The Siege of Tel Aviv

by Hesh Kestin

  “Sir, my letter of resignation will be on your desk in the morning.” The president decides to go for the cornbread—he can swim it off in the morning. “Arthur, I like a man with ideals. But should we attack Eyeran, the US is at war with the whole Muslim world. Which means no oil. Zip. We’re not just talkin’ high-priced gas—our pumps will go as dry as a widow’s pussy.”

  “In an election year,” Flo Spier adds, as if she must.

  The president genuinely likes General Hefty, probably as much as he likes cornbread. Both have that gritty, down-home quality. “See, Arthur. Israel’s got holy sites and all that history, and brave people, real brave people. But what it doesn’t have is what we need.”

  “It’s a fact of life, sir.”

  “That’s right as rain, Felix. Now, Arthur, I sure am glad those Israelians didn’t take out the Arabs with their nukes, even if now it means Eyeran is going to take out Israel with theirs. Sometimes life just ain’t fair. Y’all want to pass the jam down this way?”

  118

  IN THE WARM WATERS of the Persian Gulf, an Israeli submarine rises to the surface, joined a half mile to the east by a second. In both, the same exercise is worked through step by step: confirmation of code, confirmation of source, confirmation of target, confirmation of onward orders. In each submarine, the captain opens the hatch to step out on deck to have a last look at the world before it is bent into a new shape, permanently altered, transmogrified.

  After the missiles are launched, both vessels gently submerge beneath the waves for the long voyage home.

  119

  THE ISRAEL TO WHICH they return will be familiar, and not. Still fractious and almost ferociously opinionated, the Israeli in the street, like all survivors, is forever changed, but ultimately the same. Coming back from death’s door is for the individual Israeli a transcendent experience, but once it is shared this most personal of emotions becomes nationally affirmative.

  The extent of the damage is unfathomable. Israel’s medical facilities, overburdened with caring for the sick and wounded, become an assembly line as thousands of Jewish women and girls, some as young as eleven, line up for abortions. Israel’s Chief Rabbinate, which otherwise condemns the practice, turns a blind eye.

  No other people experiences so many funerals per capita in so short a period. Israel’s supply of rabbis qualified to lead prayers at gravesites proves to be insufficient. When it becomes clear how many dead are piled up like rotting logs in the former prisoner of war camps, rabbis from around the world are invited by the IDF Chief Rabbinate to fly in to help. They do so in droves, many for the first time putting aside their skepticism about a Jewish state that in their eyes is insufficiently religious.

  Yet, as always, Jewish humor prevails, and as usual it is black. Television comedians quickly see the possibilities: the Muslim invaders have finally given Israel’s cities an opportunity for broad-scale urban renewal; the Knesset, with no members, has never been more efficient; the ultra-Orthodox, who before the war dedicated their lives to study, eschewing labor, have at last joined the workforce.

  Jewish money pours in from abroad to finance the rebuilding, so much so that, as the comedians put it, the country’s second major import—after cash—is brass plaques to commemorate the donors.

  With labor in short supply and no Palestinians to take up the slack, Christian fundamentalist and Jewish college students flock in to hammer nails, pour concrete, and repave roads.

  The Knesset building is reconstructed in six months. Rebuilding the western wall of the Holy Temple takes longer: some of its stone building blocks weigh five hundred tons. Bulldozer after bulldozer breaks down in the effort; how the ancient Israelites brought them to the site and lifted them into place remains a mystery to this day.

  120

  BETTER TIMES ARE NOT slow in coming. The massive defeat of five Muslim armies and the Iranian theocrats who planned the war does not immediately turn the Muslim lion into a Jew-loving lamb. But the plan Yigal worked on while Pinky and his generals prepared the counterattack removes the lion’s claws, and teeth.

  And balls.

  To Yigal, a student of history, it might have appeared that charity following victory would accomplish more than brutal vengeance. The examples are classic, well known, and an article of faith in every Western doctoral course in international relations. After World War I, the victors so emasculated the vanquished enemy that Germany’s obsessive dedication to revenge brought forth a second, even more horrific world conflict. Learning from this, after the fall of the Axis powers in World War II, the West took a more humane tack, actively assisting Germany, Italy, and Japan to rebuild, in the process creating three long-lived democracies so opposed to war that their armies became mere miniatures of what they had been, purposeless by design and in posture merely defensive.

  Yigal rejects this model.

  As he tells Judy the night of the first day of the counterattack, “After the Second World War, the West was dealing with the West. The victors and the vanquished shared a common secular civilization, so compassion made sense. Here we are dealing with people whose worldview does not accommodate other religions, and who approach the secular as even worse.”

  “They’re our neighbors.”

  “Geographically,” Yigal says. “But if your neighbor’s very essence, his every urge, is to destroy you because you are different, then the only way to deal with this is to disarm him, reduce him to impotence, and then simply ignore him. For a thousand years, the Muslims stewed in their own enforced ignorance—this after centuries of being the light of the world. Do you know how many Western books were translated into Arabic from 900 AD to today? A thousand. It’s the same number Greece translates from other languages in one year. Our neighbors are intent that Islam rule the world, and they wish the world to look like them. That being the case, I don’t care what they wish for. I don’t care if my neighbor hates me. I care only to make sure he is disarmed. What is their weapon? Oil. With oil, we gave them strength.”

  “But that’s geography again, isn’t it? You can’t take away their oil. They’re sitting on it.”

  “Honey,” Yigal says, “just watch me.”

  121

  THE DAY AFTER THE counterattack, Israel begins repatriating the first of some 300,000 Muslim prisoners of war. The total may be significantly higher, but the IDF has better things to do than take names and numbers, or to build POW camps to house and feed the enemy. There is no sense in it: because the Muslim armies had removed no Israeli prisoners of war to their own countries, there are no prisoners to trade. Short of mass execution, exporting Arab captives is the only solution.

  Only the day after her clean scoop, Connie Blunt loses her exclusive as hundreds of foreign correspondents arrive in Israel on the first planes to land at what is again Ben Gurion International. Like Blunt, they are doing their stand-ups on the low rise overlooking Allenby Bridge, where a seemingly endless line of Arab prisoners of war, tied neck to neck, marches into Jordan, some going home, others eventually to reach Egypt, Syria, Iraq, and Iran. No observer can determine their nationality by their dress. The prisoners are, to say the least, out of uniform.

  “Damian, this line of naked men must be a mile long,” Blunt reports from the ridge. “Clearly the Israelis mean this to be a humiliating lesson to the enemy, whose combined armies only two days ago had Israel on its knees. As you can see, or can’t see because FCC standards and good taste prevent us from shooting up close, if you look at the faces of these prisoners you may be seeing the end of Islamic dreams to destroy the State of Israel. However, Iran, which military sources here call the instigating and organizing force behind the attack, seems to have gotten off scot—”

  “Connie, sorry to interrupt, and please stay with us as we break away for startling footage, just in, of developments in Iran, where the oil port of Bandar Abbas has become one enormous fireball. Other reports describe nuclear-like explosions in remote—”

  122

  IN THE P
RESIDENTIAL BEDROOM at Camp David, the president clicks off the television. He has already been apprised of the situation in Iran. All in all, this night has left him at once frustrated and gratified. He had hoped that the first lady might be inclined to emulate Holly Mawn in the previous evening’s film, but she dozed off in the Camp David screening room just before the crucial, uncut scene. This accounts for his frustration. His gratification is less personal.

  “At least,” he says to no one in particular, “it wasn’t us that did it.”

  The first lady stirs softly in her sleep. Maybe, the president thinks, looking at her, the night can be win-win after all.

  123

  BECAUSE REPAIRS TO THE prime minister’s residence in Jerusalem are not considered a priority in a capital where entire ministries must be rebuilt from the ground up, Yigal chooses to remain at the villa in Herzlia and commute to Jerusalem. In truth, he does not wish to live where his predecessor died, especially after her mutilated body was discovered in the Jerusalem city dump. Besides, his home suits him, and Judy, and Cobi. His son has just taken off on his motorcycle for some sort of party at the same beach that so recently was a slum on its way to becoming a graveyard. If anything, Yigal is aware how slim is the line between vibrancy and rot, hope and despair, attending the funeral and being the corpse. Yigal Lev is determined Israel will not be the corpse.

  The phone rings.

  Judy looks in. “Good luck,” she whispers. Then shuts the door.

  “Good day, Mr. President,” Yigal says into the phone.

  “And a good evening to you, Mr. Prime Minister. Yogi—may I call you Yogi?” A pause. “Yi-gal, of course. My Hebrew’s a bit rusty. Barely made it through Spanish in high school. I’ll tell ya, every time I stand up to say something to a group of Messicans I’m thinking, ‘Dear Lord, help me not to say fuck instead of luck.’”

  When this is greeted by silence, the president merely continues: not everyone has a good sense of humor.

  “Yi-gal. Bible name, is it?”

  124

  IN THE LIBYAN DESERT two hundred miles southeast of Benghazi, a truck marked BP driven by an oilfield foreman bearing a striking resemblance to Col. Lior churns through the sand until it comes to a second BP truck with drilling equipment attached. On the horizon, hundreds of derricks pump like nodding birds. After men in yellow BP coveralls unload a heavy black cylinder, three feet long and a foot thick, gently setting it into a drill hole, a technician screws a long antenna into the top of the all but buried cylinder. Others gently cover the antenna with sand.

  125

  “IT MEANS GOD WILL redeem, Mr. President.”

  “Well, if you don’t mind me saying so, Yi-gal, your God didn’t bring much redemption to them Eyeranians.”

  “Mr. President, may I call you Dwayne?”

  “Wouldn’t have it no other way.”

  “Dwayne, yours didn’t bring much redemption to the Japanese.” Another pause. The president was briefed, but not enough is known about the Israeli prime minister for a proper assessment. Central Intelligence was reduced to interviewing business associates and rivals. Apparently the man is a straight shooter, but not easy.

  “Yigal, let’s look ahead instead of back. I’m gonna lay it on the line. The world would feel a lot better if Israel cut back its nuclear arsenal.”

  “In the spirit of peace, as it were,” Yigal says. It is a good thing the president cannot see his face.

  “Point taken. But you and I know there’s no reason you need so many nukes. Can’t we reduce that a bit, for the sake of safety and easing tensions? Frankly, I’m looking at a close election. By golly, you are too.”

  126

  FROM AN UNPAVED ROAD twisting through wasteland, a convoy of US Army Humvees descends onto an even rougher track ending at a metal gate marked in Arabic and English:

  Halliburton Iraq

  NO ENTRY

  The US Army major in the first Humvee dismounts, unlocks the gate and swings it open. In the light of the Humvee’s headlights and despite the unfamiliar uniform, he looks very much like the Israeli gangster and sometime chief of police Misha Shulman.

  Eventually the convoy comes to a lone tent over which a US flag snaps in the wind. The tent is guarded by Hebrew-speaking soldiers in US Army uniforms, who salute, then part the tent flaps to reveal what appears to be a grave, shovels still in the ground. Speaking in Hebrew, the US Army major orders a black metal cylinder, about three feet long and a foot thick, brought into the tent and placed gently in the grave.

  127

  “EXACTLY, DWAYNE,” YIGAL SAYS. “I agree. We should do something about our nuclear arsenal. And if it will help you at the polls, how can I say no?”

  Now the pause is longer. “Well, sir, I’d hoped for your cooperation, but I didn’t expect it to be this easy. You people got a reputation for driving a hard bargain, am I right?”

  At this point both sides are pleased the conversation is limited to voice, the president because he is surrounded by advisors, the prime minister because he is alone—with others in the government present, there would of necessity be a record of the conversation, and even released after the statutory thirty years this might cause problems.

  “Naturally Israel must be compensated for the destruction caused by this war, not least because American weaponry was used against us. And the United States did wait a very long time before delivering humanitarian aid.” Yigal stage-coughs. “We do have a shopping list, mostly military.”

  The president mouths the word silently to Felix St. George: Jews. “Yogi, I’m sure we can work something out. How about we make a joint statement here in Washington to announce this reduction plan—”

  “Dwayne, there may be some misunderstanding here.”

  But the president, buoyed by the prospect of electoral victory, is moving right along. “I’m thinking late October. Howzat? Leaves time for your folks and my folks—”

  128

  IN THE SAUDI DESERT, a camel caravan moves past a forest of oil rigs to a small oasis, where armed Bedouin sit around a fire. The two groups greet each other formally before the caravan leader, who is in fact a Bedouin, though not local, is taken to a pile of rocks arranged in a rough pyramid, a traditional marker. A heavy black cylinder, three feet long and a foot thick, is unloaded from one of the camels. The Bedouin leader watches it being buried beneath the rocks. IDF Staff Sgt. Abed Abu-Kassem of the Ghawarna, a small clan in the north of Israel, smiles broadly. He has waited this long to fuck the enemy in the rear, and properly.

  129

  “DWAYNE, ACTUALLY OUR PLAN is not exactly to reduce the number of our nuclear weapons. It’s more like we’re storing them, for the safety of all concerned.”

  “Well, Yi-gal, I’m sure that would be fine.” Another pause, this time with whispering. “Uh, where precisely were y’all thinking these weapons might be stored?”

  Yigal has been waiting to say these three words since he devised this plan in the middle of the night, scribbling on a whiteboard in this very office. “With...our...enemies.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “That’s correct. In exchange for our Arab neighbors taking possession of our nuclear arsenal, Israel proposes to take possession of their arsenal. It’s the oil weapon that counts, isn’t it?”

  This time a lot of whispering. “Yogi, you want to run that by me again?”

  130

  THE NEXT DAY, THE president has a phone conversation with the King of Saudi Arabia, this time with video. The king feels more comfortable seeing the faces of those who approach him for favors. The two leaders speak English, though a pair of translators stand by in the palace should there be confusion. The president’s English is known to be bizarre. “Yo, your highness. How ya doing?”

  “Thank Allah, my good friend.”

  “Amen to that,” the president says. “Your highness, you may not be so familiar with the practice, but every four years we here in America have what our Asian friends call an erection?” Becaus
e it is the White House photographer’s night off, the president has fortified himself with two Peronis, not enough to dent the presidential judgment, but just enough to stimulate what the first lady calls his “inherent friskiness.” The king does not so much as hear the joke. “I am familiar with elections, Dwayne.”

  “Well, your—say, would you mind if I call you Abdullah?”

  The silence that greets this is so glacial the president eases back. “Your highness, the American people been paying through the nose for oil for decades. They need a price at the pump they can live with.”

  “Dwayne, as always we do our very best.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure you do. But there’s been a development.”

  “A development?”

  “Yes, sir. Seems that while you been doing your best, our friends in Israel been doin’ theirs.”

  “Dwayne, to characterize these people as my friends is not, how shall I put it, suitable. But please continue.”

  “The sons-o-guns gone and installed their nuclear devices in your oilfields.”

  The monarch signals for his translators. “Would you mind, Dwayne, repeating that?”

  “They got nukes in oilfields all over the Middle East. Sort of a stealth thing? You know: surprise!” The president is at once pleased with himself and concerned about the effect of that second beer. But not that much. “It’s changed the equation.”

  “Excuse me, my dear friend.” The king has never studied mathematics—others count his money. The royal translators are challenged. One suggests situation; the other tries formula, then realizes this is no better than equation. He chooses playing field.