by Shlomi Tal
Itzchaki yells at us to make haste. “We’re running late.” he pleads. He is afraid that the takeoff slot may be cancelled, which would be a disaster. All of the six men there hurry and begin loading the heavy crate through the door. We have exactly three centimeters’ leeway on either side and another twenty centimeters above. Someone makes a bad move and the paper tears. In front of my face, I see large letters spelling out “French Air Force” in white on the dark brown wood. For a split second I stop dead in shock, and what goes through my mind is, The State of Israel will provide me with the best legal counsel. If I am fined, the state will certainly pay the penalty for me, but no one will sit in prison on my behalf. I urge all the local workmen to hurry in French. Almost unable to conceal my hysteria, I beg, cajole, and instruct them to push the crate. My heart pounds, my hands tremble, and I feel my legs buckle beneath me. It’s difficult to stand and I can hardly walk. We give up our plan to put some of the passengers’ cases in the hold on top of the crate. They will get their baggage later. When the cargo hold is finally closed, I am still shaking all over, and I quietly hiss to Itzchaki, “Get the plane out of here, and the faster, the better. I’m not waiting for another second! I’m gone. Come, Emi.” I climb into our car, trying to hide in a vehicle painted a color that screams out loud in the distance. As I start the car, Emi jumps into the passenger seat. Eldad from Bonn wants to join us, but I tell him hysterically, “Go with the security officer! We’re running away from here.” I am having a tough time; I am riddled with fear. I should let Emi drive. He is always calm and unflurried, but he isn’t licensed to drive in the airport. Tomorrow, I have to arrange such a permit for Emi. I forget all the traffic rules as I speed away from the airfield. “We are not even going to wait for the plane to take off,” I tell Emi. “We’re going to hide out at the embassy, I feel sure they’re going to be after us because of that fucking crate.” The story of the Algerian diplomat and his revolver floods back into my memory and makes me shiver for a second until I pull myself together and drive off without looking back. Only Emi is calm and collected, relying as usual on the providence of divine intervention if it becomes necessary.
On our way out of the airport, a guard stops us. He usually raises the barrier when we approach him. Today, he approaches us and politely asks us to park on the side, inside the area of the airfield, right near the exit. My heart begins racing again. “That’s it, they’ve caught us, and we’re going to jail!!” The hair-raising thought goes through my mind. We have been caught. Suddenly, in one second, all the tension drains out of me. This is the end of us. We’ve failed. A man approaches the car. He is meticulously dressed in a formal business suit, a light blue shirt, and dark blue, almost black tie. A pin, apparently only one, is fixed to his shirt pocket. I recognize it immediately. This is the civilian dress code of undercover customs officers. He shows me his customs officer ID and shines a flashlight on it so I can read it clearly. “Good evening, Monsieur Cohen,” the officer, who knows my name, says. “Is Monsieur Amiel with you?” The procedure demands that he identify himself by name, but for some reason, he doesn’t tell me his name.
“Indeed, this is Monsieur Amiel Emanuel,” I respond, giving Emi’s name according to the French custom, last name preceding the first name. I try to communicate a “business as usual” atmosphere.
“What can I do for you, Monsieur Customs Officer? Do you want to see my entry permit to the airfield?” I ask politely, while my heartbeat starts getting faster again until it is way beyond too fast.
“No, not at all, thank you, Monsieur Cohen. I know you have permits. It’s not exactly according to accepted practice that you are driving an El Al vehicle. You should be aware that an El Al employee must drive that car—no one else, including diplomats. But that really isn’t important right now. I have a few questions to ask you about the cargo you are sending this evening and what you are dispatching every day in your El Al aircraft. You can tell me that you have diplomatic immunity and refuse to answer. In that case, I can hold back your plane and return it to the parking bay until the airport closes in approximately two more hours. I believe that you have no interest in the freight being examined by customs officers and compared with the declarations that appear on it. So, I ask politely that you come with me of your own free will for a brief conversation, and I will approve the aircraft to take off immediately.”
I feel like a soldier facing the enemy on the battlefield alone. I have no commanders and no soldiers under my command. I am being taken prisoner. I address Emi in Hebrew, “What do I do? Do I have a choice? I can’t even consult anyone. They have me by the balls, they are pressing hard, and it really hurts. What do you think, Emi?”
“My opinion is that if you refuse, they won’t let the plane take off, and El Al will have to arrange for all those passengers to stay over. Most of them are reserve duty soldiers, who are needed in Israel. But that’s the thing that bothers me the least. The plane is carrying those life-saving drugs, not to mention the scandal of the shipment to the IAF; after the paper was torn off, it is of course no longer DIP with diplomatic immunity. I say go and talk to him, but on condition that the plane takes off first.”
“And is it your opinion that after the plane does take off, I can tell him to go to hell?”
“You could do that, but you would burn all your bridges with everyone at Orly. The damage to Israel would be several times greater than anything you could tell them that they want to know so badly.”
“It’s a pity the big guys aren’t here with us. Emi, I am taking a heavy burden on myself. I just hope they won’t eat me alive after this at the embassy. At least we both agree that I have no choice.”
Emi was right. It was imperative that the plane should take off. Afterward, we could think and see how to get out of this tight corner. I come to terms with the fact that in the worst-case scenario, I could be arrested.
I respond to the customs officer calmly, “That’s fine, Monsieur, let the aircraft leave. There are reserve duty soldiers on board who are needed in the war, as well as an important drug that must reach Israel urgently. Tomorrow may be too late.” I omit on purpose any mention of the equipment for the IAF. “I will willingly answer all your questions. We have nothing to hide.” I lie without batting an eyelid while in my heart, I ask myself, Did he see the crate from the air force? Is Monsieur Du Pont in on this? I wonder if I can use his name?
“Well then, Monsieur Cohen, please accompany me. Monsieur Amiel can come with and wait for us in our office. It would be a pity to leave him here alone.”
“Certainly, Monsieur Customs Officer,” I say calmly and get out of the car. “I will come with you and tell you whatever you want to know, but only after I call the El Al operations department and get their confirmation that the aircraft has indeed departed. Monsieur Customs Officer, do you have a name, Monsieur, or is that a secret?”
The officer responds with a sly smile, as he reaches out to shake my hand. “Pleased to meet you! My name is Monsieur Molard, Jean-Jacques.” I feel a little better—the man smiles and also adds his first name. But what does he want exactly? What is the point of the show he is putting on?
I stop at the restroom. It’s a familiar ploy to earn time. Time to think carefully about what to say to him. What will I come out looking like from this whole business? Can I avoid being castigated by my superiors at the embassy? After all, Monsieur Du Pont, who is in charge of the administration of the airport, knows more or less what we’re sending to Israel. He made that very clear to me a few hours ago. I decide that I have to give Monsieur Molard something, and I tell him more or less what I told Monsieur Du Pont.
Chantal! I suddenly remember that I promised to visit her this evening. I must call her. I’m sure she’s waiting. After several cancellations, I must inform her, at least. Monsieur Molard allows me to call her on his phone. In response to his question, I say I don’t need privacy since this will be a short conversation.
Chantal picks up after only one ri
ng.
“Chérie, I regret that I am still at the airport and will be here for a little while longer, and then I have to go to the embassy. I won’t be able to come to you this evening. I promise to come tomorrow. Please, chérie, my love, give me a twenty-four-hour extension, I beg you. I can’t speak freely because there are throngs of people around me.” Indeed, at first I thought of telling her I had been arrested to win her sympathy, but that would be blackmail and a cheap shot. I have to behave with the courage of a man! I really need to explain my work, as far as I can, so she understands that I’m not leaving her in the lurch.
“I’m angry with you, really fuming at your behavior!” Chantal is enraged. I know her voice well. She is hurt and furious and deeply insulted by me. I can tell from her voice that she is speaking through tears of pain. I will have to sweet-talk her and come up with a lot of explanations. “That war of yours isn’t enough reason. It’s being fought three thousand kilometers from here, and you’re just using it as an excuse. I will wait for you tomorrow. If you don’t come, then don’t come ever again. And just so you know—I am pregnant, and it’s yours. The day after tomorrow morning, everyone will know, including your wife. Bonsoir.” Chantal hangs up without letting me say another word. Bang! I try to appear calm, which is tough to do. This is the customs officer’s office, and technically speaking, I have been detained for questioning. I was not expecting such a frontal attack like this from Chantal! It’s a virtual knockout. Pregnant? All the time, she assured me she was taking care of that! I have been with her for eight months, so it’s possible. That’s all I need right now! I have to pull myself together and get back to reality. How do I get out of this situation? In addition to the war and all these burdens, now Chantal is pregnant! How am I to cope with this?
Wednesday Evening, Chantal’s Home
The ring of the front door bell jolts Chantal back to reality. Since she returned from work an hour ago, she has been deep in thought about Yves-Tah—that’s how she pronounces Yiftach’s name. The relationship is complicated for her, and his name, Yiftach, that sounds so strange to her is unpronounceable. Yves-Tah is the closest she can get to it, so that is the solution that her close friend Veronique—“Vero” for short—invented. It’s close to the original and easy to remember, but most of all easy to pronounce. That’s probably Vero at the door now, she thinks as she hurries to open the door for her dear friend. The two press their cheeks together without hugging; in spite of their close relationship they practice the French custom of touching cheeks and blowing kisses in the air, their eyes turned upward to the ceiling—first the right cheek and then the left.
“Bonjour, Chantal, chérie. What? Have you only come home from work now? You sounded awful on the phone when you asked me to come to you after work, so I came running. What has happened to you, ma chérie? Why are you so tense?”
“It’s all because of Yves-Tah. I think he has tired of me, or something awful has happened to him, and you have always been a shoulder for me to cry on. That’s why I asked you to be with me. Come in and make yourself at home. With all the dark thoughts racing around in my head, I haven’t even changed my clothes. Give me five minutes and make some coffee for us in the meantime. You know your way around my kitchen. Please, also take the open bottle of Bordeaux out of the refrigerator. We can enjoy a glass of wine along with the coffee. It’s a good time for an aperitif. I’ll be back in a moment.”
Chantal runs the office of a Parisian personal status, family, and divorce lawyer. She went to school to become an administrative secretary and paralegal assistant. She is the person in the office who is responsible for writing up all the formal official documents in traditional old French legalese based on the legal summaries her boss gives her. Her work with matters of divorce, most of which are gruesome, has led her to the decision not to get married too young. And, in her opinion, she hasn’t reached the right age yet.
A few minutes later, Chantal returns to the dining nook where Veronique is waiting. The coffee is already on the table, the wine has been poured into long-stemmed glasses, and classical music is playing on the radio. Chantal is wearing long wide-legged black pants and a red polo-necked sweater. Her long, dark blond hair hangs loosely on her shoulders.
“Wow, Chantal, chérie, you look stunning. Why don’t you stop all this nonsense? Unentangle yourself and go back to being you.”
Chantal sits down and drinks the demitasse of coffee, without sugar, in one gulp. She turns to her friend, sitting with both her arms on the table as she lays her right hand on Veronique’s left hand.
“But, Vero, I love Yves-Tah. He is so right for me. Why should I give him up? Do you remember your beautiful relationship with Jean-Pierre, which continued for many years? Six? Or was it seven?”
“It was a thrilling six years and eight months, followed by five miserable months when we ended the relationship.”
“And then you met Yves-Tah. I remember that you met him and told me he was a married Israeli diplomat. You were very pleased with yourself at the way he chased you. It bolstered the ego that Jean-Pierre had destroyed.”
Veronique, who was a little older than Chantal, needed a man to help her break free from her intense love of Jean-Pierre, a man who would restore her confidence in her femininity. But Veronique gave all of herself to the affair with Yiftach. She was looking for a real and lasting relationship, but Yiftach could only promise her a light-hearted, uncommitted romance. In Yiftach, Veronique discovered a true gentleman and a fantastic lover, qualities that captured her heart. Veronique discussed the subject with her close friend Chantal and decided to end her association with him. She introduced Chantal to Yiftach, and they went out a few times to a restaurant or a show. When Veronique broke up with Yiftach, Chantal grew a lot closer to him, and their romance developed, with Veronique’s encouragement.
“Even now, when I am only twenty-six, I still don’t think of finding a husband and settling down with children and a family. Since all Yves-Tah’s exceptional qualities have made me fall head over heels in love with him, it is hard for me to believe that the relationship is over when for me, it is just at its peak! We’ve only known one another for eight months, and I understand that he is only a lover, without long-term obligations, but I am in love with him! I love him and all his heartwarming qualities. He pampers me and treats me like a real princess. If he has found another sweetheart, I will fight to keep him, because it doesn’t suit me to give him up now.”
“But, Chantal, it isn’t like you to behave that way. What makes you think he has found someone else? He’s not the type. He didn’t leave me. I was the one who ended the relationship with him! I told you a long time ago that he always said that he loves his wife and has no intention of divorcing her, but with only one life to live, Yves-Tah says that, as one who loves life and women, he has to take advantage of dwelling in a foreign country to meet others. And for me, this free, uncommitted relationship was excellent. Because of him, I was able to liberate myself from Jean-Pierre, and at the very moment that I felt the situation was becoming complicated for me, right before I fell irrevocably in love with him, I broke it off. Let’s be candid with one another: you are much more attractive than me. We both have beautiful faces, and we’re both still young. But you have beautiful breasts that people stare at all the time, while my bust is small; you are tall, with the body of a diva; each of us has a shapely derriere, but I have a little tummy. Yves-Tah liked to look at me when I was naked, after we made love and before we showered. He loved stroking me for hours! He spoke to every part of my body as if he was talking to a person. I know he likes big boobs and mine are small, but he once said that if it filled his mouth, it was fine. How is he in bed with you?”
“He’s great! Everything you describe he also did with me. Only, for some reason, he likes my backside. He taught me what it’s called in Hebrew: ‘Tussik.’ I remember that the first time he told me that, I responded with ‘You are too sick’ in English.”
“Just look at you
rself, Chantal chérie. When you talk about him, your eyes sparkle. But you didn’t tell me, why do you think he is leaving you?”
“He has been avoiding me for several days. He makes a date and then cancels it at the last minute. Today, too, we agreed to meet at my place this evening. He left me a message at work saying that he would call me before he comes. And when did he call me at work? He called when he knew I would be out for lunch. He planned to call when I wouldn’t be there to pick up so that he wouldn’t have me confront him on the phone. He would usually be here by now, or at least leave a message for me on the answering machine. But, there is nothing! Yesterday I gave him an ultimatum: Either he comes today, or he needn’t come at all. I asked you to come so that if he doesn’t turn up, you would be here and we could talk. I don’t want to be alone because I just eat my heart out and climb the walls. If a miracle happens and he does turn up, I want you to stay with us to see how he behaves. You can tell me if you think I am right to be suspicious or not.”