No Medals Today

by Shlomi Tal

  In addition to all these other functions, Yossi has one more very cruel one. He is the person who breaks the news of fallen soldiers to relatives at the embassy and at official Israeli institutions in Paris, like the Jewish Agency, the Defense Ministry delegation, the Israel military and aircraft industries, and others. In Israel, a representative of the city officer visits the home of the fallen soldier, accompanied by a doctor, and sometimes a delegation of several people. But in Paris, Yossi carries out this awful assignment alone. Because of this, he has been given the fearful moniker of “the Angel of Death.” When Yossi turns up somewhere unexpectedly, everyone flees from the room. No one wants to meet the Angel of Death face to face or bump into him on his way to deliver bad news.

  On Tuesday, the fifth intermediate day of the Sukkot holiday, the children in second grade at the Moshe Sharett School in Paris celebrate getting their first Torah. There are nine children in the class. Because of the war in Israel and the parents’ wish for them to remain within the school’s social framework, it was decided to keep the school open as usual during the holiday. In the upper grades, material to be read and discussed in class was added to the regular syllabus. Some of the material comes in the diplomatic mail; other articles are taken from the informational material sent from the Foreign Ministry in Jerusalem.

  The second-grade children, festively decked out for the occasion, sang Sukkot songs led by their teacher, Judith. Those of their parents not preoccupied with war assignments had already arrived, dressed up in honor of the happy event. Two students from the eighth grade provided the musical entertainment, one on an accordion and the other on a recorder, adding to the pleasant, celebratory atmosphere. It was a kind of idyllic oasis, with everyone rejoicing in the children’s joy at receiving the Torah. There is no one among those present who doesn’t have a relative or a friend fighting in the war that is raging in Israel, but, in the spirit of the moment, the distant war is momentarily forgotten by those celebrating the event. No one notices Yossi’s arrival when the ceremony is at its height. Yossi doesn’t have a child in second grade. In fact, Yossi doesn’t have school-age children. His wife, Tamara, a ninth-grade teacher at the school, is in her class now with her students. Yossi joins the parents in their celebration, singing along with them as an integral part of the group. It doesn’t occur to anyone to ask what he is doing at a party he has no connection to.

  When the celebration is over, after the second-grade students return to their classroom in perfect order, Yossi approaches Oren, the twenty-seven-year-old PE teacher, to inform him that his twin brother, Ilan, has been killed. Oren immediately bursts into heartrending tears and sits on the cold wooden floor, beating it with his fists. Four parents who remained in the hall weep with him and try to embrace him and console him. Yossi Ben-David mumbles something and leaves quickly to return to his urgent business. The celebration ended but a few minutes earlier, but now is forgotten as if it never took place.

  “He had to justify his nickname, the Angel of Death!” someone spat out angrily, trying without success to hold back his tears.

  Yesterday, Yossi received a new list in the DIP that included four names. The casualty list is sent with DIP rather than by telegram because it comes attached to a letter of condolence to the family from the chief adjutant of the IDF. Although his instructions are to notify the families without delay, Yossi had decided to wait until today. He struggled with informing the family members of two of the fallen soldiers. One is the brother of Oren, the PE teacher; that is now behind him. The second one is tough; it is Zvika, Yiftach’s brother-in-law, Tzipi’s brother. When he had been asked to inquire about Zvika several days ago, he was told he had been killed but was requested to keep the information to himself, only disclosing the official statement that Zvika is missing in action. Yiftach’s brother Yehuda was severely injured but is out of danger now.

  Yossi returns to the embassy with a heavy heart. He calls from the military attaché’s office on the fourth floor, trying to locate Yiftach. He has the awful duty to inform him of both Zvika’s death and the injury of his brother, Yehudah. Yossi decides against calling on Tzipi at home; he prefers to break the news to Yiftach. If Yiftach asks me to, I will go to Tzipi at home, Yossi decides.

  Udi tells Yossi that Yiftach left this morning on duty to Marseilles and is due to return in the late hours of the evening. “Tell Yiftach to call me when he returns,” Yossi tells Udi, who doesn’t suspect a thing. The two are in constant contact in the course of their work and are often looking for one another.

  Tuesday, October 16, Marseilles, France

  Today’s the day!

  I am on a flight from Orly to Marseilles. Emi dropped me off at the airport and will continue with his tasks in Paris.

  I try to keep calm and go over the details of what I am permitted to say about the uranium at my upcoming meeting with Jean-Jacques Molard from the SDECE. I have to think carefully. That fellow, as we are aware, is resourceful and knows a thing or two. I lean my head back, pretending to sleep, and run a mental movie in which I play the lead.

  We have trailers full of spare parts for airplanes and the ordnance corps, computers from Germany, and military equipment from the USA, which has all been collected from several points in Europe. There are also two trailers of drugs from England, which the British refused to release directly to Israel, and more drugs from Switzerland and Germany in enormous quantities. “Omnipotent Eddy” purchased some trailers, I don’t know how many; the remainder were rented and must be returned within three weeks’ time. Right now, as I am flying to Marseilles, trucks are transporting these trailers to a collection point at the Marseilles port. Six trailers, which arrived this morning by train, have been picked up and brought to the meeting point. Eddy has been in town since yesterday and is dealing with all the customs matters, preparing the various documents and declarations needed for everything to go to Genoa and for transshipment from there. I don’t know whether or not he will declare that the freight’s final destination is Israel. Eddy and his man at the Marseilles port will make that decision at the last minute. The ferry is due to arrive precisely at one o’clock p.m. It sails under a British flag and right now there are six Israeli crew members on board. All of them have foreign passports and speak a medley of languages, though they are, in fact, “our men.” They have an additional, very important job: to guard the trailers at all costs. The ferry usually transports trucks and trailers between ports in the Mediterranean Sea. It enters the berth to load the trailers on the vessel, which must depart no later than two thirty. Eddy reassures us that the loading will take a half-hour—forty minutes at the most—and that we have time. We don’t need to panic.

  When I think about the operation that has been planned to put the port out of action and remove the Arab and anti-Israeli dockworkers from the harbor, I can’t stop smiling. What geniuses those bastards “up there” are! They have organized an anti-Israeli rally to protest “against the aggressive Israelis, who are slaughtering their peace-loving neighbors.” Just like that! I have never heard anything more outrageous. The demonstration is being organized by pro-Israelis in Marseilles, headed by the Mayor. They have obtained a license. The Communist Workers’ Union, the CGT, has enthusiastically joined the organizers, not realizing that they are being used by the very people they are demonstrating against. They will stop work at the port at twelve thirty and then pre-arranged buses will transport them out of the harbor to protest in central Marseilles. The license for the rally permits them to march from one-fifteen to two o’clock. After that, a speech or two will be made (and covered by television and the press), then they go back to work at the harbor. During the protest, a skeleton team, headed by an Arab-hating Frenchman, will remain at the dock. The Frenchman is aware that during his shift, the ferry will be loaded with “humanitarian aid” for Israel. He does not need to know everything. The thing that does interest him is a small envelope, stuffed with five-hundred-franc-notes that he will receive to speed things up. Th
e demonstrators are scheduled to return between three and three thirty, when everything will be over from our point of view.

  Except that we have been somewhat put out: the ship called The Atlantic Queen, coming from Nigeria with the uranium, was supposed to reach Marseilles on Sunday, but it was delayed at the port of Valencia in Spain—God only knows why. According to the information in hand, The Atlantic Queen is expected to arrive at two o’clock today, and that is why I am here. The men don’t need me here to load the ferry; I am on my way to Marseilles because our friend Jean-Jacques Molard from the SDECE is coming to Marseilles so that I can introduce him to our contact man, who will show him who the three uranium smugglers are. A second role I have to fulfill, one that Jean-Jacques knows nothing about, of course, is to delay him in the city until our ferry sets sail. We have no desire for Jean-Jacques to learn that right under his nose, we are sending five hundred tons of goods to Israel. There will be no bouillabaisse at Michel’s today. That has been delayed to an indefinite date in the future.

  Avigdor, from the consulate in Marseilles, drives me from the airport to the restaurant where we are to meet Jean-Jacques. He briefs me on the way: “Two of our guys are already waiting at the restaurant. They have been there since it opened at ten thirty. You will see—one is sitting at the bar with a beer. He has an Arab-looking face, is unshaven, and wears a black T-shirt. From where he is sitting he can see the whole restaurant and has visual control of the entire area, including the verandah. We booked a table for you in a corner, inside the restaurant. You will sit with your back to the wall. If Jean-Jacques arrives before you and wants to sit with his back to the wall, ask him to change places with you because you have a backache or something else. If he insists, leave it be, but leave after thirty minutes and go to the restroom. To get to the restroom, you will have to pass the fellow in the black shirt, and he will give you the necessary signal. Our second guy is sitting on the verandah reading a newspaper. Their job is to ascertain that Jean-Jacques is really alone and hasn’t arranged a backup force or some other surprise. So far there are no problems. You have to keep him in the restaurant until someone calls you, or asks for you on the telephone; I don’t know what we will do, we have to be certain that the port remains clear until the ferry is loaded and sets sail.”

  The thing is, I have no idea how I will be able keep Jean-Jacques in this restaurant, especially since he is supposed to arrest the three smugglers from The Atlantic Queen. The only thing he will want to do is set out for the port without delay to make the arrest that will bring him glory. Obviously, he is going to need a backup force of at least five people to take control of the three men. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of his men are not already spread around the harbor.”

  “We arranged with the appropriate people to only permit the Nigerian ship to enter the port once our ferry was loaded. They will stall The Atlantic Queen outside by saying that the harbor is closed because of the demonstration and because no navigator is available. I hope everything works out, but we have to prepare for anything that might happen. We have had enough manpower since this morning, and the SDECE men are also milling around there. We’re lucky that the ferry dock is far away from the one where The Atlantic Queen will drop anchor. What a misfortune that the two vessels are in Marseilles at the same time! As if we haven’t got enough problems.”

  “I rely on you fellows, Avigdor. When everything is known and laid on ahead of time, you don’t have to find creative solutions and make miracles happen. If the job is well planned and the men are trained, I don’t foresee any unusual problems.”

  “We have experience working with North Africa; there, everything is unpredictable, and we learned to live with it.”

  Avigdor parks at the entrance to the restaurant. The car bears the Israeli consular number plate. To anyone following us, this means that we are declaring that we have nothing to hide. Jean-Jacques is wearing his usual best clothes, as demanded by his position: a dark suit of indeterminate color, a light blue shirt, and a matching necktie. He sits at a table on the verandah with a glass of red wine poured from a carafe, which is apparently the house wine.

  After exchanging pleasantries, I introduce Avigdor to Jean-Jacques. Avigdor tells me that he has ordered a table in a quiet spot inside the restaurant that will not attract unwanted attention. We are seated at the table. Jean-Jacques has his back to the wall, facing outwards; he refuses to change places. Avigdor apologizes, saying that he must leave, and he does so quickly. It takes less than twenty minutes to drive to the port from here.

  This is my show now, I think.

  ***

  “How are you, JJ? Are you excited?”

  “Actually, no. I’m fine. Shall we drink something and leave?”

  “I suggest we get something to eat—I haven’t eaten since the morning. Avigdor, the fellow I introduced to you from the consulate, has just gone to the port. He told me that your people are already there. I don’t know how he recognized them, but I’m sure they don’t look like the local port workers. Can you tell me how many of your men are roaming around the docks?”

  “We have around ten SDECE men and another police unit of fifteen or sixteen men at the ready if we need assistance. They are parked in undercover police cars outside the port. I think we should join them without delay.”

  “Wow! So you have a significant presence there. It’s a pity to attract so much attention. I hope it won’t spoil it for us. See how you’re dressed, JJ! You look like a businessman. I don’t need to tell you how much you stick out in a port in those clothes! Anyway, the dock is closed now because of the anti-Israel demonstration taking place in Marseilles. Fewer people are milling around, so every stranger immediately attracts attention.”

  “So why are we waiting? We have to be at the docks right now, don’t we?” Jean-Jacques tries again to leave, but I don’t let him.

  “I don’t know of any normal restaurants in the harbor. Besides, we will only attract unnecessary attention. You said that you have men dispersed in the area. Avigdor has departed now for the dock, and he will maintain contact with us.”

  “I still think we should be there, to wait near where it will all come down. I may have to change instructions according to what happens there.”

  “Don’t you trust your local people? They are more familiar with the harbor than you. They are locals, and you are a Parisian. Come, let’s enjoy a quiet meal. I don’t like working on an empty stomach. Avigdor will report to us when the ship begins entering the docks. I have been told that from the time they let us know they are arriving until they are actually anchored and moored, it will be almost thirty minutes. It will take us less time than that to get there. We’ll be there in time.”

  “When is The Atlantic Queen expected to enter the harbor?”

  “At approximately two o’clock. Now it’s a little after twelve thirty. We have enough time to eat a leisurely meal.”

  Jean-Jacques concedes and complies, although his body language reveals that he feels troubled. We both know that he is putting on a show and we are actually doing him a favor. He sits down and picks up the menu, and I calm down.

  We order an abbreviated lunch that comprises just the plat du jour and a half-liter carafe of red vin de la maison.

  “Bon appetit, Monsieur Cohen. Now, tell me, regarding your first name, what does your French lover call you?”

  The bastard still hasn’t forgotten my call to Chantal from Orly!

  “My name in Hebrew is Yiftach. The only people in Europe who can cope with my name—that is, pronounce it—are the Dutch. If you can say eighty-eight in Dutch, which is achtentachtig, you can pronounce my name, Yiftach. My girlfriend in Paris calls me Yves-Tah, which is as close as she can get.”

  JJ laughs heartily and raises his glass of red wine to toast me. He appears to be full of joie de vivre. He repeats my French name several times, as if to himself, “Yves-Tah, Yves-Tah…” If he is under any kind of tension, he hides it very well. I am having troubling thou
ghts: about the ferry that has to be loaded, about the uranium smuggler who must be revealed to the French, and, most important of all, about the SDECE personnel, who must not meet up with our men loading the ferry. I am quite tense, but I pretend that everything is in order. We enjoy ourselves as if we have nothing else to do but eat lunch and drink wine.

  “That fellow sitting on the verandah, is he one of your men?” JJ inquires.

  I don’t turn my head. “If we have people here, no one informed me of it. Why do you ask?”

  “Someone’s sitting there—don’t look now! He’s been reading the same page in the newspaper for over an hour. He hasn’t moved the pages at all, and he’s only drunk half the glass of beer he ordered. He hasn’t touched it for a long time. That’s not the way a client in a bistro in Marseilles behaves.” Our friend from the SDECE is well-trained and understands his business. He apparently hasn’t identified or noticed the other fellow in the black shirt.

  “And do you have personnel here?”

  “I don’t need anyone here. All my forces are concentrated at the port.” This is confirmation that he trusts us. We enjoy our meal together in a relaxed atmosphere. We chat mostly about the anti-Israeli demonstration being held in Marseilles and how the pro-Arab rallies all over France are being covered by the local media. After about forty minutes, I apologize and go to the restroom, as Avigdor instructed. Our man in the black T-shirt ignores me. He is busy with his beer and stares right through me as if I was thin air. I understand that he cannot give me a signal within the range of Jean-Jacques’ sharp eyes. As per instructions, I enter the restroom, which has two pissoirs for men and three cubicles, one for men and two for women. The men’s cubicle is occupied. I wait for a few seconds and decide to enter one of the women’s cubicles. A small note that doesn’t attract much attention is stuck on the window. Someone has written in Hebrew, “All’s well. The coast is clear.” What a great idea, to use a scrap of paper that looks like toilet paper. No one would even touch it in a restroom! I am convinced the fellow sitting at the bar put it there a few minutes ago. I mean, they told me to go to the toilet after thirty minutes! But how could they know I would go to the women’s cubicle? I pull the note off the window with a sense of revulsion, tear it into shreds, and flush it down the toilet bowl. Then I wash my hands thoroughly.