No Medals Today

by Shlomi Tal

  I decide to ride on the metro to Chantal’s. Yes, it means having to change trains, but it will take me fifteen minutes, and I won’t have to hunt for parking. And although a car with a diplomatic registration plate is allowed to park anywhere, we have been instructed not to take advantage of it—to observe the law and park in forbidden places only in extreme circumstances. Moreover, it is wartime, and my car may be needed while I am away.

  I reach our bistro a few minutes early. Our regular table is free! I grab it and order some beer on tap. I receive two menus; they already know me here. My excitement at the approaching meeting mounts as if this was my first date with a girl I’ve been pursuing for a year. Is this because Chantal is pregnant and I am going to be a father again, this time of a little Frenchman? Is Emi right that I am actually avoiding confrontation with Tzipi? What will I do if her brother actually has been injured or, God forbid, killed? How will I cope with that? And what of my two brothers? My mother must be going out of her mind with anxiety. I am sure that both my brothers are keeping in touch with her, but a mother is a mother. How lucky she is that at least one of her sons is not serving on the front in this war. Imagine for a moment that all three of us were fighting this war and all three of us got killed. Enough! I must stop these dark thoughts.

  The waitress approached my table again. Wow! I hadn’t noticed—Chantal is already twenty minutes late! It’s not like her. What is going on here? The bistro is filling up, and I can’t hold on to the table without ordering something to eat, so I order the plat du jour and another beer. It’s unusual for Chantal to be so late. I utter a curse under my breath. Women! They are so erratic. I am reminded of all the theories I have ever heard about the connection between the feminine soul and the stars, the undercurrents of rivers, the routes of migrating birds, the railway time-tables, the length of the rays of the sun… what is really behind all this?

  When I gather that Chantal is not coming, I go to the payphone and call her. I call her direct number at her office. She usually doesn’t take calls during her lunch break. This time, too, after six irritating rings, the call goes to her answering machine. I hang up and call again. Busy. I dial again. It rings, and someone picks up! It’s a man’s voice. I quietly ask for Chantal.

  “Who’s calling?”

  “Yiftach,” I reply softly.

  “Who? What? Can you repeat that, please? Monsieur—what?”

  “Monsieur, if she is beside you, please transfer me to her. If not, then thank you very much.”

  “Tell me, Yves-Tah, how does it feel to wait for me when I don’t turn up? Why do you do that to me? What am I guilty of, to deserve such treatment from you?” All at once, Chantal’s voice is hitting hard at me. The subdued voice of this morning has turned into the voice of someone crazy. I can imagine her frothing at the mouth, with her gorgeous eyes firing sparks. I feel as though a machine gun, firing rounds that can penetrate a tank, is puncturing my soul. All at once, I am winded and lose my strength. I have to sit if I don’t want to fall. I grab a stool near the bar, the phone still at my ear, unable to say a word. The hustle and bustle of the bistro sound like background noise to me now, as if I am in a dream. Just before I am about to faint, I burst into tears. Everything pours out; the unbearable tension, exhaustion, fear of the unknown about my brother-in-law Zvika, anxiety at Chantal’s pregnancy—absolutely everything, until I feel empty. Empty of what? I’m not sure. Just hollow. I attempt to say something, but cannot. The receiver suddenly feels heavy, and I lay it down on the shelf, without hanging up, without uttering a word. I pull myself together quickly, ashamed of what is happening to me. I place a fifty-franc note on the table, then leave the bistro and begin walking in the direction of the embassy. In my head, I hear the last line of the song “Autumn Leaves”: “Et la vie sépare tous ceux qui s’aiment, tout doucement, sans faire de bruit” (“And life separates those who love, slowly, quietly”). My tears flow uncontrollably as I walk toward the embassy. Very soon I realize that it is too far, and I am not properly dressed. I feel chilled, so I hail a cab back to the office.

  On my return, I am called immediately to the CDSE’s office. The matter in hand: Discussion of the cargo to be shipped to Israel. A ferry has been acquired, and it has been decided to dispatch it as soon as possible. Saturday—tomorrow—is too early. Sunday isn’t suitable, in Eddy Benayoun’s opinion. Monday is also rejected; it’s too busy at the Marseilles port on Mondays. Tuesday is chosen; there’s really no alternative. Urgent or not, caution, and the safety of the operation, take precedence over the immediate need for the cargo. We have another three and a half days to plan. Meanwhile, we will decide what can be shipped to reduce the amount of air freight being dispatched to Israel.

  There is still one problem: How are we to get rid of the thousands of stevedores at the port? It’s not clear whether we will be able to get them out of the way, so we decide to load the ferry at one o’clock p.m.—midday, during the lunch break, when most port workers are busy eating. When I ask what options we have, the CDSE replies, “That’s being dealt with. You don’t need to bother with it.” The real meaning of that sentence is “Shut up,” and that is exactly what I do.

  My job is to coordinate with Eddy and instruct him to take care of everything required by the authorities at the port of Marseilles. All the other matters are being dealt with by someone else, who will arrange for the trailers to reach Marseilles as Eddy instructs. Receiving the trailers, deciding how and where to load them and how to move them—that same someone will take care of all of that with Eddy. My job is only to make the connection.

  “When you tell me who that someone else is, I will arrange a meeting for him with Eddy,” I announce and leave the CDSE’s office.

  At three thirty, my team meets in my office to coordinate what has to be accomplished over the rest of the day and to receive a report of today’s achievements.

  The members of the team make their reports and coordinate plans, and I hear them in the background. My thoughts wander to Marseilles. Loading the ferry with up to twenty trailers is possible. But how will we manage to get that done in Marseilles, of all places? It appears as impossible as loading cargo on a ship flying the Israeli flag in Beirut.

  The phone rings and Emi, who is sitting beside me, picks up the call, listens, and asks in French, “Who wishes to speak with Monsieur Cohen?” When he looks at me, I understand that it is Chantal on the line. I ask everyone to go out of the office and leave me alone for this conversation.

  “You see, Yves-Tah, when you want, suddenly you are in the office.” Her voice sounds angry.

  “Chantal, my love, if you want to go to war with me, I don’t have the strength for it. I have one war going on that is more than enough for me. I don’t expect to fight battles with you. I expect understanding and love from you. If you’re looking to win a war against me, then you have been victorious, okay? You’ve beaten me. I surrender. Now, I want to apologize for not being able to talk to you after you attacked me like that at lunchtime. I came with all my love only to be hit on the head by you. I will tell you now what I wanted to say to you this afternoon and wasn’t able to: All I want is to see you, to embrace you, and to explain that you are mistaken. I will tell you again that I miss you more than ever and that I would give everything to be beside you at this very moment. You don’t know what an effort I made to reach you today for lunch, nor can you understand the extent of my disappointment that you didn’t come. I broke down there at the bistro when you didn’t arrive. And the reason you didn’t come to meet me was to hurt me, and I love you so much…”

  I wait for a reaction. Chantal apparently expected me to retaliate and wasn’t prepared for what I said. After another few seconds of suspense, she murmurs, this time in a calm voice, “When will I see you?” I notice that the ending wasn’t the usual one—in better days, the question would be, “When will I see you, chérie?” But I don’t address what wasn’t said.

  “I don’t want to make a promise that I don�
�t think I can keep. The moment I can, I will come to you. I will call you as soon as I see the possibility of getting out of this turmoil for an hour or two, or perhaps less than that. I swear that the fact that I am not coming to you is due to constraints that are stronger than me. Again I promise: the moment I can, I will come to you. Okay?”

  “All right, mon chérie. I will wait.” Chantal hangs up. She said “mon chérie!”

  I jump up and shout out loud—“Shit! Shit! Shit!” I didn’t mention a word about her pregnancy! The door opens and Emi peeps in. “Has something happened?”

  “Nothing, nothing at all. Let’s get on with the meeting. I’ll tell you all about it afterward, Emi.”

  Once more I am told to go to the CDSE’s office: The ship with the uranium is expected to reach the Port of Marseilles on Sunday evening. All I have to do is coordinate with Jean-Jacques Molard of the SDECE and with Avigdor of our consulate in Marseilles. I will liaise with them on Sunday evening. The only thing that appeals to me about this meeting is the dinner at the Michel restaurant in the Catalan quarter of the old port of Marseilles, in the center of town. They serve a bouillabaisse that is unequaled anywhere in the world.

  Saturday, October 13

  The booming ring of the telephone wakes me immediately.

  “Good morning Yiftach! This is your daily call from Tel Aviv.”

  I get the usual reports. It’s the Sabbath today, but, because of the war, it seems just like an average weekday. There is nothing important, just the depressing routine. When Yechiel ends the conversation and, as usual, urges me to eat a baguette for him, I interrupt him:

  “Wait a second, Yechiel, is there something I don’t know here that you want to tell me? You understand, my friend, there is such a huge discrepancy between what I hear at the embassy, what I read in the classified telegrams, and what is printed in the newspapers you send in the DIP that I sometimes wonder if they are referring to the same war.”

  “Like what?”

  “The newspapers claim that we are winning the war and will defeat our enemies within a few days. Here, a headline from the newspaper Davar, published on the Eve of Sukkot, that I have in my hand right now: ‘This time, there is no fear that Israel will be destroyed. In America, all are waiting impatiently for a speedy Israeli victory.’ But, what I hear here is that the situation in Israel is really shitty, and that is putting it mildly; we have to send soldiers and volunteers and get our hands on arms and equipment like thieves in the night.”

  “Is that all you have to say?”

  “Isn’t that enough for you? In the This World you sent me, they ask more questions: ‘When exactly did they know the war would break out—was it on Friday or Saturday morning? What happened to the intelligence sources? What role did the minister of defense play?’ Everything is so negative the way This World describes it.”

  “There is a lot you don’t know, and you won’t know it for some time to come, either. Let go of it, Yiftach. Leave it to the historians. I have enough wars being waged between the Jews around me. The situation is shitty, as you said, but it won’t bring about the destruction of the Third Temple. Victory will come. Just try and be patient, my friend, and a peaceful Sabbath to you.” Yechiel hangs up. If I was anxious before, now I am panic-stricken.

  This morning Emi and Udi went to fetch the DIP from Orly. It’s the first morning since the war broke out that I am not expected at the embassy before eight in the morning; there is nothing urgent to be done, according to Yechiel in Tel Aviv. I take advantage of the time to stay longer than usual in the shower, and since everyone is still asleep, I get dressed and go down to the street. We live in the 16th Arrondissement, near the Avenue de Versailles. As it does each Saturday, the farmers’ market opens in our neighborhood. The regular vendors set up their stalls from five in the morning. It is still dark outside—it looks like the middle of the night, but the market is bustling and noisy, preparing for its customers. Early risers like me are already out and about. Armed with two fresh baguettes, some croissants for Tzipi and Irit, and raisin and chocolate cakes for the kids, I buy a variety of salad vegetables, including spring onions. They have just been harvested, like most of the vegetables here. I add some cheeses to the basket and look around me once mores, staring in wonder at the tranquility of the French routine. Just one hour earlier, I was dealing with a war on the telephone, and now I am on a deserted island that is so calm it seems like part of another world. I am at war, but around me, life is carrying on as usual. It makes me feel like a spy in enemy territory. No one standing nearby could even imagine that I am actually a combat soldier briefly on leave from the front. I wander around the market for another ten minutes, enjoying its atmosphere and aromas, then pull myself together and go back home. I immediately prepare a salad, set the table, and get the coffee going.

  Tzipi and Irit, her girlfriend join me for the plentiful breakfast I have prepared in their dressing gowns, before showering. The kids are still asleep. Irit compliments me on the meal; she isn’t used to having the man in the house make the morning meal. She enthuses about the wonders of Paris. She seems quite happy at unintentionally getting stuck here. According to Yossi Ben-David from the military attaché’s office, it will take a few more days to find a seat on an El Al plane, even for people with influence, like Irit. I pass on the information to her. I don’t think she really cares. She’s not short of anything. She has somewhere to sleep, and people to chat to—Tzipi and another teacher at the school who is a friend of hers. Paris is wonderful in the fall, and she hasn’t a care in the world.”

  “When you were speaking to Yossi,” Tzipi inquires, “did you check if he has any news of Zvika? I am dying of worry. My mother is even more anxious. She called again yesterday and cried on the phone. You know that he always called her regularly because he knew how much she worried.”

  “Yesterday Yossi said he had nothing new to report. Zvika’s name doesn’t appear on any of their lists,” I say, ameliorating the situation Yossi described to me yesterday. “You know that this war is particularly complicated, and we have to suppose that some units aren’t near telephones—that also prevents them from divulging secret information. After all, Zvika is in the paratroop commando unit, which is probably involved in something special on the Sinai front. Or perhaps he had been moved to the Syrian arena. After the war, we will hear all the stories.” My heart is heavy with unbearable concern for him. “This morning, I will see Yossi at another joint meeting, and I will ask him if there is anything new in the nightly telegram or the morning DIP.”

  My younger brother, Danny, is serving in the regular army at the chief adjutant’s office in Ramat Gan. I decide to try and get him on the phone to get information about my third brother, Yehudah, and about Zvika. Yossi explained yesterday that reports of fallen soldiers aren’t being regularly made yet—only to people who are abroad, those under exceptional circumstances, or “lone soldiers.”[13] This policy is being followed in order not to hurt the public morale. I don’t tell this to Tzipi because I fear she will conclude that her brother has been killed and no one has been notified.

  “Yesterday afternoon I heard a sudden knocking at the door a minute after I returned from school,” Tzipi says as she sips the coffee I made for her. “When I opened the door, I saw our neighbor from next door—the boulanger, the baker. He told me that he is actually a Jew, but that he hides the fact because he doesn’t want to make problems for himself. He gave me a thousand francs for Israel and asked me to donate it on his behalf, without telling anyone that he is Jewish. He also asked for news of what is happening in Israel, and I told him what I know from the newspapers that you bring home. I invited him in to drink something, but he refused. I asked him to sit down, but he remained standing at the entrance with the door partly closed, and he ran away within a few minutes. It was very hard for him to express his emotions, and I am still shaken up by it, even now.”

  “Really, is the baker Jewish? I would never have thought so! Is his wife a
lso Jewish?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. When I talk to the baker’s wife, she does display interest in Israel, but it seems more like neighborly concern. He came here alone, without his wife. Besides, she always complains about him. The baker gets up before dawn because he has to be at work at four in the morning, so he always goes to sleep early, and they almost never go out. Generally, she complains that her life is awful. Take the money to the embassy and bring them a thank you note, okay?”

  “We don’t usually issue receipts or acknowledge donations, most of which are made anonymously. I will bring the baker’s wife a nice letter from the administrative officer. Indeed, who could have guessed that the moody baker next door is secretly Jewish? Most of the Jews I know here are proud of being Jewish! It’s difficult to understand people.”

  It’s the usual noise and bustle at the embassy. It’s Saturday today, in the middle of the week-long Sukkot holiday, but here it’s business as usual. The diplomats are busy giving out information, putting out written notices to the media, and providing answers and interviews to the local press and television. The consulate is busy providing answers to French Jews who have relatives in Israel and Jews inquiring out of concern for what is happening in Israel. They are also collecting contributions from French Jews and non-Jewish donors who want to make anonymous donations. The local police have increased their guard on the embassy because of frequent anti-Israel demonstrations and spontaneous pro-Israeli rallies. Usually, the pro-Israel rallies run into anti-Israeli demonstrations and the police are forced to intervene to prevent rioting and casualties.

  Today we aren’t receiving equipment from any manufacturers. It’s the weekend and offices and factories are closed, hence the break in activity. Those responsible for the shipment that is supposed to leave on Tuesday are taking advantage of the day to begin loading the trailers that are due to reach Marseilles by Tuesday morning at ten. In France, heavy trucks are forbidden from traveling along the main highways on Sundays unless they have special permission. On Saturday, heavy vehicles may go in only one direction: to the logistic center of the companies they belong to. Eddy is arranging everything. According to him, all the loaded trailers will be transported on the night between Saturday and Sunday to Marseilles, to the closed parking facility for trucks that belongs to one of his agents. Some of them will be driven south on the night between Sunday and Monday, and others—principally the trailers that have been loaded with more than the allowed weight—will be transported by rail. That way, we will have Monday as an extra day in reserve. All the freight we have managed to bring in from neighboring countries is being loaded now. Each department is responsible for the equipment it has arranged for, and for the first time there are no conflicts between embassy agencies—there is enough room for all the freight. The El Al warehouses at the airport are emptied of all their stocks, leaving only essential equipment that will be flown to Israel on commercial passenger flights. For Eddy the customs agent, this is business as usual, except for the need to keep a low profile.