Promised Land

by Martin Fletcher

  Arie’s jaw twitched as he sat by Dudu, his heart racing. Dudu was unconscious again and didn’t know Arie was stroking his head. Arie didn’t know it either.

  After watching the Queen of Sheba burn itself out, with Itamar inside, Arie walked back to his prisoner of war and shot him three times in the head.

  DANIEL

  RAMAT HASHARON, ISRAEL

  November 1956

  Daniel wouldn’t leave the window to go to bed so Tamara brought the bed to him. She and Rachel collected cushions, pillows, and blankets and made him comfortable in the alcove. When they tucked him in he didn’t want a story, only good-night kisses. The first night his twin sister Carmel said she’d sleep with him but after an hour Tamara gathered her in her arms and brought her to her own bed. On the second night Daniel’s uncle Ido, only six years older, lay next to him.

  “Do you want a story?” Ido said.

  “Yes.”

  “What about?”

  “Daddy.”

  “Yours or mine?”

  “Where is yours?”

  “I don’t know. At work.”

  “What are they doing?”

  “I don’t know. Same as Uncle Arie, I suppose. Fighting.”

  “Does it hurt to die?”

  “Only if you die slowly. If you die quickly, then it doesn’t hurt.”

  “If Daddy dies, will he come back home?”

  “Silly, of course not. He’ll be dead.”

  The two boys lay on their sides. Daniel put his hand on Ido’s shoulder. “What happens when you’re dead? I mean, where are you?”

  “Heaven, if you’re good.”

  “Daddy’s good.”

  “Of course he is.”

  “I hope he comes home soon.”

  “Are you really going to sleep here till he comes home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because then he’ll have to come home, to put me to bed.”

  Four days into the war Diana left the Office and collected Noah and Ezra, her three-year-olds. They didn’t want to go and ran back upstairs. They liked it in Auntie Tamara’s house with the garden and their big cousins Ido and Estie, and Daniel and Carmel. And Grandma Rachel had cooked and fussed over them and played all the time. “They’re enjoying the war,” Tamara said.

  “Well, let’s hope it’s the last one,” Diana replied.

  “We’ll see,” Tamara said. “I’m looking forward to my dad’s column. Peter says he’s one of the few who writes the truth as opposed to wishful thinking.”

  * * *

  Moshe’s column in Davar, the labor party newspaper, had become required reading, the Cassandra whose offbeat analysis often proved painfully prescient. He couldn’t wait to write the next one but kept delaying.

  “There’s too much happening,” he told his editor. “It’s changing all the time.” The papers were full of Israel’s brilliant victory and Egypt’s humiliation, but Moshe had one key question: What will Israel do with the conquered Sinai Peninsula and the Gaza Strip? The answer didn’t take long.

  On November 4, after five days of fighting, and under irresistible pressure from Washington, Israel agreed to a cease-fire with Egypt. The same day the United Nations authorized a peacekeeping force to separate the enemies.

  Israel, with British and French help, had smashed the Egyptian army in the Sinai; smashed the terrorist network in Gaza; and opened the Straits of Tiran to Israeli shipping. It had achieved its war aims.

  But Nasser remained in power and he, too, was able to claim victory, thanks to American threats, which forced Israel, France, and Britain to withdraw their troops from every inch of newly occupied Sinai.

  “I’ve got my opening paragraph,” Moshe crowed to Rachel at last, “but that’s about all,” he added sadly. He read aloud: “‘This pointless conflict ended in the worst possible way. Israel thinks its military was ‘brilliant,’ while Nasser thinks he won the war. The truth is that Israel lost politically what it won militarily, and Egypt won politically what it lost militarily.” He read it again, more slowly. “Drat. Four adverbs in fifteen words. But maybe the repetition is powerful? Need to work on that last sentence. Still, it’s the thought that counts. You like it?”

  “I do,” Rachel said. “Nobody else will.”

  “I’ve got the last line too. Listen: ‘Israel and Egypt are both deluding themselves and that will lead to another war and disaster.’ You like it?” He turned the radio on to listen to the news. “All I need now is the middle.”

  * * *

  Two days later, at three o’clock in the morning, Arie, his forehead bound by a fresh white bandage, his fatigues filthy, slowly turned the key and inched the front door open. Without a sound he placed his kit bag on the floor, reached up, left his Sten gun on the hat stand, and stood in the door of the living room, allowing his eyes to adjust to the moonlight that came in through the glass door to the terrace.

  The dim light showed a heap by the window, like a pile of clothes. He tiptoed across the room and found Daniel fast asleep on a bed of pillows. It didn’t seem strange to him, nothing did anymore. Arie went down on one knee, slipped his arms beneath his son, and carried him to bed, while Daniel smiled in his sleep and said, “Daddy?”

  PART TWO

  PETER

  MADISON, WISCONSIN

  July 1962

  The best thing about their room was the bed. It was the widest they’d ever seen, and the bounciest—they almost reached the ceiling—and it was high enough for Noah to scare Ezra by sitting on his knees and hanging him over the side, backward. “Get off, get off, ouch, my back!” Ezra yelled.

  “Stop that!” Diana shouted, pulling Noah off Ezra, who rolled over and punched Noah on the shoulder. They wrestled each other to the floor, knocking the telephone off the bedside table. “Enough, oh for God’s sake, do something!” Diana shouted at Peter, who was sitting on the sofa reading the Wisconsin State Journal. “Interesting story from Egypt,” he said. “Some new rockets in the Independence Day parade.”

  “Not your problem anymore, or mine. The boys are the problem. They’re out of control. You’ve got to do something, they don’t listen to a word I say. Peter? Peter! Did you hear what I said?”

  “What?”

  “Oh nothing, I’m going downstairs for a drink.”

  “You don’t drink anymore.”

  “I’ll start again, I’ve got to get away from this madhouse. Stop it!” This last at Ezra, who had pulled the Gideon Bible from the drawer by the bed and thrown it at Noah. “Ouch,” he cried. “It’s heavy!”

  “We’re going to get evicted from the hotel,” Diana said. “We’ll have to stay with the Wilsons.”

  Peter pushed himself out of the chair. “I’ll come with you, let’s get away from the boys for a bit.”

  “Yes, otherwise I’ll give birth right now.”

  Diana put on her cardigan, which barely closed over her stomach, and they went downstairs to the Hilton café.

  As soon as the door closed the boys stopped fighting. “What shall we do now?” Noah said.

  “I don’t know,” Ezra said. “Find Mom and Dad?”

  “I know, let’s phone Israel. Daniel and Carmel. What time is it there? Will they be sleeping?”

  “Let’s wake them up.”

  Noah called the hotel operator to ask how to call Israel and gave her the number. Two minutes later, the phone rang. They looked at it. “Pick it up,” Ezra said.

  “You pick it up,” Noah said.

  “No, you.”

  “You.”

  “You.”

  “You’re such a baby,” Noah said, putting the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

  “Hello? Who is this?”

  “Auntie Tamara? Hello, it’s Ezra,” Noah said and pushed the phone into Ezra’s face. He slapped it away and ran to the other side of the room.

  “I mean, it’s Noah. Hello.”

  “Is anything wrong? Do you know what time it is? It’s the middl
e of the night here. What happened?” Noah heard Tamara say, “Wake up. Arie, wake up. It’s America.”

  “America? America? What? Who?”

  “Why are you calling, Noah? What’s wrong? Where’s Mommy? And Daddy?”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” Noah said. “Can I speak to Carmel or Daniel?”

  “No, of course not, they’re sleeping. Why did you call?”

  “Mummy had triplets.”

  “What? What did you say?”

  “Here, Ezra wants to talk to you.” Noah put the phone into Ezra’s hand and ran into the bathroom.

  “Hello, this is Ezra. Hello, Auntie.”

  “Triplets? Mummy had triplets? Three babies. Oh my God, Arie, triplets!”

  “Not really,” Ezra said. “Noah just said it. He’s stupid.” There was silence on the end of the line.

  Finally, Tamara said, “Well, it’s good that you called anyway, because I was going to call Peter in the morning. Tell him to call the Office. It’s urgent,” Tamara said slowly. “Don’t forget, it’s important. Will you remember? Promise?”

  “Okay. Hello, Auntie? Hello.”

  The phone went dead.

  * * *

  As the taxi turned off the highway and entered a grid of streets named after great Americans, Peter became excited. “There,” he pointed from the front passenger seat, as they passed a long low building with a parking garage. “That’s where I went to school, Middleton High. And there’s the basketball court, I was good!” Diana stroked his neck from behind. Peter loved to talk about his youth in America, but he never talked about his German childhood. “I was on the wrestling team, you must get it from me, boys.”

  Moments later they found Franklin Avenue, the taxi turned, and Peter and his family, holding hands, walked up the concrete path to ring the bell at number 87.

  It looked the same, bay windows with potted plants either side of the green door, just a bigger car in the driveway. Crazy, he thought. Since he’d been here last most of his family had been murdered, he’d fought in three wars, and he had a family of his own, while for these lucky people, time stood still. Maybe the hedge was thicker.

  Peter approached with a happy heart. For five years this had been his home. The Wilsons had made him one of theirs, their children had been his siblings, and now Chuck and Bud had children of their own too. He squeezed Ezra’s hand. “Behave,” he said.

  Diana smiled. “Nervous?”

  He replied with a tight grin. It had been a long time. What, he’d left for the army in ’43 and now it’s ’62. Nineteen years. And this was his first time back. He regretted that.

  Footsteps. A lock turning. And there she was, the woman he’d called Mom, with a smile as wide as Wisconsin. Wearing a brown pantsuit, her hair freshly tinted and curled, Mrs. Wilson looked from Peter to Diana to the boys, shaking her head in wonder, until finally, she could talk. “My, my, my,” she said, “how you’ve grown,” and she swept Peter into her arms. “Come in, come in,” she kept saying, long after they were all inside.

  How she fussed, especially over Diana. “Oh, look at you! Sit down, honey, mustn’t get too tired. Another one on the way. I’m so jealous.” She brought coffee and juice, and filled a tray with cookies and soda for the boys, who ran upstairs with Mrs. Wilson’s granddaughter, Alice. “They’re getting on well, friends already, how old are your boys, ten, eleven? They’re so sweet.” Doubt was written across Diana’s face.

  “Nearly ten. They’re … unpredictable,” Peter said. From upstairs there was a sound of crashing and a yell, and then silence.

  A minute later Diana said, “They’re too quiet.”

  “Don’t worry, honey,” Mrs. Wilson said. “Alice is a bit older than them, she can take care of herself. Believe me, she’s one tough cookie.”

  “She’ll need to be, with those two,” Peter said. He looked around the familiar room, the same brown fluffy carpet, the same stained sofa, the side table with the new big box of a TV, local landscapes in dark wooden frames on the wall, the piano crowded with silver-framed family photographs. He picked up one of three boys grinning with baseball bats over their shoulders and showed it to Diana. “Here, look, me with Bud and Chuck. I was the pitcher.” He looked up, appearing wistful. “Mrs. Wilson, you haven’t changed one bit.”

  She threw her head back with a guffaw. “And the world is flat. Still, thank you. And please, call me Vera. It’s lonely here, to be honest. It was kind of you to phone when Mr. Wilson was sick. It meant a lot to him.”

  Her husband had passed away three years earlier. Her two sons and their families lived far away, one in Taos, New Mexico, and one in St. Louis, Missouri. It was lucky that Alice liked to visit, a real handful for her parents, though, a mind of her own, that girl. Twelve years old going on twenty, mind you, nothing new, she used to be eight going on fifteen.

  As Peter set the photo back on the piano, Mrs. Wilson said, with a fond smile, “You still have your father’s watch, I see. That’s nice.”

  “He never takes it off,” Diana said.

  Mrs. Wilson sighed, looking at a photo of her husband. “But tell me about yourself, you wrote you’re on a one-month vacation traveling around America? Isn’t it a bit too much for you, Diana? How far along are you?”

  “Seven months.”

  “Peter, don’t let Diana carry a thing. Where are you going? The Grand Canyon, you wrote? Las Vegas, of course. And you’ve been in America for three years. So much to tell me!”

  “Yes, we’ve been studying, a bit late in life but better late than never. I got study leave from work, did a bachelor’s in political science at NYU and Diana…”

  “I did mine in psychology at City College…”

  “Not that it helps with the boys,” Peter cut in.

  “Or with you, frankly.”

  Peter headed her off. “It sounds like the twins and Alice should get on like a house on fire.”

  “Well, Alice is what? Two, three years older, she’s a young woman compared to them,” Mrs. Wilson said. “Let them stay little boys as long as possible, believe you me.”

  Diana groaned. “Oh, no, don’t say that, I wish they’d grow up.”

  “I heard that,” Ezra said, peering around the door. “Daddy, I just remembered. Auntie Tamara said you should phone the office. It’s urgent.”

  “What? When?”

  “This morning. No, yesterday. Or was it the day before?”

  “Urgent? And you just told me now. Thank you very much.”

  “Urgent?” Mrs. Wilson said. “Oh, dear, I do hope nothing is wrong. Would you like to use my telephone?”

  “Thank you, yes, please, I’ll call collect.”

  Vera showed Peter and Diana to the den, its walls covered in baseball pennants and team shirts, and went upstairs to check on the children.

  “The office?” Diana said after Peter placed the call.

  “That’s what he said. There’s only one office for me. Office. Capital O.”

  “What do they want?”

  “Urgent? We’ll find out in a moment. But they’ve left us alone for three years. Three-and-a-half. What can ‘urgent’ mean? Only that they want me to do something. Maybe you’ll have to go to the Grand Canyon without me.”

  “Without you? Just me and the boys? Are you insane? Shoot me now.”

  The call went straight through to the deputy operations chief. Diana heard only Peter’s end of the conversation, but watched his face grow grimmer.

  “You asked me to call? When? I’m on vacation. The boss himself said it? Do I have a choice? Can you tell me anything about it? I understand. Well, all right, it’ll take me a few days, I’m in the Midwest. Good-bye.”

  Diana watched Peter slowly place the receiver in the holder and stare at it. After a few seconds she said, “Well?”

  He sighed and sat on the edge of the desk. “Look. We’ve paid for all the tickets. You may as well go on with the boys. Have some fun. Me, it looks like duty calls. Something’s up and they want me ba
ck. At least they waited till we finished our exams.”

  “Duty calls? Didn’t you give it all up?”

  “Yes. Well. Sort of…”

  They’d discussed many times what else they could do after they finished their degrees, even staying in America. But it always came down to the same issue: If they didn’t stay in Israel, then who would? What had all the struggle been for? The country was only fourteen years old. Of course it was hard. There were no luxuries. America was a land of plenty, but so what? Did it really matter how big your car was and how many you had? How many bathrooms does a house need? Living in peace and quiet was a blessing, but if the price of that was closing our minds to the lives of family and friends back home, then how could we be happy? We would just be selfish and blind. That wasn’t happiness, that was ignorance. Round and round they had gone, always the same thoughts, but ultimately, it came down to the struggle. Israel was involved in a life-and-death struggle that would determine the security and future of the Jewish people, and they needed to be part of the fight. They had skills the country needed, their boys would fight too. God knows they were getting enough practice at home. Friends always said they prayed that their children would not need to fight in a war. Who were they kidding? Only when Israel made peace with the Arabs would the country be safe, and the Arabs would never accept the existence of Israel. So if they were condemned to a future of struggle, why not just stay in America? Who needs it? What kind of future was that for their children? Round and round they went, chewing the same cud.

  What awaited them in Tel Aviv? Prices had gone up, they weren’t even sure they could rent in the center of Tel Aviv anymore. Arie had offered to help, but Peter swore he’d never take a penny from his crooked brother. “He’s considered a respectable businessman,” Diana would say, over and over, he’s becoming one of Israel’s wealthiest men. He must be doing something right, he isn’t crooked, he just knows how to work the system. Peter didn’t care. “He has nothing in his mind but money, and I want no part of it.”

  All Diana could do was close her eyes and give a deep sigh, retreat inside. That’s how it always ended. He was as stubborn as a mule. But a loyal, loving mule, and she loved him for it.