No Medals Today

by Shlomi Tal

  Yossi drives to the embassy by a different route. It’s not the one we usually take. He stops the car at a small restaurant on the banks of the Seine, called Square de l’Alma.

  “Come, Yiftach, I haven’t eaten since this morning. I have endless piles of work waiting for me, and if we drive straight to the embassy, I won’t get to eat a thing. I’m starving. Aren’t you hungry?”

  “I ate a sandwich in Marseilles before the flight, but I’ll eat something with pleasure. And most importantly, a glass or two of chilled beer will get my adrenaline flowing.” The waiter moves away with Yossi’s order: steak tartare and a half-liter carafe of wine. I order beer from the barrel and a croque monsieur. We place our order with the waiter on our way to the table, to save time.

  Just as we sit down, the penny drops. How foolish I’ve been till now! How did I not guess from the first second that this was a bluff? Yossi must have come to pick me up at the airport as the Angel of Death! I freeze and stare at Yossi in shock. Yossi tries to avoid my eyes, but he realizes that I now know why he is there.

  “Your brother, Yehuda, is out of danger. He was severely injured, but he is all right now. He’ll get over it.” Yossi pauses and looks at me with glassy eyes.

  “And…Zvika?”

  “He, he’s… he’s been killed.” After half a minute of silence, while I try and absorb this information, Yossi continues, in a soft, gentle voice, avoiding looking into my eyes, “That’s it. That’s the last shot for you from my quiver of arrows. Yiftach, you have no idea how hard this is. I have two more sad messages to deliver that I won’t manage today, to two people you don’t know at the Jewish Agency. One is in Paris and the other in Marseilles. I don’t understand how I haven’t had a nervous breakdown till now. How will I survive this, and that awful nickname I’ve been given? The Angel of Death! I can’t carry on, I just can’t. I’ve known about Zvika for a few days, and it’s been eating my heart and soul. I debated whether I should tell you before or not. I didn’t because I feared you would tell Tzipi and she would pass it on to her parents, and that would have been the end of me. You must have noticed me trying to avoid you—except for the times we met on Saturday and Sunday morning, when I lied to you,” Yossi sounds distraught, but he doesn’t look it.

  “How do I go home to Tzipi with news like this?” I ask aloud. “It’s a good thing you didn’t tell me. I wouldn’t have been able to be anywhere near Tzipi. She was certain that something awful had happened to her brother and has been nagging me to inquire.”

  Somehow, I am relieved. I’d had a bad feeling about Zvika, perhaps because of Tzipi’s nagging. The uncertainty is behind me now. I am dying to cry—crying is supposed to bring relief. But the tears don’t come. Instead, fatigue takes possession of me.

  “Yiftach, tomorrow morning the news about Zvika will be broken to Tzipi’s parents at their home in Israel. You have no idea how I had to beg them to put it off till tomorrow because you were on duty in Marseilles today.”

  Like me, Yossi looks completely exhausted. He doesn’t touch his food, and he only drinks half a glass of wine. I can barely drink a glass of beer—that’s all. My croque monsieur has grown cold and lies untouched on the plate. We sit, staring at one another, both of us broken, tired, and drained.

  “Tomorrow, Yechiel will call me again at four in the morning and tell me that he envies me being in Paris, far away from the war. ‘Eat a baguette for me,’ he will say, as he does each morning. I am prepared to go out to battle right now, and let them stop envying me for my ‘good life’ in Paris. Everyone in Israel is jealous of me—jealous of everyone here. What are they jealous of? What’s so good about life here? Look at yourself, Yossi. I’m so ashamed that I haven’t even one word of encouragement for you. I feel like screaming ‘Why?’ at the heavens, or like strangling you, even though I know that you aren’t to blame for Zvika’s death. But I restrain myself, and I don’t yell. All I can say to you is that if I were in your place, I would have committed suicide a long time ago.” The image of the African falling after I shot him passes before my eyes once again— I don’t know how many times I will remember this scene.

  At the embassy, I move slowly, dragging out the time to avoid going home to Tzipi. After finishing all my regular duties, which now seem trivial and irritating, I decide not to go home yet—I just can’t face Tzipi now, in the middle of the night. I ask Emi to call her and tell her that I might be delayed in Marseilles tonight; I ask her to sleep on the sofa near the telephone tonight to answer Yechiel in the morning. Yossi said that the city officer’s delegation would arrive in the morning. Till then, there is time to think what I should do and how I should break the news to her. I ask for permission to call home, to my parents. According to Yossi, they already know about Yehudah. After a moment’s thought, I give up on the idea of the phone call so as not to entangle myself in lies about Zvika. I’ll call tomorrow morning.

  I check the time: fifteen minutes to midnight. All the people at the embassy are taking care not to bump into me. They have already heard the news. I know that because I do the same when casualties are reported. I call Chantal, waking her up, and ask if I can come over now. Everyone, including Emi, thinks that I am just going out to roam around the street and wallow in despair and self-pity.

  Wednesday, October 17 (A Little After Midnight between Tuesday and Wednesday)

  Chantal receives me wearing her dressing gown with her hair down, looking like she just got out of bed. She realizes right away that something has happened. As soon as I close the door behind me, I break down. The tears I wanted to shed the whole time begin streaming down my face. Without a word, Chantal brings a glass and carafe of water, pours out the water, and sets the carafe and the full glass on the floor beside me. She sits facing me on the floor, bends her legs and hugs them to herself, and leans her head on her knees as she gazes at me questioningly as if to say, “Let it all out. Release your pain.”

  I weep silently for several minutes. Chantal doesn’t move. She allows me to cry alone. I really don’t want her to approach me; perhaps she senses it. I calm down gradually, and I sit on the floor with my head inclined and my eyes closed.

  “You know, I came to you because they have just informed me that my best friend has fallen in the war. I became friends with Zvika when we were four. We grew up together. We lived in the same neighborhood, with a three-minute walk separating our apartments. We went to the same primary school and high school, and we enlisted in the army at the same time. We grew up like brothers—even closer than brothers. We were always known as ‘the twins.’ That’s what everyone called us… I have another two brothers of my own. Today they informed me that one of them, Yehuda, has been severely injured. Can you grasp what I’m telling you? My brother was badly hurt, and my friend, who is like a third brother, was killed. When we served in the same unit in the army, Zvika asked me to take his sister, who was then sixteen, to a discotheque, and we have been together ever since. She is Tzipi, my wife. She was always around there, in the house—she was always the little girl. I never regarded her as a love interest. When we were kids and then youths, we never looked at girls who were three years younger than us. You probably know what that is like. Then, all at once, I discovered she was a magnificent, mature young woman, and I fell in love with her as I had never believed possible. After almost three years, we got married. Our life together in Israel was always great, and we have two beautiful children. Now I have to go home and tell my wife that she doesn’t have a brother anymore. I don’t know how to do that. I just can’t bring myself to break the news to her. I can’t. I know she will collapse. Tzipi is very attached to her brother. That is why I ran away from her and from myself, to you…” I wanted to add the words “my beloved,” but I wasn’t able to say that.

  I open my eyes and stare at Chantal. She is sitting upright now, her right hand covering her mouth now as if she is trying to stifle a scream. She looks shocked, her eyes expressing amazement, or is it pity? I am not familiar with t
hat expression from Chantal.

  “Tzipi has… had only one brother. Her parents, who are like my second mother and father, will certainly need her close by now. And I—I can’t bear the thought of her going on her own to Israel to be with her parents. I want to be there with her, to hold her, to mourn with her for a friend who will never return…” I pause and sip some water. “I want us to cry together for her brother, who can no longer put in a good word for me when I irritate her. I want to embrace her parents and remind them that I am still their son. I also want to see my parents, who must be having a hard time sitting at the hospital beside my injured brother. I know they won’t let me go on leave to Israel because the work I am doing here is crucial. Perhaps one day I will tell you so that you will understand what kept me from coming to you for all this time.”

  There is silence. I sip more water…

  “Yves-Tah… my beloved,” Chantal barely whispers, after a long silence. “You should be with your wife, not here with me. Go home and do your duty.”

  “But you see where I have come with my deepest pain.”

  “You came here not out of love for me but out of the fear of confronting your wife’s pain, because you love her. You have proved to me that you love your wife and are very devoted to her. This evening you made me understand that your relationship is deeper than the typical connection men and women share. Your soul is bound not just to your wife but to her whole family. As bad as the pain in my heart is, I know that you should go and be with her. What is more, it is my duty to send you to her with my love. Now you have to give her all your love. You must give her your whole self, and you won’t have any love left for me. She needs that now. I won’t be able to accept love from you now. My intellect may not agree with my feelings, but I am a woman, and if I were in your wife’s situation, I would expect you to give me what I think you should give her at this difficult time.”

  I gradually regain my composure. Chantal is right. She is actually giving me up, and it isn’t easy for her. Her body language tells me how tough it is for her to say these things that come from her heart. I love Tzipi very much, and it’s hard to bear the thought of her suffering. The pain at the thought of the suffering that awaits her soon when she hears the news is worse than mine at losing a close friend.

  It’s time to go. We part with a long embrace. Both of us weep.

  Before she closes the door behind me for the last time, she says, “Farewell, my love—good-bye.”

  Thursday, October 25

  It’s great to fly first class from Paris to Tel Aviv; Bob, the station manager at Orly, has upgraded me. It’s his way of acknowledging our cooperation during the war. For several days flights to Israel have been back on their regular schedule; they no longer take off from Paris in the evening to land in Israel at night and take off again immediately to return to Paris at dawn. Tonight the second or third cease-fire is scheduled to begin. The cease-fire that was negotiated by the United Nations on Monday, October 22, was breached several times by the Egyptians and by us. The Syrians are keeping silent because the IDF threatens Damascus. We now have complete air superiority. Foreign airlines have not yet renewed their flights to Israel; El Al is the only carrier currently working the route, so its flights are fully booked all the time.

  Lunch in first class: white cloths on the table, red wine with the meal. While I look out through the window at the field of white clouds spread out below me, stretching from one side of the horizon the other, I ponder on the sequence of events that led me to this moment.

  Three days ago, on Monday, I was called to come immediately to the CDSE’s office at six thirty in the morning. The deputy head of the General Security Service was sitting beside the CDSE. Unceremoniously, he said, “I heard from Herzl about what you did and how you operated in these last two weeks since the war broke out. He and the ambassador both recommended you for a prize. But Israel doesn’t give out medals, so what prize would you like to be awarded?”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, I replied, “Two days in Israel.” It is like asking to fly to the moon. No one is being allowed to go to Israel. All of us serving abroad have a family member, a distant relative, or a friend who has been killed or wounded in the war. If they were to allow such trips, all the Israeli embassies and consulates all over the globe would shut down; all the emissaries would gladly pay for their flights to Israel themselves to be able to visit family and close friends. Even the ambassador, who lost his son in the war, went to Israel only after receiving approval from the director general of the Foreign Ministry.

  “And I have another request you can help with. I believe that Monsieur Du Pont, the administrator of Orly airport, should be invited to visit Israel as a guest of the government in return for his assistance.

  “Why do you want to go to Israel?” the CDSE asks.

  I explain that my wife and children went home to her parents after her brother was killed. I tell him about my wounded brother and about my company in the general staff commandos, who were almost wiped out. The next day—the day before yesterday—my request was approved. Perhaps it was the way I explained myself, or my excitement. To avoid having to get approval from the general manager of the Foreign Ministry, the General Security Service requests that I serve as a courier for cargo being sent to Israel in the DIP for an unidentified inquiry. They all understand it is a reward, and no one objects.

  Yesterday, Jean-Jacques Molard called Herzl and conveyed a laconic message to him: “Read the report on the back page of today’s Herald Tribune.” Herzl checked it out and found the report, which said only, “The French Security Services arrested some suspects who had smuggled uranium into France for the purpose of terrorist activities.” No further information is given.

  Herzl is very pleased with himself; in response to my query, he replies, “The details aren’t really important. What is important is that JJ is satisfied with the results of the action, which was executed following information we gave him. Also, the uranium destined for Iraq will not arrive there, and the effort to prevent it from getting there hasn’t cost the Israeli taxpayer a cent!”

  Before I leave for Israel, the CDSE tells me that there is a good chance Du Pont will be invited to Israel after the country regains its equilibrium. I feel it would be a generous gesture to an exceptional man.

  This past week we sent sixty-one trucks weighing ten, twelve, and fifteen tons. We were asked to acquire one hundred such vehicles—as usual, within twenty-four hours flat. The usual waiting period for such a quantity is six to nine months. We approached “Omnipotent Eddy,” and he checked out people who had put in orders for trucks of the right type to see if they might be willing to forego their place in the line. He found sixty-one vehicles; another thirty-nine could be obtainable within a month and a half. At least with this operation everything went smoothly; Israel is permitted to import civilian trucks, which aren’t included in the embargo.

  In my luggage in the hold of the airliner, I have cartons of cigarettes and two dozen bottles of fine whiskey. A considerable number of embassy officials have asked me to take home “something small” for an injured member of their family—usually cigarettes and hard liquor, mostly whiskey. Everyone envied my going to Israel, so I couldn’t turn them down. Now I have the problem of getting through customs. Bob, the station manager, has agreed to turn a blind eye to the excess weight of my baggage, and the embassy has paid for eight hundred kilos of accompanied DIP, the official reason for my trip to Israel.

  On landing, as instructed, I go straight from the aircraft to claim the accompanied luggage. Yechiel comes to meet me. Until now, our acquaintance has been limited to the telephone calls. My mental image of him is of a tall and strapping muscular man in his forties; I see before me a fiftyish man with graying hair and a very high forehead, slightly bent and with a little paunch. We embrace like long-lost brothers. It’s strange how relationships are forged in situations of war. I am genuinely happy to meet him. The DIP gets loaded on a truck, which leaves i
mmediately; my personal baggage, which includes all the gifts I have brought with me, is packed in eight suitcases, and I load them on two carts that Yechiel and I push to customs.

  “Yechiel, wait here a moment, please. Keep an eye on my bags.” I get into the red line and approach the first customs officer I meet. I ask him to call the shift manager, who comes immediately. His name is Mr. Assis. I show him my diplomatic passport and ask him to come and view my two cartloads of baggage.

  “Mr. Assis,” I begin gingerly, as I take a suitcase off one of the carts and put it down on the floor. “This is my suitcase, and I have nothing to declare in it. Its contents are all personal. Perhaps I should report that I have two kilos of chocolate mix in four half-kilo packages that my two children, who are here in Israel, are very fond of. All the rest of the luggage you see here is full of gifts sent by officials at the embassy in Paris. Most of them are for injured soldiers, members of the embassy officials’ families. Those officials at the embassy have not yet been allowed to visit Israel because of the crucial work they are doing. The problem is that all the gifts, without exception, are cigarettes and hard liquor. We can open any bag of your choice, and you will see for whom each gift is intended. You can check the contents of any package you wish. I don’t want to be a criminal, so I want you to tell me, sir, where should I deposit all these things so that the people they are intended for can come and collect them and pay the customs.” Mr. Assis piercingly stares me in the eyes. He seems to be checking to see if I am telling the truth. He transfers his gaze to Yechiel.

  “I am from the Foreign Ministry,” Yechiel announces, defending himself from the stare of Mr. Assis. “Mr. Yiftach Cohen arrived today from Paris with DIP. I can assure you of his credibility and confirm that he serves in the Israeli embassy in Paris.”