by Herman Wouk
“They work us hard in the paratroops.”
“Seen a lot of action? You never write.”
“Neither do you.”
“I know.”
Outside, a strong damp wind blew dust and sand across an almost empty parking lot. From an army car a blond female soldier in the back seat waved at Yossi. “There’s Yael Luria. Remember her?”
“Sure, the hard-nosed girl I met that time in the King David Hotel.”
“That’s her. She’s Lieutenant Colonel Pasternak’s aide.”
“Not married?”
“No. She has special friends off and on.”
“Including you?”
Yossi burst out laughing. “Fat chance. She’s a terror. Anyway, as you well know, I’ve got a girl.”
At an open rickety car rental booth Leopold gave a stout gum-chewing girl a voucher, and she blasted machine-gun Hebrew at the brothers. “Your driver has a toothache,” Yossi said. “They’re calling for another one.”
Leopold looked him up and down, taking in the red beret, the shoulder ornaments, and the heavy reddish boots. “Three bars. What’s that, like an American major?”
“Captain. Seren, it’s called. I’m a platoon leader, up for company commander.”
“You have to tell me your adventures.”
“You have to tell me how you come to own half of Los Angeles.” Yossi pushed his glasses up on his nose and grinned at his brother. “Any truth in all that bullshit?”
“Enough so that I’m inviting you and your girl to Paris. Hey, how about it? Did you get your leave? And will she come?”
“I’m working on the leave. Shayna’s dying to go. Her parents are giving her trouble. You remember, they’re very religious.”
“Is Shayna, still?”
“Mister, here’s your car,” called the girl in English. A faded blue Peugeot rattled up, driven by an old man with a three-day gray beard, wearing a torn wool hat, who greeted them in indistinct toothless Hebrew.
“What is this?” Leopold challenged the woman. “My voucher guarantees a new Oldsmobile, with an English-speaking chauffeur.”
Harsh rat-tat-tat Hebrew, which Kishote translated. “The new Oldsmobile is in the garage. The English speaker has the toothache. You can have the Oldsmobile Thursday.”
“Nothing changes here. Let’s go.”
“Kirya,” Yossi said to the driver, who nodded and started off. “Is Shayna still religious? Absolutely. Won’t travel on Saturday, strict about food and holidays, studies the Bible every day. But she’s okay, if you know what I mean. Wants to be an aeronautical engineer. Wears blue jeans, and in her dati [Orthodox] crowd that’s scandalous. She doesn’t care.”
“And she’s really all that pretty now? I remember her as a skinny little snotnose.”
“You’ll see for yourself. You go to Jerusalem first, right?”
“Yes, one day there, probably two days in Tel Aviv, back to Paris.”
“Good, we’ll pick her up at the university. She’s just finishing her exams.”
As Barak was loading the CIA man’s worn suitcases into the army car, Pasternak said to Cunningham, “Chris, meet Captain Luria, my right hand.”
With a prim smile and handshake, Yael said in agreeable tones, “I’m at your service, Mr. Cunningham, for as long as you’re here.”
“Charming of you,” said Cunningham, and she felt that this old American had read her relationship with Pasternak at once through those thick eyeglasses. Pasternak had not wanted her to come, but having heard so much about Cunningham, and perhaps just to throw her weight around, she had insisted and prevailed. Pasternak saved his whip-cracking for serious matters, and she knew when she could push him. With her in the car, substantive talk was impossible. They rode through ploughed fields and orange groves in constrained silence until Cunningham spoke.
“Last time I was here was in 1936. The Mandate was an interesting place. Beautiful, elegant, and so peaceful, too! The British had the touch, you must give them that. But then the Arab riots broke out again. Very bad, very sad.”
“I was five years old in 1936,” piped up Yael. “I remember the riots. Papa left the moshav and fought for months. We kids were all frightened. It’s a different world now.”
“Not different enough,” Cunningham said. This extinguished the small talk until they left off Yael at the Kirya, the army headquarters compound in central Tel Aviv, and drove on.
“Very handsome young woman,” said Cunningham.
“Anything you want done, Yael will get it done,” said Pasternak.
Cunningham put a lean fist on his mouth to yawn. “Does this driver understand English?”
“No,” said Barak.
“Very well. Our intelligence is that the Israeli army is ready to march to the Suez Canal at twenty-four hours’ notice. Is that accurate?”
Pasternak and Barak looked at each other. “That’s a big compliment,” said Pasternak. “Nice if it were true. Is President Eisenhower making United States policy, Chris, or Secretary of State Dulles?”
“Well, that’s a large topic. I need a nap, just an hour or so, then let’s meet and talk. All right, Sam?”
“Of course.” As the car drew up at a downtown seaside hotel, Pasternak added, “Meantime the Prime Minister may wonder whether you’ve brought a message from your government.”
“No doubt.” Cunningham got out of the car. “By the way, Barak, my Emily asked me to give her regards to Wolf Lightning, if I ran into you.”
“Really? Nice of her to remember me.”
“Oh, she does. She’s at the Sorbonne, getting her master’s. She has acquired a boyfriend, a French poet. Mrs. Cunningham and I have been visiting them. Do you have daughters?”
“One.”
“I daresay she seems sweet, and simple to manage.”
“Very. She’s a year old.”
“Just wait.” He consulted the vest pocket watch at arm’s length. “Suppose we meet at four?”
Barak said as the car drove away from the hotel, “Sam, did we need Yael?”
“Do you know Yael?” growled Pasternak.
***
The plasterboard walls of the cramped bleak office in the Manpower Section were covered with organizational diagrams and mimeographed personnel lists, and Ben Gurion in an open-necked shirt scowled down from an old photograph. The almost bald lieutenant behind the narrow ink-stained desk gestured at two hard chairs, donned horn-rimmed glasses, and fumbled through a pile of varicolored folders. “You speak Hebrew?” he asked Leopold.
“Of course, though I’m a bit rusty.”
“All right, here we are. Blumenthal, Leopold.” He flipped through papers fastened in a scuffed yellow file, nodding and nodding. “Well, the record is in order. No problem.” He rested clasped hands on the folder and glanced at the brothers, his aspect official, remote, arid. “So. What can I do for you?”
Leopold looked to Kishote, then in hesitant Hebrew replied, “I would appreciate knowing my exact present status.”
“Your exact present status.” The lieutenant opened the folder and read from the top sheet: “‘Summary: no record found of this person’s enlistment or service in Zahal. Many records of 1948 are incomplete or missing. That he fought with the Seventh Brigade at Latrun in an immigrant unit, as he states, is unconfirmed. He arrived in Israel on the vessel Nordau from Cyprus on May 20th, 1948, and left six weeks later for the United States of America, where he remained and became a citizen. No military obligation or penalty exists. His reported combat service, and his interest in having his Zahal record in order, are appreciated.’ That’s it. Did I read it too fast for you?”
“Not at all.” Leopold darted an emphatic finger at the folder. “I’d like a copy of that paper.”
“Why not?” He carefully lifted the sheet from bent prongs. “Dora! Duplicate.” A woman soldier in sweater and slacks popped in, ran a similar form into a typewriter, and clattered away. Smiling at Leopold, the lieutenant removed his glasses. �
��So! You’re Lee Bloom, the real estate wizard of Los Angeles.” His entire aspect changed. He was an inquisitive admiring young man without much hair. It was as though he had shed his uniform with the glasses. “I have a cousin in Toronto in real estate. Nothing like you and Sheva Leavis, of course.”
Leopold’s aspect also changed. Self-assured man of the world again, he asked about the cousin in Toronto, said he knew him, and chatted about real estate until the clerk handed the lieutenant the typed-in form and left. The lieutenant scanned the sheet, corrected it here and there in ink, and initialled it. “Not a great typist, Dora.”
“This is perfect, thanks.” Leopold folded the paper inside a breast pocket. When the brothers went out into the sunshine he said hesitantly, “Yossi, you know how sorry I was not to come to Papa’s funeral. It was this business, you realize. I’m mighty grateful to Sam Pasternak.”
“Nothing to be grateful for,” said Yossi, his face a blank. “Your file was in order.”
As the Peugeot rolled down the long curving hill into the Ayalon valley, Lee Bloom was describing to Kishote how he and Leavis had gotten into the building business. He broke off, pointing at a distant hill. “Well, well, there’s that damned Latrun.”
“Yes. We never took it. The new highway has to detour around it. So, you say it was cheaper to build your own warehouse than to pay rent?”
“Definitely. They’re all robbers, those warehouse guys. Sheva Leavis was buying up tons of surplus army stuff. We were travelling to Manila, Tokyo, Hong Kong, Singapore, three times a year. Lot of stuff from Europe, too. You need a place to hold such quantities while you look for buyers. That’s the whole idea—buy for pennies, hold, and sell for dollars. That’s how we also moved into textiles, baskets, toys, hats—I tell you, Joe, buying in quantities in the Orient is fantastic, if you have the cash and know what you’re doing.” He punched his brother lightly. “But look, business is boring. I want to hear about the paratroops.”
“You’ve built only three warehouses, you say?”
“So far. Pretty big ones. Actually the last one we just sold for a factory. We’ve bought a lot of land, too, but not half of Los Angeles. That’s Israeli newspaper nonsense. Good locations, right price. I watched the first construction, saw where the contractors were wasting money or plain skimming it off. I asked Sheva to let me contract for the second building, and I brought it in at almost half the cost per square foot. The hell with all that, do you know a guy in the paratroops named Ben Menachem?”
Kishote was lounging on an elbow in the back seat, eating sunflower seeds from a paper bag. He sat up straight and blinked at Leopold, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “Why do you ask?”
“The United Jewish Appeal brought this big tall incredibly handsome guy to a dinner in Los Angeles. Not a good speaker, but we heard terrific stories about him.”
“He gave speeches all over America. He was ordered to,” said Yossi. “He hated it. He said he’d rather go on raids into Syria alone than do that tour again.”
“Well, I’d like to meet him.”
“He’s dead.” Yossi resumed eating the seeds.
“Oh? Sorry. Good friend of yours, this Ben Menachem?”
“We called him Gulliver. The fact is, they still call me Don Kishote. They used to make jokes about Don Kishote and Gulliver.”
“Don Kishote. Right.” Leopold ventured a smile at his brother. “I remember that. Was your friend killed in action?”
Kishote had absorbed into his bones the Israeli soldier’s distaste for discussing combat with civilians, especially foreigners. His brother had become Lee Bloom of Los Angeles, and he did not want to share his memories of Gulliver with Lee Bloom. His laconic response was, “Reprisal raid, Syrian side of the Sea of Galilee. I was on that raid. He was in command. He went in first as always. He had bad luck.” Yossi slouched and resumed eating seeds. “But don’t think Gulliver wasn’t a good speaker. He’d been to law school. He loved history. He could recite Abraham Lincoln speeches by heart. Very educated. He didn’t like talking at American banquets.”
It was drizzling in Jerusalem when they got there, and the driver was reaching out with his wool hat to mop the windshield. “There she is,” Yossi said, as the Peugeot sputtered toward students huddled under a shed at the university bus stop.
“Which one?”
“White sweatshirt and jeans.”
“That one? Why, she’s tall.”
“She doesn’t smoke, so she grew.”
Shayna did not kiss Kishote when she got into the back seat with them, but the look she gave him stirred envy in Leopold Bloom. He had had his casual flings and passionate affairs, but such a pure loving look from such shining girlish eyes he had not had. “So, this is Leopold!” She held a slim hand out to him. “Hello, Lee Bloom! That’s my whole plan, you know, to marry a fellow with a rich American brother.”
“Why not just a rich American?”
“Fine! Please introduce me to one.” She rubbed her face against Yossi’s uniform, and Leopold felt a sharper pang of envy. “I can’t stand soldiers, especially paratroopers. They’re all out for only one thing.”
“Isn’t she sophisticated?” Yossi said, and he gave the driver Shayna’s address.
“Is there a telephone in your flat?” Leopold asked her. “I have to confirm some appointments.”
“Our neighbor has one. Her uncle is a Knesset member. On the waiting list it takes seven years.”
“Driver,” Leopold switched to Hebrew, “do you know where the Defense Ministry and the Treasury are?”
The driver said mushily, “Me knows, take mister there,” and turned to beam bare-gummed pride at his language proficiency.
“So, you’ve got an English-speaking driver after all,” said Kishote.
“I thought you two looked alike,” said Shayna, studying Leopold’s face. “You don’t. Not anymore.”
“He has glamor now, he has polish,” said Yossi. “A rich American.”
“That’s exactly right,” said Shayna, lightly caressing his brown face. “And you’re nothing but a dirty soldier. Ugh! With whiskers.” She smiled at Leopold. Her mouth was rather wide, her teeth perfect, her lips thin and very red. She wore no makeup. “When I told my mother you were coming, she said, ‘Oh yes, he’s the one who ate the cake with no blessing and no hat.’ Have you met many movie stars?” She asked this in a bright naive tone.
“A few. Are you coming to Paris?”
Her face fell. “I hope so. Grandpa says I should. Mama’s worried. Papa’s impossible.”
“Worried about what?” said Leopold. “You’re a big girl.”
“Papa wants to know whether you’re married, Leopold, and whether your wife is with you, and where I would be staying in Paris. He’s working in Tiberias. There’s been a lot of telephoning. You’re not married, are you?”
“My girlfriend came with me. She’s in Paris now.”
“I see. Well, would I stay with her? …Here we are.”
The brothers exchanged a glance and shook their heads as they left the car. In the narrow street of old two-story houses, little boys in skullcaps and earlocks were chasing each other, and twittering little girls wearing long dresses were playing a kind of hopscotch. “It isn’t as though we’re even engaged,” Shayna went on to Leopold, leading them into a dark narrow hall and up creaky stairs. “Yossi’s just a pest I put up with. No engagement till I graduate, if then. My parents insist, and they’re not wrong.”
“Who mentioned an engagement?” said Yossi. “You’re just going to Paris for a few days. You will, and no nonsense, Shayna. Paris!”
“We’ll see,” said Shayna. She introduced Leopold to her neighbor, a harried-looking plain woman with a kerchiefed head, who opened wide inquisitive eyes at the real estate wizard of Los Angeles, and led him to the telephone.
Later as they sat around the table in Shayna’s flat talking in Yiddish, her mother, now quite white-haired, brought in tea and cake. Leopold put a palm on his he
ad and muttered a blessing, his first in some years. The old lady smiled. “Well, that’s nice, Leopold. But we have free-thinking friends, we’re used to all kinds.”
He was relieved that she did not bring up the Paris trip. A minor actress named Isobel Connors was sharing his suite at the George Cinq, so discussing who would stay where could have been awkward. While Reb Shmuel, in a threadbare bathrobe and looking not in the least different after eight years, expounded a Torah passage to Yossi—this was an invariable practice whenever the paratrooper came to the flat—the mother talked about her cousins in Los Angeles, asking questions about their neighborhood, and the climate, and Jewish life there. “It’s Yossi’s birthday tomorrow, you know,” she said. “We’re having family in this evening, cousins of our Los Angeles cousins, just a few people. Please stay.”
“So it is,” said Leopold. “I’d forgotten, but I’m afraid I’ll be busy. I’ve just gotten here.”
“It’s nothing,” said Shayna. “Of course you’re busy.”
Yossi walked out with his brother to the car. “I’m staying for dinner,” he said, “and I’ll nail down Paris. Worried! Did you ever hear of anything so ridiculous?”
Leopold gave him a skeptical look. “My boy, I’ve heard things back in L.A. about paratroopers. In fact, about you. She’s lovely, and fresh as a rose, and she’s crazy about you. So they’re worried.”
With an angry dismissive gesture Yossi exclaimed, “L’Azazel, what are they afraid of, that I’ll screw Shayna in Paris? Shayna? Would I have to take her to Paris for that? I’m just as crazy about her, and I’d no more try that—First of all I couldn’t succeed. Anyway, look, Leopold, a girl is what she is. Some girls like to play around, so you play. Why not? But Shayna? Foolishness!”
“Okay, then nail down Paris.”
“Don’t worry, I will. Tell me about your girlfriend.”
“You’ll see her in Paris. Isobel’s a movie actress. Shayna, she isn’t. Maybe I’ll make a real birthday party for you tomorrow night in Tel Aviv.”
“Why not?”
Leopold got into the Peugeot. The driver munched his gums at Yossi in a grin, and the car sputtered off.
