelerates and draws closer to the gate. Emi is always calm, nothing upsets his cool, so he waits patiently for the engines to be silenced. The jetway passenger bridge is steered close to the plane by its experienced operator, which makes the procedure quick. The door to the aircraft opens, and the passengers begin streaming out. Some of them appear to be pressured and are in a hurry because of their delayed flight. Others have already come to terms with the reality of their late arrival and walk slowly. Emi counts them, one by one. The forty-third passenger is Eldad from Bonn. Emi identifies him by the dry ice container with the drugs that he holds. After verifying that it is, indeed, Eldad, the two run to a side door that leads to the runways, where a waiting El Al vehicle drives them to the plane. The passengers to Tel Aviv are already seated and can’t understand why their flight is delayed. At eight fifty-five, the two reach the stairs beside the plane. Emi hands the package to Itzchaki, who runs up the staircase with it quickly, gives it to the chief purser, and goes into the cockpit to sign and get the signature on the departure papers. Fairly soon, Itzchaki runs down the stairs, the front door closes, and the staircase is moved back from the plane. Itzchaki connects his communication with the aircraft and begins preparing the engines to start up. The center door of the hold is still wide open, and four El Al personnel stand beside it waiting patiently for t
he crate to arrive. Emi and Eldad from Bonn join them. The head of the El Al cargo team has a communications device. He is connected to two points: the El Al freight department at Orly and operations. Now, they’re waiting to see if I will arrive in time or if they have to leave without the crate.

  It is two minutes past nine. When all this is over, they will tell me that there was real concern that the crate would not leave for Israel that day as planned. The captain, who was aware of its contents and their importance, asked Itzchaki when it would arrive, and he asked for the flight to be postponed. This was not granted. Emi said that all of them around him were tense and under enormous pressure—he was the only one who kept his cool. His faith in the power of the Creator, he said, made him believe that divine providence would make certain that the crate arrived in time. If not, then that would mean it wasn’t really so urgent.

  At four minutes past nine, the vehicle of the El Al security officer quickly approaches the plane. Inside is the security officer’s deputy, who is supposed to remain in the departure hall. He finds his superior and tells him that Itzik from Bonn has also arrived, and that the drugs that he has brought have been given to the chief security officer, who asks Itzchaki to return the mobile staircase to the plane. Itzchaki communicates to the pilot to open the door again, and the additional package of burn drugs are also handed to the chief purser. Once again, the door is locked, and the stairs are moved away. Itzchaki glances at his watch; in another six minutes, he will be forced to get the plane on its way, whatever happens. One minute before Itzchaki makes that decision, the car bearing the crate slowly approaches. It is driving slowly because of the traffic rules in the airport; the seasoned El Al staff allow themselves to break the speed limit sometimes, but I still observe the rules.

  ***

  After we wrap the massive crate in the parking lot outside the terminal and attach the DIP seals according to the requirements, I drive alone in the heavily loaded vehicle. No one in the embassy but me has a permit to drive the vehicle into the airfield. Afflalo and his friends go up to the exit from the parking lot in the elevator and are taken home by a driver who is waiting for them outside. There are no cars at the exit from the parking lot. It’s a quiet time at the airport. I pay for the parking and leave very quickly. The entrance to the airfield for vehicles with permits is behind me, so I have to drive around the open parking area and the whole airport and only then return to the terminal, after which I pass through the gate. The heavens intervene, apparently in answer to the prayers of Emi (who is concerned about the state of my strained nerves), because there is nothing to disturb the traffic around the airfield at this late hour of the evening. The guard examines my permit perfunctorily, and I think to myself, I could show him my medical insurance card instead and still be allowed to enter the sterile area, I suppose because of the El Al blue paint on the van. I drive directly to the El Al plane, observing all the airport’s traffic rules to the letter. As I draw close to the aircraft, one of the men working there stops me at a certain point. I hand over the wheel to him, and he steers the car nimbly and proficiently to make it easier to remove the crate and load it on the plane without the nature of the cargo becoming too apparent to inquisitive eyes.