by Shlomi Tal
I sit quietly, thinking about the comments being exchanged in the room: who has been invited, who else ought to be asked, the timetable of the event. I am still not clear what my role is to be. No one, in my opinion, has asked the most important question: How much have all those invited to meet the minister donated since the outbreak of the war? What is the likelihood that they will add to the amount they have already contributed? It’s not my business, which is why I don’t raise this question. I only listen. Right before the first break in the meeting I learn what role I am to play: I am to travel to the airport to take care of all the arrangements there. In other words, I am to welcome the minister on his arrival and escort him out of the aircraft, together with the officer from the French Department of Ceremonies. After all, this is the reason I have a permit to enter the airport. Similarly, I am to be responsible for the minister’s security officers and make sure that his luggage accompanies him. I also have to concern myself with ensuring that the luggage of his security personnel reaches the El Al plane before their departure for Israel this evening. There is nothing required for the security guards. They don’t have to change clothes. Only the minister is permitted to do so. I am to be at the minister’s beck and call throughout his visit—a butler of sorts, or local personal footman.
I am excused from the rest of the meeting, which will discuss the details of soliciting contributions. I go up to the CDSE’s office and, over another cup of coffee, we discuss the question of how I am to perform my job of helping the minister in the best way possible. I am given some more routine tasks to carry out; with the CDSE’s permission, I will transfer them to Emi. I have two hours left to try and locate my brother Danny at the adjutant’s HQ in Ramat Gan, and to inquire about my brother-in-law and friend, Zvika. Possibly, Danny will have some information to report to me. I also want to know about my friends in my unit—what they are going through and where they are fighting. I go to the military attaché’s office. Yossi Ben-David is on the phone, preoccupied with his concerns. I wait patiently for about eight minutes, until he finishes his conversation with someone in Israel.
“If you’ve come to ask after your brother-in-law, I have no news.” Yossi preempts my question, knowing that I ask him for news at every opportunity.
“Thank you, Yossi. If you hear anything new, please notify me! Actually, I came about something else. I want to speak to my brother Danny, who serves in the permanent forces at the adjutant’s HQ. I need the phone number of someone there who can give me the number where I can find Danny.”
“It’s impossible to get hold of them—the line is busy all the time. What a pity you didn’t tell me before! The adjutant’s office just called me—I was talking to them when you came in. Here’s the number of the adjutant’s HQ. Bonne chance! I have to go. Sorry.” Yossi hands me the phone number and leaves the room before I can get another word out of my mouth.
I request approval to call the IDF representative in Tel Aviv. I do not state that this is a call to the adjutant’s HQ in Ramat Gan. Every call to Israel has to be approved. I say that I need to speak to the IDF representative about the shipment from Marseilles in two days’ time.
The lie works. The call is approved.
The embassy telephone operator dials the call for me, and after a half an hour of attempts, contact is made. I reach a soldier named Ahuva, who tries to locate Danny—but Danny is in a meeting with the chief adjutant. There is something about her voice that sounds untrue, but I dismiss my suspicions. After all, Danny is in the permanent forces, and the entire army is fully occupied with the missions and tasks imposed on it by the war. Why should I think negatively? I have to leave for the airport to meet the minister of finance.
The minister’s flight from London lands on time. I accompany Sapir and his security detail from the plane to where the head of the Israel legation in Paris await him, and they escort him directly to Baron Rothschild’s house in the ambassador’s car. The Paris police has given us two motorcyclists to lead the convoy amidst a terrifying wail of sirens; behind them come two police vehicles, one behind the other, then the ambassador’s car, and then at the end the convoy, a truck full of armed, helmeted policemen with shields, who are there to disperse potential demonstrations. I stay at the airport to organize all the rest and then proceed directly to the Rothschild residence in an embassy vehicle, together with the minister’s security guards and a small suitcase belonging to the minister.
“Guys, tell me, does the minister really travel with four security officers? Aren’t you Israelis overdoing it? A minister usually goes abroad with one guard. What’s happening here?” I ask out of curiosity.
“I’m Nir, and this is Itzik. The minister has two teams of security men. That old man never sleeps. I don’t know how he stays alive,” Nir says, expressing his amazement at the performance of the minister he protects. “There are two teams of two guards on each shift, and he exhausts us as if he was the young man and we were the old ones. We left Israel on Tuesday night and landed in New York on Wednesday morning. We were driven directly to the Waldorf Astoria on Park Avenue, where he met with donors throughout the day, waiting in line to give him checks for millions of dollars. At every meal, all those who sat and ate at his table paid a fortune for the honor. In the evening, he met privately with donors in his room. Only God knows when he rests. He never seems to sleep. It was the same on Thursday. For two days, we never even stepped out on the sidewalk in front of the hotel. On Friday morning, we flew to Toronto, and there, at the Four Seasons Hotel, he met with people and collected checks; in the evening, we traveled to London, to the Dorchester Hotel. Are you listening to this? He continued working on the flight! Three people flew from Toronto to London to take turns sitting next to him and paid a fortune just to talk to him—to breathe the same air and share the aura that surrounds him.” Nir continues to express his amazement. “Yesterday, on Saturday, he met with contributors all day long in London. Here, too, we never stepped outside the hotel. In the evening, the religious, Sabbath-observing donors arrived. He apologized to them for having to work on Saturday, saying that, after all, he was working to save lives, and that Israel had even had to fight a war on Yom Kippur. They were very understanding and raised no difficulties. We were supposed to arrive in Paris last night, but we remained in London till this morning to meet with a donor who paid two million pounds sterling for a private breakfast meeting with the minister. We listen to the minister talking to people, since one of us always sits beside him at the table—the other is located in the corner of the room. He repeats the same remarks again and again with such enthusiasm, and he knows the smallest details about each and every contributor. How he touches their souls and opens their hearts as well as their pockets! What a great job he does!” Nir waxes poetic. “They all dine on all the gourmet dishes on the table, and Sapir? He hasn’t got time to eat all the delicacies laid out in front of him. He hasn’t got time because he has to keep talking all the time, cajoling people to contribute. He might eat a sandwich in the car on the way to the airport, or during the breaks he occasionally takes. And we, his security guards, cannot keep up with his pace. I hope that the place we’re going to can offer somewhere to rest our heads. They promised us that security will be handled by your guys today. How lucky that we are going back home this evening. I don’t think I could survive another day or two like this.”
Later in the afternoon, when the minister is busy in one-on-one conversations with the major donors, I take advantage of the break to return to the embassy, which is within walking distance of the Rothschild house. I try again to contact the adjutant’s office. I am lucky: It takes twenty minutes to get through. This time, the response from Sergeant Ahuva is clear and immediate: “He is at a meeting outside the office.”
I decide to stop trying to call my brother. I just don’t have the time.
When I return to the Rothschild house, I find the minister sitting at a large desk in the middle of the meeting area, which is a kind of office beside
the large hall. There is no door separating the work corner from the large salon. The minister is examining each check and making remarks in Yiddish, peppered with Hebrew, sometimes asking why the amount is so small. One of the fundraising personnel explains that this donor already contributed and that this check is an additional amount he is giving in the minister’s honor. Sometimes, someone is invited to shake hands with the minister; Sapir thanks him, a photographer records the occasion, and on to the next check. Once, the minister gets angry and shouts in booming voice in Yiddish, “Throw the check back in his face. What chutzpah! What can he be thinking?” The fundraising official takes the bank check, approaches the man who wrote it, whispers something to him, and returns to the minister. Again, there is whispering. Later, they say that the donor apologized; he promised to give another half million francs next month, and the minister sent the fundraiser, asking him to give a postdated check right now. There is no such thing as a postdated check-in France, but the minister insists, and he gets it. As a token of appreciation, the donor is invited to the minister’s table for a photographed hug and everyone is satisfied. This process continues until it’s time to leave for the airport for the flight back to Israel. Another two generous contributors are invited to accompany the minister to the airport in the ambassador’s car; another three meet with him in the VIP hall at the airport while I take care of his flight check-in details.
When they summed up the contributions, no one could believe the total: forty million francs, a little more than nine million dollars! It was four times more than they expected, and it was all the result of six to seven hours of hard work. Now I understood why the minister Pinchas Sapir made the trip. After five days on the road with almost no sleep, Sapir still looked as though he had just stepped out the shower after a good night’s sleep. I was also told that he hadn’t changed his clothes during the day and didn’t even take a shower at the Rothschild house. Bringing his suitcase had been completely unnecessary.
***
Sergeant Major Danny Cohen is busy with his routine work at the adjutant’s HQ in Ramat Gan. Danny, Yiftach’s brother, age twenty-two, has been serving in the permanent forces for a year. He signed up for a two-year stint to make enough money for his academic studies. Danny wants to study economics at a prestigious university in Los Angeles. He lives in his parents’ home, rarely goes out, and manages to save most of the money he earns.
Today is Sunday, and as part of his job at the adjutant’s HQ, he is preparing the lists of the war’s casualties to be transferred to the IDF city officers all over the country. Tomorrow, Monday, and the day after, Tuesday, the families of the fallen soldiers will be informed. On Friday and today, a few families have already been told of the death of their sons. There are six hundred and fifty-six casualties to date, with one general among them, Albert Mandler. Of these fallen soldiers, almost six hundred have not yet been reported to their families; they have been buried in temporary graves in the south. It had been decided to release the information gradually, but somehow, the instruction has changed—tomorrow, they will begin reporting on all the casualties to date, all six hundred of them. Afterward, they will reveal the most recent losses.
For several days, Danny has been occupied with preparing the lists for the IDF city officers. He knows some of the people whose names appear on the casualty list. On Thursday, he called home and lied to his mother, telling her that he had to remain at his base until further notice. Danny finds it hard to bear the burden of knowledge about relatives, friends, and acquaintances whose names he has seen on the lists. He is forbidden to reveal anything to anyone. It is painful for him to think he might bump into neighbors or people he is familiar with—people who are waiting for information about sons, husbands, and other relatives fighting in the war, soldiers he knows are no longer alive. This is why he doesn’t go home, preferring to stay at the adjutant’s HQ.
Shortly after eleven, the company Sergeant Ahuva calls him. “Danny, Danny! Come right away! Someone is calling you from the embassy in Paris! It’s a call from France!”
Danny remains frozen in his seat at the conference table. There is no telephone in the conference room in his office at the adjutant’s HQ, so Ahuva cannot transfer the call to him. Danny is sure the caller is his brother Yiftach. Who else could call him from the embassy in Paris? Yiftach probably wants news of Zvika, his friend and brother-in-law. Shall I tell him I have no information, like I told Mother? Or shall I tell him that he is missing in action, as we informed the military attaché in Paris? Danny fears that if he speaks to Yiftach, he will break down. It’s tough for him to lie and say that everything is fine when absolutely nothing is fine. How will I tell him about all the fallen soldiers he knows? More than half of the men in his Special Forces unit have been killed.
Ahuva comes running into the conference room. “Danny, Danny! Didn’t you hear me? A call from Paris! From France!”
“Tell them I’m out of the office, and you don’t know when I will return. Say that I was called to a meeting with the chief adjutant. Say whatever you want, only don’t say I’m here. Do you understand that, Ahuva?” Danny tries with all his might to hide his emotional turmoil.
“Yes, sir!” She doesn’t understand why Sergeant Major Danny is so upset, but she follows his instruction to the letter.
After regaining his equilibrium, Danny approaches Ahuva. “If they call from Paris again, tell them again that you don’t know where I am. I will not speak to them. I don’t want to. If I change my mind, I will tell you.”
Danny can’t figure out how Yiftach obtained the phone number of the office where he works. I believed that no one could locate me, he thinks.
In the afternoon, there was another call from Paris. This time Ahuva answered without hesitating, “He is at a meeting outside the office.”
Monday, October 15
On Sunday evening, after the El Al plane with the minister of finance on board departs for Israel, we return to the embassy and meet with the CDSE to summarize the day’s events and prepare for the next day.
“Come, Yiftach, sit down for a minute and listen carefully. I have a special assignment for you.” I drop down heavily on the chair. Fatigue is beginning to take control of me. Taking care of the minister of finance has been especially exhausting. “We have been assigned the task of acquiring two innovative blood testing instruments that aren’t available in Israel. Our guys in Brussels have located one. They bought it and sent it to Israel. We haven’t been able to find another one, but we have discovered that there is a second one at a hospital in Brussels. The name of the Director of the Department is Levy—Professor Levy, to you. You have to persuade him to give it to you. I have no idea what you should say to him.” The CDSE sighs. As he rocks in his chair, a mischievous smile appears on his lips. “Do you remember when you were training to enlist in the Mossad? They brought you to a house and gave you five minutes to appear on the balcony of the apartment with the owner and wave to us?”
“Yes, I actually do remember it, because the exercise wasn’t a complete success. It took me almost a minute more than the allotted time. My superiors have reminded me about my fiasco many times over.”
“Well, now you have an opportunity to make amends. Take Emi with you, go to Professor Levy, and come back with the instrument. I don’t know how. Just be there in the morning. He is expecting you to arrive tomorrow, Monday, early in the morning. We didn’t fix an exact time, but I think if you get there by seven in the morning that will be fine. The embassy in Brussels informed him that you are coming to ask for something to help the people of Israel. Here, take this letter of recommendation from our ambassador. Hilik will join you in Brussels; possibly he will bring a letter of introduction from our ambassador there, and he will show you where the professor lives. Before you leave, go home and get dressed properly—and Yiftach, it would be a good idea to shave.”
We go home for a quick change of clothes. Tzipi is surprised to see me return relatively early, just after te
n at night. But her joy is soon replaced by worry: We have to drive to Brussels right away! Tzipi is still unaccustomed to the distances in Europe. For her, traveling to Brussels is like going abroad, with everything that implies. I stay only long enough to change clothes and shave, as directed by the CDSE. I leave the newspapers at home. Tzipi had been at school till eight thirty, where they were preparing for Simchat Torah (Celebration of the Torah) in a few days. Irit had babysat till Tzipi’s return and has plans to go out. Tzipi has already put the kids to bed and is going to spend the evening watching television.