by Herman Wouk
“Ah, madame,” said the waiter, “the girl who answered was new. Baby goat on Saturday and Wednesday. Today is Thursday. Stuffed octopus.”
“Oh?” Emily shrugged at Nakhama. “Sorry about this.”
“No, no, it’s quite all right.” Nakhama turned brightly to the waiter. “Octopus stuffed with what?”
“Octopus, madame.”
“How’s that? You stuff a big octopus with little octopuses?”
Emily burst out in a nervous guffaw, and Nakhama giggled too.
The waiter replied with expressive gestures: “No, madame. The octopus, it is scooped out, minced with olives, grapes, lemon, and wine, and stuffed back into itself.”
“Nakhama, I recommend the katsikaki,” said Emily.
“What is that?”
The waiter said, “That is goat.”
“Teenage goat, I guess,” said Emily. Nakhama glanced at her and they both laughed again. There was no more tension between these two women, Barak thought, than if they worked together in an office. So far, so good!
“Ah, no, madame. Very young goat.” White teeth flashed under the black mustache. The waiter was getting into the act. “Kid. Like in kid gloves.”
“We Moroccans love kid,” said Nakhama. “I’ll try it.”
They were talking about the war news when the waiter came hurrying to the table. “General, there is a telephone call for you.”
Jumping up, Barak said, “Thank you. Please serve the ladies some of the wine.”
“You’ll like this,” Emily said to Nakhama, as the waiter uncorked the bottle. “Specialty of the house. Samian. Quite a romantic wine! Byron wrote about Samian wine.”
“Lord Byron! Well, that is romantic. I once tried to read Lord Byron in Hebrew, but it was hard. Maybe the translation was no good.”
Emily swirled the dark red wine, sniffed, tasted, and nodded. The waiter poured for Nakhama and left. Emily raised her glass. “Well, to Israel’s marvellous victory.”
“The war isn’t over yet,” said Nakhama, “but thank you. And here’s to our wonderful American friends, like your father.” They could both see Barak gesticulating in the telephone booth. “Look. I think there is news.”
“Do you like the wine?”
“Oh, very nice. But I better not have much.”
“Wine disagrees with you?”
“Oh, no, no, just the opposite.” Nakhama chuckled, looked arch, and dropped her voice. “The fact is, I don’t have a head for alcohol. Even a little makes me—well, you know—very affectionate.”
Emily hoped her smile did not look too uncomfortable. “Why, that’s all to the good.”
“Yes, unless your man happens to be too busy for affection.” She gestured toward the phone booth. “Then it can be very frustrating. Better to stay sober.”
Wishing she were someplace other than at this table with Nakhama Barak—at the South Pole, for instance—Emily said what came into her head, too discomposed for subtleties. “A husband shouldn’t ever be that busy.”
“Ah, what husbands shouldn’t be, and what they are—!” Nakhama smiled, and took a healthy sip. “This is delicious. Samian wine. I must remember.”
(What the HELL is Gray Wolf batting about on and on and on?)
“Of all the wives I know, you must have the least to worry about.”
“I didn’t say worried. I said frustrated, when I’m drunk and he’s busy. Worried? Listen, Emily, our army is full of pretty little girls who make eyes at the officers. Elegant ladies too go after them, especially the brilliant officers, the front-runners. Everybody knows who they are, and Israelis idolize the army. I’ve learned not to worry.” She looked toward the booth, and drank more wine. “Oh, well. So let him be busy. This is good. You’re not drinking.”
“Oh yes I am.” Emily gulped wine.
“Of course those women are not like you, Emily.” Nakhama rambled on between sips. “Israelis are Israelis. One’s like another, more or less. You’re an American woman, you’re highly cultured, you know about Lord Byron and Samian wine, you’re so well read! Zev says you can be very funny, too. I can see that. But the main thing is, we Israelis live in a tiny world and you’re from the big world. Ha’olam ha’gadol, we say. Still, as I told you at the school, I’m not worried, it’s all right. Oh, my, I’ve finished my wine, haven’t I? Foolish of me. No more.” She looked Emily in the eye.
“Ladies, you have great luck!” The waiter trotted up, smiling. “The chef has found a baby goat! It is very, very small, we can prepare it in forty minutes.”
Nakhama said, “Well, we’ll ask my husband. Meantime I’ll have some more wine, please.”
“Your husband?” The waiter looked perplexed and glanced toward the booth. “Oh. Yes. Your husband. Yes, madame, of course.” He poured wine for both and went off.
“Isn’t that comical?” said Nakhama. “You arrived here with Zev and sat around drinking, so the poor man got confused. Say, you two could easily be a married couple.”
Emily drank off her entire glass of wine, and took a desperate plunge. “Now see here, Nakhama, let’s assume General Barak and I were having an affair, which is wildly impossible. Not that man of yours. And let’s assume you let me know you were on to it, but didn’t object to sharing his affections, as you almost seem to be doing. That would mean swift death to the whole thing, maybe not for another woman but certainly for me. I have my pride, and I’m sure you understand that! For a lady from a tiny world, as you put it, you’re okay. As we say, there are no flies on you.”
“A funny expression. But I don’t follow you. I haven’t offered to share Zev with you, of course not, and in fact—”
“Tremendous news.” Barak came striding to the table, and fell into his seat. “Egypt has quit!”
“Ah, at last,” said Nakhama.
Emily said, “Quit? What’s happened, exactly?”
“Sorry I was so long. Fantastic scene at the Security Council! Federenko was making the nastiest speech yet, implying that if Israel didn’t withdraw at once to the old armistice lines, Russia would send troops. Then the Egyptian delegate suddenly asked for the floor, and read a few sentences from a piece of paper. He could hardly choke out the words. Egypt was agreeing to a cease-fire in place, no withdrawal!”
Nakhama exclaimed, “Well, well! Nasser’s generals finally told him what’s happened.”
Emily crazily laughed. “Well, that is marvellous news! Let’s have another bottle of wine.”
Barak’s thick graying eyebrows went up. “You two haven’t polished off this one already?”
“We’ve made a good start, haven’t we, Nakhama?”
“We certainly have.” Nakhama draped an arm around her husband and gave him a long kiss on the lips. “What nice news! Let’s really enjoy our dinner.”
“Well, the sooner the food comes, the better,” said Barak. “I’ll have to rush back to the embassy.”
The Baraks got into low quick Hebrew talk. “What about the Syrian front?” she asked.
“Nothing new.” Plenty was new, but not her business.
“Emily’s very clever. We’ve had a nice chat. That wine is wonderful, try it.”
“Well, don’t drink too much, you’ll get silly.”
“Don’t be afraid, I won’t disgrace you,” Nakhama giggled.
Emily shot her a sharp look. Barak said hastily, “We’re being very rude. We’re just talking about the war.”
“Not altogether,” said Nakhama. “He told me not to drink too much wine.”
“Well, he’s pretty busy,” said Emily. They both laughed, with the special female note and side-glances that forever exclude men.
Joking was Emily’s best cover. She was hating herself for agreeing to this dinner, and yet, did it really matter that much? Once Nakhama came to Washington, how long could she have held on? No flies, indeed, on this Israeli wife! Nakhama had moved slowly, surely, like a samurai duellist in a Japanese movie. She had bided her time, taken her stance, and struc
k. Flash, whiz, death! What was left for Emily was only the slow-motion fall to earth, disemboweled. Barak was pouring wine. She lifted her glass.
“Nakhama, banzai!”
“Banzai?” Nakhama glanced at her husband. “Isn’t that Japanese?”
He nodded. “It means ‘victory.’”
“How nice. Victory over the Egyptians, yes?” She raised her glass. “Banzai, Emily.”
They clinked glasses and drank. Zev Barak was delighted, if obscurely puzzled, at how well the two women were getting along. So, the dinner had worked out as planned. He could get back to the job with one worry the less.
44
The Bear Growls
Zev came home from the embassy with a sheaf of maps and documents under his arm as usual, and found his wife drooping in an armchair, a bottle of Israeli red wine beside her, and half a glassful in hand. She finished her wine at a gulp, and weaving to him, took away the maps and papers, and dropped them on a chair. “Good evening, General Barak. I thought you’d never get home. Do you love me?” She heavily embraced him, and heavily kissed him.
“Adom Atik,” he said.
“Yes. Have some, and no night work! You haven’t had a good night’s sleep in a week.”
“And you’ve had a lot of Adom Atik.”
“A drop or two, yes. I’m going to bed, even if you aren’t.”
“Right with you.”
“Ah, excellent.” Nakhama’s random walk terminated at the bedroom, and with a languid leer over her shoulder she shut the door. He took the half-empty bottle into the kitchen, and was surprised to come on another, quite empty. What was Nakhama up to? Celebrating?
Well, no wine for him. Donning his glasses, he spread maps and papers on the dining table. On top was the coded telex he had sent Pasternak, arguing for immediate action against Syria.
…Our mutual friend Philip strongly hints that the White House will not be at all displeased if we end this war by giving Syria, Russia’s main client, a well-deserved bloody nose. You know Philip’s a sound source. I urge you to talk again to Eshkol and Rabin, while time remains!
I understand Dayan’s worry about the Russians, but when will we have another chance like this? From those bunkers on the Golan the Syrians can go on throwing ten tons of shells a minute on the Galilee communities, to say nothing of a rain of Katyusha rockets. How long can we work that fertile valley under such a threat? How can we ask farmers to raise families there?
The whole operation can be a fait accompli in 24 hours. The babbling in the Security Council has hardly started. Once we hold the Heights, we can at least bargain for demilitarization. Dado can do it. He should go.
Good argument, but alas it would arrive too late, out of date! Events had speeded up, and both Syria and Israel were conditionally accepting the cease-fire. He set the paper aside with a sad shrug, and turned to the maps. The cease-fire lines with Syria marked on them were tentative. Clouds of political gas would erupt in the UN over every disputed meter of ground. He had to prepare to sit behind Gideon Rafael at the council, feed him facts, back him with authority—
The telephone rang. “Zev? Mordechai. Urgent telex from Pasternak. Plain language.”
“Read it.”
“‘Boss changed his mind and is going to the party as per your telex about Philip. Urgent we talk on secure line.’”
“Call him and say I’m on my way.”
He went to the bedroom to tell Nakhama; not the first time she would be disappointed this way, nor the last. The lights were on. The whole room smelled of Joy perfume, picked up in a duty-free shop and worn on what she called “big nights.” She was sitting up in bed with her glossy black hair fanned out over the fancy negligee from Garfinckel’s, his birthday present, also reserved for big nights. “Nakhama?” No use, she was dead asleep. He snapped off the light.
Hours later he got back exhausted yet exhilarated by the rush of events, and turned the light on. There she was exactly as before, not having moved a hair. Her breathing was noisy and quick. “Nakhama!”
Eyes blearily opened. “Hmmm? Oh, so you’re finally coming to bed? High time.” She sat up and fell back with a cry of “Ow! My head! Zevi, my head!” She put both hands to her temples. “My pulse, it’s going a mile a minute! Oy! My mouth is dry as paper. Zev, I must have what they call the Hong Kong flu.”
“You have what they call a hangover.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek, smiling. “I’ll get you something.”
She gulped the fizzing Bromo-Seltzer, staring at him over the glass with huge reddened eyes. “It was the Adom Atik,” she gasped between gulps. “I drank and drank while I waited for you. Zev, do I look as bad as I feel?”
“You look all right. Listen, we’re attacking Syria. Dado’s tanks are starting to climb the Golan Heights at Kefar Szold about now. And that isn’t all the news.”
“What else? Zev, why is my heart pounding so? I could be dying.”
“You’re not. Listen to this! It seems our Noah captured Sharm el Sheikh.”
“Noah did what?”
“He’ll get no medal, he found that the Egyptians had evacuated the position. Still, he did lead the landing party that first entered the fort. Pasternak told me this. There’s a picture in Ha’aretz of Noah nailing the flag over the main building.”
“Beautiful! So he’s all right?”
“Not a scratch. Nakhama, I need sleep. Two or three hours, then I fly to New York on the first shuttle. The Security Council will be going up in flames, and Gideon Rafael wants me there.”
Nakhama gnashed her teeth, flickered her tongue, and moaned, “My mouth, the taste, the taste! It would disgust a buzzard. Well, come to bed, but don’t come near me. That’s wonderful about Noah.”
“Isn’t it? You know, when he was eleven and I brought him to the withdrawal ceremony, he told me he would take Sharm back, and by my life, he did it.” Barak was stripping down to underwear.
“Syria!” Nakhama said. “And what about the Russians?”
“That’s it. Dado must go like lightning, and the Golan’s a nasty job. The tanks have to climb rocky cliffs a thousand feet high single file under artillery fire, then break through minefields, barbed wire, concrete bunkers, and maybe five hundred T-54s and T-55s waiting for them hull down.”
“Oo-wah! Can they do it, Zev?”
“They’ll have to. In one day, too.”
***
Sitting among Rafael’s staff advisers on Friday morning, Barak was unnoticeable; no uniform, just a gray tropical suit. Before the crisis he had been unable to get into it, now it was pleasantly loose. Constant strain, skipped meals, lack of sleep, and lack of appetite were thinning him down. Nor was he hungry today, though he had had but one cup of coffee on the shuttle. The berating of his country by the likes of Bulgaria, Yugoslavia, Libya, and Algeria was mere noise, but stomach-turning noise.
He had to admire the gray-haired Rafael’s steady nerves and abrasive ripostes. The more Israel was attacked, the more time Rafael could gain for Dado Elazar on the Golan by responding. About noon when Federenko gave a long menacing speech comparing the “aggressor” Israel to Nazi Germany, Rafael drew gallery applause by retorting that such talk came strangely from a nation which had partitioned Poland with Hitler’s Reich, occupied the Baltic states as part of the deal, and supplied Nazi Germany’s war against the Allies for two years. Federenko sat glaring, twisting a pencil round and round in his hand, or talking to his staff and ignoring the speaker.
Meantime Barak was keeping track of the fighting on a marked map and passing notes to Rafael. The Security Council debate was empty drone, for the real action, the hammering out of a new cease-fire resolution, was taking place in an antechamber. The Russians wanted the Israelis to halt at once on the Golan Heights and fall back into the valley, the Americans mildly urged a simple standstill on both sides, and their surrogates in Eastern Europe and Latin America kept floating various compromises. A news flash toward evening buzzed through the UN building, briefl
y animating all the worn-down talkers and negotiators. To atone for failing his people, Nasser had resigned as President of Egypt! This occasioned speeches of tribute to the incomparable Arab leader which killed more time, to Gideon Rafael’s great satisfaction, and these were still going on when Barak was summoned to the secure telephone in the Israeli office.
“Zev, Dado is not going to make it today,” Pasternak said straight off. “I’ve just been up there by helicopter, to talk to him and the brigade commanders.”
“Sam, the Kirya has told us otherwise.”
“Well, now I’m telling you the facts. Communications have been a mess ever since Dayan reversed himself and ordered Dado to go. Even Rabin didn’t know he’d done that.”
“What!”
“Zev, by my life, the Ramatkhal was asleep at home. Dayan had told everyone to go home, the war was over, and Rabin was exhausted. So he went home, and he woke up to find the war was still on.”
“Why did Dayan change?”
“Nobody knows. In theory only the Ramatkhal could order that attack, but you know Dayan. Dado was asleep too, for that matter, but they got him up, the brigades were ready, and they went. A ragged start, and I tell you the heroes were the bulldozer guys, climbing those slopes to cut paths for the tanks, with artillery blasting down at them from the ridge. It’s a brilliant operation, only slow going. They won’t reach Kuneitra tonight. The cease-fire has to be stalled. That’s straight from Eshkol. Tell Rafael.”
“The Americans won’t go along, Sam.”
“We believe they will. Eban has sent Rafael a declaration they can back. Dado needs until about noon tomorrow. That’ll barely be sunrise in New York. Are they going to jabber all night? Just let Gideon get an adjournment until morning, and that’ll do it.”
