Pasternak took her up. "And tells me he has a French zonah in there, and you've gone out shopping." A pause, eyes meeting. "The rest I guessed long ago, Yael."
' 'No doubt. But look, love, you brought a Hollywood kurva to that suite. What for? To discuss Suez?"
He held up a flat palm. "We all have a green light for whatever we did then. We were young and liberated, and life was tough."
"Ah, but sweet, no?"
"I said, we were young."
"You should have divorced Ruth then." Yael turned sharp and abrupt. "And married me. I tried my best. We were so much in love, Sammy -"
"Yael, enough. I was Dayan's runner. There was crisis after crisis, and who had time for haggling with the rabbis? Anyway, at that time she'd have given me nothing but tzor-ess, and no divorce."
"So in the end she left you high and dry for a goy. And I had Aryeh. And here we are." Yael's voice slightly shook.
"And here's the soup."
"Lovely! I'm starved."
They ate for a while in silence. Since he had plunged into an alien bewildering world of corporate business, Pasternak's private life had been, as it were, on hold. Still, his recent phone talks with Yael had intrigued him. He had been thinking much about her. After all, they were both in middle years, both more or less free, though she was not divorced. With this dinner at Shimshon's and her bolt to California, was Yael trying to force an issue? So she had tried to force it years ago - in essence the same issue - by breezing off to Paris with Yossi Nitzan, in place of that shy religious girl who had backed out. Yael was Yael.
People really did not change much in their natures, he reflected, admiring this old love opposite him. And in Sam Pasternak's eyes tonight, after more wine than he usually drank, it seemed that Yael had not physically changed much, either. This was still pretty much First Sergeant Luria, the shapely blonde from Dayan's moshav, whom Dayan himself had recommended as an aide. There had been nothing in Sam's life, before or since, like the passionate explosion of the encounter with the girl Yael Luria. He could feel the
radiant warmth yet when he was with her, especially in Shimshon's, alone together over wine.
"Good as ever, the soup," she said.
"Everything's as good as ever," he was startled into replying. At the lightning flash in Yael's eyes he added, "Which could be the stupidest remark I've ever made, but at the moment I mean it, so let it stand."
"Sam, what, about Kivshan?" Very casual shift of subject. "Are you happy with your decision?"
"Not sure yet, Yael. I'm still turning over rocks, and His-tadrut shleppers keep scuttling away from the light. It's alarming, I tell you. On the research and development levels, I find something like genius. Managerial and production levels, I'd call acceptable. At the top - the decision makers, the mon-eymen, the powers - a tangle of political worms."
"Israel!" she exclaimed. "Any wonder that it stifles me, and I keep running away? I wish you'd gone into politics. You could change this hopeless system. You, yourself! You've got the strength and the brains. You'd make a great Prime Minister."
"The politicos would cut off my balls the first day," he said, "before I'd hung up my hat and coat."
"Really? Well then, dear," she said, and the mouth widened in the leopard smile, "by all means let's keep you at Kivshan, what? We can't have that, can we?"
"Kevess b'tanur," said the waiter, setting down a large savory lamb roast on a board.
While they ate it with rice, pita, and more wine, he talked about the ramified industries of Kivshan. He was uncovering more each day, he said, a mess of bad administration and tottery finance in Israel's biggest government-owned manufacturing complex. "I'll tell you what," she remarked when he paused. "They got you in not because of your ability - what do they know or care about that? - but because you are who you are, with a big reputation and a spotless name, so you keep them kosher. For a while longer, anyway." And as he went on, all her comments were informed and keen. Unlike Eva Sonshine, she knew everybody in high circles, up to Dode Moshe, and also knew nearly everything that was going on. After a while they were talking about Dayan and the Time article.
"Do you agree with him?" she asked.
"Yes, I agree, and in a way because of Moshe himself. Dayan's image is awe-inspiring, Yael, more so among the Arabs even than here. The one-eyed Samson, the giant-killer. I suspect they won't dare to move while he's alive. And who knows, if he lasts long enough, the status quo could come to seem normal."
"Will the new wife change him?"
"Oh, that's been going on for years. Finally his marriage broke up, so he could marry the lady. That's all."
"Sammy, the same woman as a girlfriend and as a wife are very, very, very different persons." Over his wineglass he gave her a rueful look. She added, "I speak with some authority."
"Confirmed, with equal authority."
She took a half-joking tone. "Well, then, are you going to try me as a wife, or not?" He did not answer. "I'm serious, Sammy."
"It's all talk. I don't really believe you."
"Why not? You know about my marriage. Last chance, hamood! Kind of late, twenty years later, but why not?"
"Want to take me with you to California, Yael? Big charge for excess baggage."
"Oh, talk sense. I have things to do there and almost nothing here, it's just too empty, small, and boring. But darling, at Kivshan or in politics - and don't wave off politics yet, Sammy - you can use me, in fact you need me. Now let me tell you something that may sound very peculiar, but it's absolutely true. In the army and in the Mossad, you've led a sheltered life."
"Sheltered? In the Mossad?"
"Sheltered, I say! I know all about the dangers you went through as you advanced, the difficulties, but you gave orders, and things happened. You're just now finding out at Kivshan what the outside is like, and your head is spinning. Isn't it? And you're right, politics is even more slippery and booby-trapped."
"Sheltered," muttered Pasternak. "Now there's a thought."
"It's a fact. Yossi Nitzan is an army star, he's the father of my kids, but to me he still seems a big tough boy scout. He
hardly seems older than Aryeh. Maybe that's why we've never hit it off-though, again, I've tried my best."
"You're divorcing him?"
"If there's a reason to, I will. He knows that."
He reached across the table and took her hand. "What a piece you are, First Sergeant Luria."
"Such compliments." She gave his hand a small squeeze. "Now then, tell me about Eva Sonshine."
"Tell you what?"
"My brother's girlfriend! Surely you're not sharing? That's not you. Not Benny, I'd swear. And from the little f know of her, not her either."
"No."
"What, then?"
A heavy sigh. "I doubt you'll believe me."
"I'll know if you're lying, Sam."
That made him laugh. "All right. She's nice. I like her. She's no shmata. Between the hotel and the modelling she scratches a living and supports her sick mother. Every fellow who comes along tries to screw her, especially the wiseguy Americans at the Hilton. It's her looks."
"And you don't, Mr. Innocence? Is that what you're telling me?"
"Just that. At first I amazed her. She thought I had an original approach. But I enjoyed talking to her, and I sort of felt sorry for her. I still do. Of course to her I'm Dayan, Ben Gurion, and I don't know, Humphrey Bogart or somebody, rolled into one. It's ridiculous, but it's nice. If it got into screwing - anyway, I wouldn't do that to Benny, she's straight with him - all that would be gone like smoke. It's just something pleasant that's happened. She makes me feel good. That's it."
"By my life, I believe you. You're a very lonesome man, Sammy."
The half-closed eyes peered at her. "No more than I want to be."
"She's no threat, then?"
"To what?"
Yael picked up her purse and took out a mirror. "Hm. No wonder you think I look passable. Good old Shimshon's! I can har
dly see myself. And oo-ah, my head! I've drunk more
wine than I've had in years. It's been a marvellous dinner, and God help me, I love you."
He took a while to answer. "Well, I guess I believe you at that."
"Such a pretty speech! Let's get out of here. Yonatan can take me home. Kishote and Aryeh are helping me pack."
"You leave when?"
"Monday."
"Yonatan will take you to the airport."
"Accepted! Exit Mrs. Nitzan in style."
They kissed a lot in the car, much to Yonatan's discreet delight and hope. But Yael left for America on schedule, much to his sadness.
17
Rumbles
Pasternak was at his Swedish modern desk one morning in late September, in a big office with picture windows looking out over uptown Tel Aviv and the sunny sea, when a building guard rang from the lobby, reporting that an army major wanted to see him, claiming to be his son.
Amos not in Sinai? Now what? "Tell him to come up."
"Only the service elevator is running, sir."
"So let him use that."
Like the government and most Tel Aviv businesses, the Kivshan Building was shut down. The season of holy days was upon Israel; tonight at sundown Rosh Hashanah, ten days later Yom Kippur, then Sukkot - the annual three-week lull of rituals for pious Jews, and beachgoing or travel for others. Pasternak was alone on the executive top floor, no secretaries, not even a cleaning woman. In field uniform, briefcase in hand, Amos walked in and dropped letters on the desk. "Your mail, I stopped at the flat first. I've been ordered to the north. Why are you working today?"
Pasternak recognized Yael's handwriting on the top letter. High time. "To the north? That's sudden. What's happening?"
"The Golan's getting warm. I'm bringing up two companies and my command HQ. Know anything about it, Abba?"
Pasternak's response was guarded. It was still inside intelligence that the Arabs were massing and maneuvering again, north and south, in a virtual replay of blue/white. "Well, after shooting down all those planes of theirs we had to expect some kind of reaction." In mid-September Syrian MiGs had scrambled to pursue an Israeli reconnaissance flight, and in an extended dogfight with its air cover had lost twelve aircraft to Israel's none.
"Abba, that was an encounter that got out of hand on both sides."
"I know. Still, they ended up with a big public black eye. Some sort of limited reprisal may well be in the wind."
"No, Yanosh thinks it's a lot more serious than that." Colonel Yanosh Ben Gal, Amos's hawk-faced brigade commander, in peace was something of a cynical womanizer, which to Pasternak was no great black mark against him, and in war he was a resourceful stubborn fighting man. "Yanosh expects the whole brigade will be moved up. There are seven Syrian divisions on the Golan by now, and we have only one brigade there, he says."
"Probably right," said the father wryly. "Peacetime deployment."
"Well, that's a monstrous asymmetry, Abba, twenty-one brigades to one! It's been a balagan, calling my troops back from holiday leave, deciding who goes north and who stays in Sinai. Come on. Will there really be war this time? Do you know? Maybe we should get it over with. All these false alarms-"
"Yanosh is wrong. They won't dare, Amos. It's more of the old bluff to keep us on edge. Not pleasant, of course, while it lasts." Pasternak felt a stir of disquiet. He was sure that the concepzia was sound, and that it was just a blue/ white feint again. Yet, if a Syrian reprisal for the air incident did occur, his son would be in the hot spot. "Good luck, son."
"I need luck at the supply depot up there," Amos grinned. "They're fighting with my deputy about releasing the reserve tanks."
Pasternak pulled open a drawer and fished a letter from his Soon file. "I don't think this is important, but here it is. Some lady brought it, I think a Frenchwoman, on the day of the
parade. It got buried, what with moving my office and all." The father saw no point in mentioning that the woman was the elusive blonde of the Beirut raid. Let her stay elusive.
"Thanks." Amos slipped the blue envelope into his briefcase. Frenchwoman! Hmm. "Well, if things cool down, maybe Yanosh will let me come and join you for Yom Kip-pur."
"Sounds good. Now what about that rolling bridge? If your brigade's in the north and there's trouble down south, how does it get to the Canal?"
"Not up to me, Abba. I hope somebody's thought about that."
Pasternak resisted the notion of embracing Amos; too heavy a gesture for what was happening, so far. "Okay. If you can get to a telephone up there, call me. Shana tova [A good New Year], Amos."
"Shana tova, Abba." Amos threw him an ironic salute and left. The desk drawer was still open. It occurred to Pasternak that the best place for Yael's letter was the Soon file. The intense mood of the dinner at Shimshon's was fading, after weeks of searching his mail for word from her, and waiting for a phone call, at least. Nothing. Nothing! Who could tell, with First Sergeant Luria? To the Soon file with her! So he thought. But he reached for the paper cutter and slit open the letter. What to all the devils was she up to now?
No way of knowing, from the single sheet of warm bright chatter; the sound of Los Angeles and of pure devious Yael. He dashed off one rapid sheet in reply.
KIVSHAN TEL AVIV
26 September 1973 Erev Rosh Hashanah Dear First Sergeant -
Amos just brought your letter, which is three weeks old. He picked it up at the flat on his way to the Golan Heights. His battalion has been transferred there from Sinai, a funny business. Our air force tangled with the Syrians two weeks ago and shot down twelve planes, so Dode Moshe may anticipate a reprisal attack.
I was giving up on you when our post office snails
finally crawled up with your short billet-doux. So you're busy now with that film foolishness and happy to be back in the expatriate paradise. Good luck to you. I envy Sheva Leavis your services as adviser and trou-bleshooter. I could use them. Business is bound to bring me to the USA one of these days. I'll let you know when I come, and maybe we can pick up where we left off at Shimshon's. Meantime enjoy Eden, don't eat the wrong apples, and shana tova.
Avoiding the Rosh Hashanah eve highway traffic, Amos's driver tried to speed north through shortcuts and byways, but it was slow going here, too. Vehicles were few on the farmland back roads, but people cluttered them in holiday best, walking to the villages or to relatives' homes. Up on the wild green Heights the Rosh Hashanah feeling dimmed in the ambience of crossroads guarded by bored soldiers, fenced-off Zahal camps flying the Star of David, and many armed jeep patrols. At the local brigade headquarters Colonel Ben Sho-ham greeted him with something like wartime briskness. "Pasternak, as soon as you've drawn your tanks and supplies put your battalion here." He fingered a red circle on a wall map. "Be ready by morning for all eventualities. You'll be my counterstrike force."
"What's the situation, sir?"
"Not clear. Not so good." The bushy-haired officer sounded unafraid, but he had the grim weary look of a field commander with a single brigade, holding a front against seven enemy divisions.
"My deputy's been having trouble drawing tanks."
"That's all cleared up. Yanosh's troops have top priority on everything."
Near sunset the bulk of Amos's men arrived in a long convoy of busses. They swarmed into the supply depot to draw tanks out of storage; to test engines, bore-sight guns, load shells, magazines, and signal equipment, and grab up the thousand items of tank kits, all in a great noisy chaos. Here Rosh Hashanah ceased to exist, except for a small knot of soldiers in knitted skullcaps off in a corner of the depot with prayer books, rushing through a New Year service. Amos and his junior officers kept watching and checking far into the
night, to ensure having at sunrise a counterstrike force of thirty-five working tanks. At 3 a.m. he went to snatch a little sleep in a bleak tin-roofed officers' hut. Piling coarse blankets on a cot, for it was very cold, he pulled off his boots, and glanced again at his orders. The
envelope his father had given him fell out of his despatch case: square, pale blue, no stamp. Inside was a single sheet.
Mon cher Pasternak fits:
My husband and I are here for the Independence Day Parade. I have been troubled to think that in our recent adventure I may have been unnecessarily rude or evasive. You asked my name. It is Irene Fleg. In "real life" I am a happily married woman living in Paris, the mother of three children. My husband is M. Armand Fleg, a businessman active in the Alliance. If you happen to be in Paris one day, we will be pleased to see you. Meantime let me thank with less coyness the brave lady with the wet stockings who brought off a great exploit for Israel, and made me feel safe in a very foolhardy escapade. I was approached, felt challenged, and volunteered. Thanks in part to your cool courage, I came out with a whole skin. Never again!
Herman Wouk - The Glory Page 28