The Hope

by Herman Wouk

  “Well, look, there’s this medical orderly downstairs, Yael,” he says, “waiting to take me back to Tel Hashomer, so—just for a checkup,” he adds to Aryeh, who looks at him anxiously and stops putting sour balls in his pocket.

  “Excellent. I’ll go with you,” says Yael. “Find out what’s what. I’ll talk to the doctors, I know half of them. And I’ll take Aryeh home, and get the flat in shape.”

  Kishote glances at Shayna. She picks up a satchel of books and gives them to Yael. “He’s a diligent student, Yael. I’ll arrange a transfer from the Haifa school, whenever you say.”

  “Aunt Shayna, I finished the algebra.”

  “Fine. Your clothes—”

  “I packed them,” says Yael. “I want to thank you, Shayna. Aryeh loves you and I don’t blame him. You’ve been like a relative. Truly, you are Aunt Shayna!”

  “Well, he’s a promising boy. And he’s good.”

  “Nobody ate the sardines,” grumbles the mother. “Don’t Americans eat sardines, Mrs. Nitzan?”

  “Goodbye, Sabta [Grandma].” Aryeh runs to her, hugs her, and returns to Yael.

  Kishote holds out his hand to Shayna as Yael is closing Aryeh’s little suitcase of clothing. “There’s no way to thank you,” he whispers. “There are no words.”

  “Flagons and apples,” murmurs Shayna.

  “Ah yes. Flagons and apples.”

  “For God’s sake, Kishote, take care of yourself. Do what the doctors say. We’ve won this war.”

  When the Nitzans are gone, Shayna sits down at the table, pours herself more tea, and bends over the cup, leaning her head on both hands. Her dark hair falls over her face.

  “Well, at least we gave them tea,” groans Mrs. Matisdorf. “Guests are guests. I’m going back to bed.”

  “I’ll clean up,” says Aunt Shayna in a muffled voice, warm tears trickling over her fingers. “And I’ll eat the sardines. I’m empty.”

  43

  Banzai!

  As the shuttle climbed Zev Barak was looking down again on Manhattan in morning sunlight—spiking towers, gleaming rivers, cobweb fringe of bridges and wharfs, oblong slab of the United Nations—a passing fair sight, but he had work to do after yesterday’s tremendous turmoil at the UN over Israel’s march to the Temple Mount. From the pile of newspapers on the seat beside him he took the Cleveland Plain Dealer and began to ring key excerpts in red. Under the banner headline

  ISRAELIS NEAR CANAL, CAPTURE OLD JERUSALEM!

  JORDAN ACCEPTS CEASE-FIRE, EGYPT FIGHTS ON

  the stunning photograph appeared once more of sweaty unshaven paratroopers holding their helmets and looking up in awe and exaltation at the Wall. The lead story was a breathless paean to Israel’s victories. Feature articles and the main editorial expressed incredulous admiration and total support.

  “Are you that angry with me?”

  He looked up, startled. Emily Cunningham stood there in a yellow summer dress and a big yellow-and-red straw hat.

  “Good God. You!”

  “You walked by me without a word. If that’s how you want it from now on, okay.”

  “How should I know you’d be on this shuttle? I figured you’d gone home yesterday. I didn’t see you under that hat.”

  The stewardess in a nearby seat said severely, “Madame, the seat belt sign is on.”

  Barak whisked the papers off the seat. “Sit, Queenie.”

  She did, and barked. He peered at her. “I roll over, too. As you may know.” He glanced uneasily at the stewardess, who looked as though she was considering restraining the barking woman. “I went shopping yesterday, and bought this damn hat at Bonwit’s, simply to cheer myself up after the Hester fiasco. It’s just another fiasco. I feel as though I’m wearing a pizza.”

  “It’s a pretty hat. Vivacious.”

  “Oh, you like it?” Her drawn look gave way to a tremulous smile. “Listen, I must explain about Hester. But you have to read all those papers, I suppose.”

  “Yes, we’re meeting at the embassy about the press reaction to the war.”

  “My God, Zev, the press is magnificent. I read the Times in the cab. Israel, Israel, Israel! The world’s new heroes.”

  “Emily, remember what Napoleon’s old Corsican mother said when he was crowned emperor? ‘Pourvu que ce dure.’”

  “It’ll last, never fear. There hasn’t been a story like this in our century. The Jews rising from the ashes, two million defeating seventy million—”

  He pushed the papers aside, and with some effort shifted his mind from war and the fate of Israel to the nonsense at the St. Moritz. “What’s there to explain about Hester? I enjoyed the visit to the gallery.”

  “You most certainly did not.”

  “Well, it got to be a lot of spiders, but they were very artistic spiders. Especially the big painting people were crowding around—”

  Emily said, “Fornicating Arachnids.”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Well, actually, that one caused the trouble. Hester barged in on me in hysterics while you were coming from the UN, and I couldn’t just kick her out—”

  “What was the trouble about the Fornicating Arachnids?”

  “Oh, to make a long story short, the Guggenheim didn’t buy it. The docent just asked the price. Hester’s agent told the Times critic it was sold. He printed the story and the Guggenheim denied it. So the critic took Hester’s skin off in a column—”

  “Big job, skinning Hester.”

  “Oh, shush. She came to cry on my shoulder, and then you showed up all crazed for gitchi-gitchi, but what could I do?”

  “I deny being crazed for anything. I do think just the two of us would have enjoyed that Greek restaurant more.”

  “Dear, I felt sorry for Hester, she was so upset—”

  “Upset? The woman ate a whole baby goat.”

  “It was a small one. Hester eats when she’s upset. I’ll go back to my seat, Zev. I do want to talk to you, though. Really. It’s urgent.”

  “Give me twenty minutes or so with these papers. Why didn’t you let me know you’d be on this plane?”

  “I decided to take it about five A.M., when I got tired of tossing.” She walked up the aisle. A trace of her scent hovered, calling up warm Growlery memories, then the air vent blew it away, and he smelled the ink of the newspapers.

  The Chicago Tribune’s front page showed the three generals striding into the Old City: Dayan radiating stern triumph, the Ramatkhal on his left looking strained and ironic, and Uzi Narkiss on his right, where Barak could not help picturing himself. A staged photo, of course. Still, in one stark image there was the Return. The picture would go down in world history, and he was not in it. But he had the rest of his life to live, and urgent work at hand. The newspapers as he went through them spoke in a rare single voice. The underdog threatened with a second Holocaust had turned on the exterminators, routing them in battle. Sometimes stated plainly in the papers, sometimes implied, the victory was a reversal of Auschwitz, a resurgence of the Jewish people, biblical in grandeur. For once, Israel had no reason to complain of its press treatment.

  The reported reaction of American Jews was striking, too. Until now American Zionists had been a vocal but peripheral few. Now the Jews were closing up like a fist behind Israel, pouring out money, volunteering in uncounted (and unusable) numbers to fight or to serve, flooding Washington with demands for support of Israel’s right to survive, against the Russian snarls and threats at the United Nations. Jordan’s humiliated acceptance of the cease-fire had brought applause last night in the UN gallery, and cheers from the mob gathered outside. There had been cynical comments in the Israeli delegation: “Nothing succeeds like success,” “Americans like winners,” and so on. But Barak thought this explosion of American Jewish support was from the grass roots and irreversible. The Return had spoken to the soul of the diaspora, and its center of gravity was shifting.

  The ticket wagon came rolling down the aisle. “You’re an Israeli gen
eral?” The pretty stewardess stared at the credit card and the uniform. “Why aren’t you in the war?”

  “I’m the military attaché in Washington.”

  “Do you mind if I tell the captain you’re on board?”

  “Not at all.”

  She rushed up the aisle, and returned bright-eyed and red-faced. “Captain O’Kane invites you to the flight deck, General.”

  Passing Emily’s hat he bent to say, “Hi, go back to my seat, I’ll be right with you.”

  “Okay, toots.”

  Gray-haired and plump, Captain O’Kane looked more like a bank manager than an airline pilot. “General, I flew Helldivers in the South Pacific,” he said, shaking hands, “and, sir, you’ve got yourself one outstanding air force. What a victory! Sit down, sir.” Until the Washington Monument showed above the horizon, Barak was regaled with World War II air combat tales, shouted over the signal jargon on the controller circuit. “Pleasure meeting you, General. My hat’s off to your country. Sorry you have to return to your seat now.”

  As he came out the young stewardess said to passengers in the front seats, “Here he is.” A few started to clap. He passed down the aisle amid respectful smiling faces and scattered hand-clapping. He dropped down beside Emily, muttering, “Pourvu que ce dure.”

  “Oh, come on, it’s thrilling,” she said.

  “That it is. You wanted to talk to me?”

  “We are approaching National Airport. Kindly fasten seat belts and return seat backs to their full upright position.”

  “Yes, listen, Zev. When Nakhama visited the school, she got into the Growlery.”

  “She did? How come?”

  “She said she had to use the bathroom. What was I to do, tell her to go in the rhododendrons? I tried to drag her to the main building. She went for the Growlery like a bulldozer.”

  “Well, so what?”

  “Kindly extinguish all cigarettes and prepare to land.”

  “She saw the pistachios.”

  A pause. “So? The whole world eats pistachio nuts.”

  “Zev, has she ever said anything to you about me? About us?”

  “No. Absolutely not. She likes you.”

  “Yes, so she said. But she also said other things.”

  “What things?”

  “Things. I damn near didn’t come to the St. Moritz. Truth to tell, Wolf, I was glad Hester showed up. There now.”

  Barak glanced at his watch. “We’ll continue this in the coffee shop, okay?”

  She closed a clammy hand on his. “Great. It’s good I took this plane. I’m all at sixes and sevens.”

  The landing was hard and bouncy. “Yikes!” she exclaimed, jumping.

  “Steady on, Queenie.” As he unbuckled his seat belt, he thought he should lighten her mood. “Now, about those two lovemaking spiders—”

  “Yes, dear.” She managed a smile. “What about them?”

  “Why did she paint the boy spider so puny? And why does he look so miserable?”

  “Zev, the male is puny, and the female eats him right afterward. That’s spider biology. How would you like that, hey kiddo? One rapturous moment, and crunch, crunch, crunch?”

  In the terminal he suddenly said to her, “Look, go ahead to the coffee shop. I’ll meet you there. I see my assistant attaché at the gate.”

  “Right.” She drifted away among the exiting passengers.

  “Mordechai, ma nishma?” His assistant, a stocky muscular paratrooper captain, looked strangely glum, considering the news. “Why the sad face?”

  Mordechai replied in low guttural Hebrew, “Ultra-secret. We sank a Soviet spy ship.”

  ***

  All was jocund excitement in the crowded street outside the embassy, even among the newsmen and the TV technicians; inside, happy scurrying and chattering in the halls and on the staircase; and in the ambassador’s inner office silent gloom. “Why, none of this is conclusive!” Barak was scanning the Teletype report. “It’s not even clear that the ship sank. Can’t we check that?”

  “The secure telephone is out,” said Mordechai. “That’s the latest Teletype.”

  The slumped ambassador groaned, “No doubt they’re running around in the Kirya like poisoned mice. Our greatest day, and this happens! Yiddisheh mazel [Jewish luck].”

  “God help us if it’s true,” said Mordechai.

  The ambassador picked up his ringing telephone. “Yes?—Hold on. Zev, it’s personal and urgent, from Philip, whoever that is.”

  Barak’s hand shot out for the receiver. “Barak here.”

  “Can you meet me at the Cosmos Club in ten minutes?” Chris Cunningham sounded as perturbed as Barak had ever heard him.

  “Yes.” He hung up. “Abe, don’t look so concerned. Such things happen, and—”

  “What makes you think I’m concerned?” The ambassador laid a hand on a stack of newspapers. “Read these, and you’ll believe we can beat the Soviet Union, too.”

  The club was a five-minute walk from the embassy. Cunningham and Barak went upstairs to the grandiose library, which at that hour was empty, and they sank into red leather chairs near a huge globe. Cunningham wore his usual gray suit and pinned collar, with the inevitable vest and watch chain, sultry though the weather was. He rubbed his hands nervously on bony knees, then burst out, “See here, Zev, are your people over there out of their minds? All fouled up? Drunk with victory? What possessed your air force to attack a United States warship?”

  “American?” Barak gasped. “It was one of your ships?”

  “An electronic surveillance vessel. It was disobeying Joint Chiefs of Staff orders, steaming off Sinai, but still—”

  “But it had Russian markings, Chris.”

  “The hell it did.”

  “That’s the last word we’ve got. It was presumed Egyptian, and it refused to identify itself, so the pilot hit it. Then he flew low and through the smoke saw Russian letters on the hull.”

  “Combat pilots see weird things. I’m telling you what happened. It was flying a huge American flag. Many casualties. There will be hell to pay.”

  “It didn’t sink?”

  “It didn’t and it won’t. However—”

  “This is fearful. Let me call my embassy right now, Chris.” He rushed down the great curved staircase to a booth, talked to the ambassador in spare veiled words, and hurried back to Cunningham. “Listen, we were afraid the Russians might seize the pretext to get into the war. This is a very different story. The ambassador’s devastated and desperately sorry. It’s a colossal mistake and my government will make amends, that’s certain, but—”

  “All right, all right.” Cunningham was holding up both palms. “In World War II we bombed our own troops, sank our own ships, and we’ve had gruesome foul-ups in Vietnam. These things happen in war. That doesn’t lessen your country’s culpability one bit.” His cold clipped tone moderated. “Now then. We’re amazed that Nasser didn’t accept the cease-fire. He could have halted your army halfway to the Canal. By now it’s probably there. What’s going on?”

  “We think his generals have been lying to him.”

  “Yes, either that, or he’s in shock.” The CIA man’s eyes drooped almost shut. “So what will your people do now about Syria? There are those here who want to know.”

  Again Barak was caught in the bind of being an unskilled back-channel conduit. This was something Sam Pasternak should be handling. Sam was senior to him, closer to Cunningham, a professional in intelligence. “Well, I can try to find out.”

  “Don’t stall, Zev,” Cunningham almost snapped. “Nasser has handed your country a whole extra day and night for operations. Will you really let slip a chance to eliminate that menace on the Golan Heights?”

  “Would your government understand such an action?”

  A pause, and Cunningham barely nodded.

  “Is that a message, Chris, or your opinion?”

  “Of course it’s only my opinion.”

  “Where can I reach you?”
/>
  “My office.”

  “I’ll call you in an hour or so.”

  As they were walking out Cunningham said, taking Barak’s arm, “You’re astounding the world, you know, you Jews, by returning to your land as Isaiah prophesied you’d do. Maybe we’re in the end of days, the Day of the Lord. On my low working level, you’re handing Russian communism its first major setback on the battlefield and in world politics since Yalta. Only a people of God could pull that off.”

  “Chris, I know my ambassador’s eating his heart out about that ship. I’m sick to my soul. Lord only knows what other blunders we’ve committed, but at least we’ve won the war and saved ourselves.”

  “No argument.”

  ***

  On Connecticut Avenue near the embassy, Barak and Emily sat that evening at a table in a small restaurant called Piraeus, her favorite in Washington. Emily liked Greek food, and especially Greek wine. “I’m as tense as a treed cat,” she said. She was in her schoolmistress mode: no hat, hair in a bun, heavy glasses, and a brown shirtwaist and skirt. “Where’s that wife of yours? I’ll have another drink, if you won’t.” He signalled to the waiter for refills. “How could you leave the embassy, with all hell breaking loose? Will the new Soviet resolution pass?”

  “Compelling us to withdraw to the armistice lines? Not if the Americans stand firm. Otherwise…” He shrugged. “But it’s unthinkable. The Russians are blustering to cover their disaster.”

  “Their ass,” said Emily. “I say that, and I’m a very proper lady.”

  Nakhama came bustling in, wearing a wrinkled flowered housedress. “I was dressing Ruti for a birthday party and she fussed like a bride. Sorry I’m so late. Where’s the ladies’ room, Emily?”

  “Come with me. It’s hard to find, you go through the kitchen.”

  Off they went, smiling and chatting, leaving Barak to ponder how to handle this dinner. His notion had been to reassure Queenie that Nakhama hadn’t a ghost of a suspicion about their fugitive wistful affair. A touchy business, to be gotten through quickly. By luck a call from the embassy might cut it short. When the ladies returned a waiter approached in a puffy skirt and long stockings, with a ferocious black mustache and snapping black eyes. Emily said, waving aside the menus, “I telephoned. We’re having the baby goat Fársala, for three.”