No Medals Today

by Shlomi Tal

  “What is his excuse for his behavior and the cancellations?”

  “He tells me that he is busy with the war in Israel. How can he be busy with a war that is being fought three thousand kilometers from here? Doesn’t it sound like a feeble excuse to you?”

  “Calm yourself, Chantal chérie, this war is genuine. There are two Jews from Belleville at my office. They discuss it all the time—they check the news every hour on France Inter and collect cuttings from the newspapers. They are quite out of focus, and they don’t even work at the Israeli embassy. It doesn’t seem like an excuse to avoid you, chérie. It appears to be true. But why don’t you talk to him?”

  “I tried calling the embassy and every time, they tell me he isn’t at the office. What does he have to do outside the office? He must be avoiding me. I always, but always, find him at the office. Whenever I longed for him, I would telephone him there, and even if he was busy, he would speak to me, apologize, and call me back later. And, sometimes, when we couldn’t meet, he sensed from my voice that I was missing him, and said that just felt like holding my hand. Yes, he would say things that set my heart on fire. Then he would come to the neighborhood where I work, and we would have lunch together. There has never been such a long break between us. It just couldn’t happen. I am convinced and I feel it in my heart—he has found someone else.”

  Chantal, who suddenly has hunger pangs, asks, “Vero, would you like something to eat, chérie? It’s late. I’ll prepare something light for both of us, and we can sit and watch the news on television. We’ll see if there’s anything about this war.”

  At eight o’clock the news broadcast on the First Channel begins. The veteran newscaster, who retired a few months earlier, looks very somber-faced as the station signal introducing the news plays in the background. Veronique sits facing the TV while Chantal fixes something for them to eat. When they see shots from the war in the Middle East, Veronique calls her friend to come and watch the broadcast.

  The veteran newscaster looks directly at the camera and announces, “Dear viewers, you know that I retired four months ago. I asked specially to be allowed to present this evening’s news because I have some awful news to report associated with a person who is very dear to me and with whom I have a close relationship. It also concerns this war that is raging in the Middle East, a war that is, for most French citizens, just another news item on television, not something real—a battle of life and death.”

  The newscaster pauses for a moment, and his emotional involvement is evident—he is almost to the point of tears. Chantal and Veronique watch, sipping wine from time to time from the glasses they hold.

  “Today I have a sad message regarding the son of Israel’s ambassador in Paris. I have known his son since he was a child and I have known the ambassador for over twenty years. He is a close friend. The news is that the ambassador’s son was killed in the ghastly war that is being fought there, in the Middle East.”

  “Look, Chantal,” Veronique says as she points to the screen, “He has tears in his eyes! He is actually crying! I don’t believe what I’m seeing!”

  The two of them observe the newscast, and as soon as the announcer goes on to the next item, Chantal switches off the television.

  “It’s really awful!” Chantal exclaims, “Did you see how he cried when he talked about the ambassador’s son?”

  “And, do you want to tell me, Chantal chérie, that Yves-Tah can come to you in this situation? I will be very surprised if he even calls. They are probably all with the ambassador. How sad for the wife of the ambassador, the mother of the fallen soldier. It’s awful! Really tragic.”

  The two girlfriends continue talking as they eat the light meal that Chantal prepared. When they finish, they pour themselves some Cointreau and continue chatting. The phone rings a little after nine thirty.

  “Are you expecting a call from someone?”

  “No, it’s him!” Chantal leaps to the telephone. She picks up the receiver even before it rings a second time and answers, “Hello, yes?” Veronique looks at her friend and sees how she cringes. She nervously waves the hand that isn’t holding the receiver. After she listens and nods, she shakes her head in the negative in another part of the conversation, then her voice explodes, and Veronique hears her friend’s great pain. “I am really mad at you, and furious at your behavior. Your war is happening three thousand kilometers from here, and you’re just using it as an excuse. I will wait till tomorrow. If you don’t come tomorrow, then don’t come at all. Just know: I am pregnant with your child, and the day after tomorrow, everyone will know, including your wife. Bonsoir.” Chantal slams the receiver down and bursts out crying bitterly. Veronique gets up and hurries to embrace her friend and soothe her. “What, are you pregnant? Is it possible? Don’t you take care of that?”

  Chantal weeps and can’t stop. She shakes her head from side to side, as if to say “No,” and then up and down, as if to say “Yes.” All her hurt, all her pain, is expressed in her weeping, which continues for several minutes. Veronique guides her friend to the sofa, helps her sit down, and brings her a glass of water from the kitchen. After a few more minutes, she calms down.

  “Tell me, Chantal, chérie, do you really mean to tell the whole world that you are pregnant with his child?”

  “No, no, you know me. It just came out like that. I didn’t mean to say it like that, but I am so angry and insulted. I don’t know what came over me at that moment. I really love him and want him here beside me. I want to hug him tight and ask his forgiveness.” Chantal continues sobbing silently.

  Wednesday Evening, Orly Airport

  Now I have to give explanations to Monsieur Molard. How am I to mentally disconnect from Chantal and get back here, to reality? I must concentrate on what I disclose and what I hide.

  “Coffee? Monsieur Cohen? Perhaps, water?

  “Thank you, Monsieur Molard, if it’s all right with you, then both water and coffee.”

  “It’s difficult—French women demand a lot of attention. It seems to me that you got a thorough tongue-lashing from your lover. I could tell from your face. I know it was your lover, because if you were talking to your wife, you would have spoken Hebrew.”

  I don’t react. The bastard understands a thing or two, although I could actually be married to a French woman, which would explain the language of the conversation he overheard. I suppose he understood from the tone of what I was saying that I wasn’t speaking to my wife, but rather the other woman. At least I see him as someone more understanding and less severe. I don’t have time to sit in prison now. Not for a long time and not even for a short stay. I have to get this right and pull myself out of the shit we are sinking in. But how? We leave Emi in the small reception room with the automatic coffee machine and go into Monsieur Molard’s office. Finally, I understand where this has been leading. The sign on the door reads “M. Garnault J.P. General Investigations.” Above his name are the customs and Orly airport logos, and below it, “Paris Airport Authority.” Monsieur Molard points to a small armchair. He goes away and returns three minutes later with coffee and a bottle of water.

  “Okay, Monsieur Cohen. Now, after clarifying with El Al’s dispatch that your aircraft is already in the air and will soon be out of France’s airspace, you see that I have fulfilled my part of our bargain. Now, I want you to explain a few matters to me. Please be aware that this is a private conversation between us and nothing said will be quoted or repeated. As you see, we are in the office of the Chief Customs Inspector here at the airport, but I am actually from the SDECE Intelligence Service.[9] We just want to know that you are not exaggerating what you are doing.”

  “Exaggerating with what?” I behave with the innocence of a child caught stealing candy.

  “Monsieur Cohen, we are adults. You know there is an embargo, and we both know that diplomatic post serves as a cover for you to transfer things you don’t want us to see. We pretend not to see because we admire you—the way you are standing alone
, without the support of any other country, facing the armies of two Arab countries that have the unlimited support of the Soviets. We just want to verify that you are not putting us in an unpleasant situation—that afterward, it will not be said in Europe that we were unable to enforce the embargo. We know that you are transferring forbidden items, and we assume that you are smart enough to do that within reason and spread the dispatch of them evenly between the European countries. We are in close daily contact with the Germans, the Belgians, and the Dutch, and we are all following what is being done on the El Al planes.” Did they see the French Air Force crate? Did someone at Dassault inform them, perhaps? Did they tap my phone call with Afflalo, who talks about everything so freely? Does Monsieur Du Pont know about this interrogation? Is this Monsieur Molard, sitting across from me, in contact with Monsieur Du Pont? How the hell am I going to get out of this in one piece? I am in a tight corner, and I have to be smart and a bastard at one and the same time. This man has extensive powers, and if I don’t “supply the goods,” he is capable of stopping tomorrow’s plane. I feel the weight of responsibility on my shoulders—my actions now will determine whether the pipeline through which equipment flows from Orly will remain open.

  The two of us are alone together in the spacious office. The atmosphere is pleasant—not dark and dreary like an interrogation room, but well illuminated and grand, as befits a senior manager at the airport. We sit at a small table in comfortable armchairs. To an observer, we look like two men, well attired in business suits, congenially discussing current events.

  “Well then, Monsieur Cohen, what would you like to tell me? I’m listening.”

  “Monsieur Molard, you should know that I am but a small cog in the system. I will tell you what I can share with you without getting into trouble with my superiors. You’re asking me to do something that I am not authorized to do.” I don’t want to say that I am just carrying out orders, because that certainly does not sound good. “It’s no secret that this war has been forced on us against our will and without our instigation. We have to be victorious in this war, for if we lose it, it will mean that the State of Israel ceases to exist. For this reason, we need help. We are seeking the assistance of anyone who is prepared to help us, and we are using all the means at our disposal. I have two brothers fighting at the front, as well as a brother-in-law, the elder brother of my wife, who is serving as a combat officer. You will understand that for me, the war is also a personal matter. And not only for me. Because we are a small nation, everyone in the country has a relative, a friend, or an acquaintance fighting in the war that the whole nation of Israel is waging. All the Jews of the world are at war, because every Jew has family or at least friends in Israel. Here in Paris, I know several Jews with family members fighting as Israeli citizens and soldiers on the front lines of this war. All the countries of Europe and many other large countries in the world have placed an embargo on the Middle East. You know, Monsieur Molard, that in truth, this embargo is an embargo only on us. The Soviets are supplying Egypt and Syria with all the advanced equipment they require. Our enemies are receiving unlimited ammunition without having to pay for it. Combat units from Iraq, Saudi Arabia, and some other Arab states have joined forces with the Egyptian and Syrian armies in the battles. ‘Kill the Jews’ is a slogan you are already accustomed to hearing in Europe—no one here takes it seriously. For us, it is the reality of our lives.” How am I to continue with this Zionistic tirade?

  “Monsieur Cohen, everything you have said is well-known to me. Only you neglected to point out that the Americans are airlifting state-of-the-art arms and ammunition to you in enormous quantities. But that is not the issue. You should know that I am not anti-Israeli or anti-Arab, and I hold a position of importance in France, which obliges me to abide by the law. That is the reason I am here. Because this conversation is not official, I permit myself to tell you now, when only you are listening, that almost all the people working with me in my department and I are aware of Israel’s difficulties. You have all our sympathy. We follow you all the time and see what you are doing, and we do not interfere. We don’t know all the details, but what we have seen until now is sufficient to make us fear that now you are beginning to exaggerate. We have to know exactly what you are sending. So that if something is discovered, no one will be able to tell our government that we did not do what our position required of us or that we permitted you to do as you wished—that, in fact, our department cooperated with you. Until today, everything was overlooked one way or another, but the aircraft at noon, the one that stopped over at midday—that incident crossed the red line.”

  “When you say ‘our department,’ Monsieur Molard, who are you referring to?”

  “I am talking about the SDECE—the department that deals with the embargo placed on the Middle East, charged with verifying that France observes it faithfully.”

  “The plane that made an unscheduled landing was in fuel distress. We have never asked you to regularly refuel cargo planes en route to Israel. It was a unique event. I thank you and the authorities at the airport, as well as the French government and the French people, for their support in this struggle.” I am sucking up too much and ingratiating myself now, but I have managed to avoid disclosing anything so far, even though he knows much more than I thought he did.

  “For your information, Monsieur Cohen—and once more, this is not to be quoted—Monsieur Du Pont reported to me about the aircraft at noon. I was the one who told him to change the reason for landing from fuel distress to a cargo stop. You do not know this, but if the plane had been considered to be in distress, customs would have been obliged to examine it and clarify why it was short of fuel. I saved you from that examination because Monsieur Du Pont promised you personally that no one would check the plane out. Monsieur Du Pont is a pied noir.[10] He is one of those who were expelled from Algeria. Two of his brothers and his father were killed there, in the Algerian War of Independence, and he hates everything that has to do with being Arab. I am also pied noir and don’t have very much love for the Arabs. But, now, Monsieur Cohen, I am asking you to stop beating around the bush and start giving me the explanations I am asking for.”

  “Monsieur Molard, you know a great deal more than I think I could tell you without getting myself into trouble.” I feel relieved, and I have decided to risk everything. “I want to make you an offer. After all, the plane has already taken off and there is nothing you can do until tomorrow, when a new plane lands here—or, as I stated earlier, you could carry out a search of the El Al warehouse at the airport. We both know that you will find a lot of things there that don’t exactly comply with the regulations. I am asking you to permit me to go and ask my manager, the man I am responsible to, to come and meet you for a discussion, and he will tell you what he deems appropriate. If that suits you, we can shake hands, and you can say that you fulfilled your obligation. I know my boss very well. He will come to you—indeed, not happily, but he will do it out of a sense of duty. He will do what has to be done. In this way, I won’t get into trouble with my superiors. What do you think?”

  “Excellent! I agree.” Molard pushes the telephone standing on the table toward me and says, “Call him and ask him to come now. It’s an open line—you don’t have to dial zero to get an outside line. Just don’t tell me that you don’t remember his phone number.”

  Hesitating, with some trepidation, I dial the CDSE’s direct line. I’ve bungled it. Now everyone will know that I didn’t follow instructions. I told the French what I wasn’t supposed to. I have gotten my country into a tight corner, and the diplomats responsible for this will have to explain my blunders rather than address the more important issues—the war Israel is fighting. They will surely fire me. But every cloud has a silver lining. At least they will send me back to Israel, where I could join my unit, which is what I wanted to do right from the beginning. I am a fighting man, a combat soldier, and I know how to fight. I have been training for that ever since I enlisted at the age
of eighteen. No one taught me to be a smuggler! I never studied telling bald-faced lies, cheating, and stealing. And now I am running an outfit that, under French law, could be considered to be organized crime—doing it for the good of my homeland.

  The CDSE answers after the five nerve-racking rings that cut my train of thought. I explain briefly where I am, who I am sitting with, and what is happening. He asks me to go to the office of the El Al security officer and call him from there. I explain this to Monsieur Molard, who agrees. But he “requests” (it is a request that cannot be refused) that I leave Emi with him as a hostage until I return. Monsieur Molard gives me the number of his direct line and says that if I or my superior wish to talk to him, this is the number at which he and Emi will be waiting to hear from us.

  The El Al security officer is at his desk when I enter his office. He looks up from the documents he is perusing as I burst in without knocking.

  “Why did you run away like a thief? What exactly happened there?” the security officer asks.

  “It’s not important. They detained me, and I have to contact the CDSE. First, tell me, the plane took off, right? And it didn’t come back? Did anyone come looking for us? Did the guys from Bonn go home?”

  “The guys from Bonn went back after they cursed you for deserting them. The plane took off after a further delay from the control tower. Who are you so scared of? What happened that we don’t know about? Everything looks fine to me. The plane left an hour and a half late. It’s not the first time, and I believe it won’t be the last.”