by Tommy Tenney
Could it be that the death of one warlike Palestinian leader and the surrender of Gaza had opened the door to peace, only for it to slam shut with the permanent silencing of his conciliatory Israeli counterpart? There was much speculation that any replacement for her husband might not be as inclined to nurture the climate for peace. Especially now. . . . The bombing had given fresh fuel to the Knesset’s opposition party.
Every second of her ordeal had been parsed to shreds by a hundred commentators and a thousand more assorted pundits. Four different television cameras had captured the tragic image of her cradling her father’s body, the blood from their wounds mingled, and mercilessly replayed it, frame by frame, for global television.
An entire nation had grieved with her—but she had never felt more alone.
And when she had failed to publicly demonstrate that she was back to normal at the end of the traditional seven-day mourning period, the papers had started to sniff a new story. Perhaps the formidable Mrs. ben Yuda was weaker, more vulnerable, than previously thought. A tad self-indulgent. “Is Seven Days of Shiva Not Long Enough?” asked one trashy paper with allegiances to the opposing political party. Even sympathetic coverage began to acquire a condescending, patronizing edge. “Hadassah’s overwhelming grief seems to have compromised her public duties. . . .” For all the details they knew, they appeared still unaware of her medical condition, of the surgical removal of a small piece of shrapnel from her side. Maybe if they knew . . .
Hadassah groaned and shook her head.
Now it had become a vigil. This very minute, she could—if she had the energy—walk over to her window, nudge open the curtains, and look down upon a television crew camped out beside the barricade and the IDF guards, there to chronicle her husband’s shock and her ongoing seclusion. Despite the intruders’ best wishes, she felt herself well up with resentment at the thought of them.
Just imagining it made her want to curl back up in her sheets and never leave them again. She could only think of two words to embody the inchoate desperation and despondency smothering her.
Oh G-d . . . She tried it aloud, picturing the word as translated in her book, but the sound was no more than a whisper.
She uttered the words as a lament, a senseless expression of misery. But hearing them resonate in her thoughts, she felt the words expand somehow, acquire a rooted meaning of their own.
She thought them again, but now as a salutation of sorts. A greeting.
“Oh G-d . . .”
She sighed. Personal prayer had never been her thing. Was it really possible to just form thoughts and have them ascend to the Creator of the universe? Really possible? She lived in a region where the certainty of such things was considered as sure as the land under one’s feet. And yet she had never truly believed it. It had never seemed likely—at least as sure as the love of her father, the solidity of her own abilities, the spark of her own reliable intelligence. “Oh G-d . . .”
She took a breath, then another. She felt stupid—to simply release words into the air? Talk into the emptiness. But then . . .
“. . . help me. Please. I don’t know how to talk to you. Or whether I even am talking to you. But I need help. I’m in trouble. And I have no way, no strength, nothing to dig myself out with. I’ve never felt this helpless before. Or this broken inside. But if you’re there and in the business of rescuing people, then here I am. I could use your help. I need . . .”
She shook her head. She had never put it into words before, even to herself.
“. . . a reason to live.”
The last words faded into a plaintive whisper. She closed her eyes, lay down again, and let herself go into a blank, wordless place.
Then she opened her eyes, as though it were the equivalent of hanging up the phone on an abruptly ended divine call. She took a deep breath and looked around her, trying to ascertain whether the world felt any different, the light brighter, her emotions lifted at all.
If she felt anything, it was hardly noticed. A spark, perhaps. Hard to quantify. She shrugged—at least she had tried it. Couldn’t hurt . . .
What now?
She turned some inward corner and felt a new conviction well up within her.
She had to speak with her husband.
Desperately. Not here, in the context of her weakness, but in a room where things, and people, were taken seriously. She had to get up, get out. She needed a real conversation with him.
And she had some questions demanding answers.
Hadassah forced her forearm muscle to flex and raise her hand to flip back the sheet. She sat up, protecting her stomach wounds with her hands, then willed her leg muscles to swing over and allow her feet to nudge the floor. She summoned up the determination to stand, then remained still for a moment and waited for a swooning sensation to drain from her head.
It’s a start, she told herself with a grim pursing of her lips.
She dressed and readied herself with the resolve of someone preparing for battle, slowly but resolutely choosing a navy business suit. She walked over to her vanity—its mirror still shrouded with a black mourning drape she had not removed after the end of Shiva—and slowly pulled back one corner. She shook her head and pulled down the rest of the fabric. She sat down before it and began applying makeup for the first time in a fortnight. She called for and ate her favorite light breakfast of eggs and fruit.
The housekeeper had brought the tray up herself, clucked over Madam’s obvious intent to go out, then voiced her obligatory cautions about surgery recovery and healing time. Hadassah attempted a smile, nodded agreement, and waved her away.
Finally, Hadassah could feel a measure of fortitude seep back in. She picked up the telephone and dialed.
“Mora, could you have a car prepared immediately? I’d like to go visit my husband.”
Hearing the reply, she closed her eyes wearily.
“I know how much notice they need. But I don’t care. I need to see my husband. Now. If you can’t help me, I’ll either take a cab or hitchhike.”
She started to breathe heavily as her assistant argued on the other end. Her cheeks turned a quick shade darker.
“Look, I know it’s raining. I don’t care about the weather. And I know the security risks. Just tell them I assume all risks myself and absolve them of all responsibility.”
Then she did hang up. She would see her husband.
She had to.
Chapter Eight
WorldNetDaily.com, June 27, 2001
Anthony C. LoBaido, “Rescuing scrolls from Saddam’s Iraq—Israeli intelligence smuggles out Torah documents”
NICOSIA, Cyprus—As new Prime Minister Ariel Sharon takes power in Israel, a half-century-old intelligence operation may be nearing completion, one which seeks to bring a sense of closure to the biblical Babylonian captivity, after Israel’s Mossad spy agency smuggled out a few dozen Torah scrolls from Iraq.
It is an operation that deals with both treasured manuscripts and something far more valuable—Jewish believers still trapped in Iraq by Saddam Hussein’s police apparatus.
Hussein wanted to destroy the Torah scrolls—some of which are hundreds of years old—but was unable to complete that task.
The existence of the 30-some scrolls was made known last year when the chief rabbi of Israel used one of the smuggled scrolls in a religious festival in the city of Afula.
Ashkenazi Chief Rabbi Yisrael Meir Lau explained to the Israeli media that “one branch” of the Israeli intelligence apparatus—either Shin Bet (akin to the U.S. FBI) or the Mossad (Israel’s version of the CIA) carried out the smuggling operation.
—HTTP://WND.COM/NEWS/ARTICLE.ASP?ARTICLE_ID=21647
* * *
ISRAELI PRIME MINISTER’S OFFICE, CABINET ROOM
The large oak doors flew open: the four waiting men stood in respect as Jacob ben Yuda strode in at a brisk pace for his morning intelligence briefing, still reading from an open folder. The Prime Minister of Israel looked them over, acknowl
edged the groups with a warm nod, and sat briskly at the head of the table.
“Mr. Prime Minister,” said Mossad director Joseph Libyon, motioning to a man on his left, “this is Ari Meyer, one of our longest-functioning undercover operatives, currently on assignment in Iraq. He is back for consultations, and we’d like him to brief you.”
Ben Yuda leaned forward and shook the man’s hand.
“Welcome back home, Ari,” Jacob said, noting that the man’s full beard did not fit the common image of a Mossad agent.
“It’s my pleasure, Mr. Prime Minister.”
“As you know, sir,” continued Libyon, “we don’t usually ask our agents to attend a cabinet meeting, however crucial it may be. In this case, however, we thought it would be essential that Agent Meyer, known to the Italians as the British ‘Clive Osborn,’ brief you himself, as he is not only an agent but an educated scholar of ancient history and languages. His specialty and his cover, both.”
“Ah,” remarked Jacob with a grin, “a Renaissance Mossad man.”
“Merely a professional student, sir,” Meyer demurred.
“Well, in this case,” said Libyon, “the studies have given a great service to Eretz Yisroel. But I wish it portended good news, sir. You know, of course, how long and intensely Mossad has been working to retrieve Jewish survivors and all precious Hebrew artifacts in Iraq. Agent Meyer has been a vital part of that initiative for years. In his undercover work as a liaison with the Italian artifacts recovery squad, he now has discovered some highly disquieting documents.”
“At first,” Meyer said, picking up the report, “it appeared to simply be an old genealogy stolen last year from Baghdad’s Battaween Synagogue. Had that been true, the loss would have been harmless, since, as you know, most Jews were removed from Iraq during Operations Ezra and Nehemiah. They would have carried great sentimental interest for the surviving families who now live in Israel, but little more.”
Meyer handed the Prime Minister a thick, stapled pad of photocopied sheets.
“On further inspection, however, none of the names matched the Ezra and Nehemiah manifests of 1948 through 1949. I’ll cut to the chase, sir. They were the names of Jewish families who years ago went into deep hiding throughout Iraq. Because of the continuing unstable conditions and the new leadership in Iraq, most if not all of them are still afraid of revealing themselves. In fact, they even changed their names, and have been living as Iraqis for, in some cases, over fifty years.”
“Are some quarters going to consider them cowards for going underground like this?”
“They would have no reason to, sir. These measures not only helped many families hold on to their assets, but are actually in perfect accordance with Hebrew tradition. For centuries, Jews in peril have freely tolerated name changes to escape danger, including Babylon’s Hananiah, Mishael, and Azariah, better known to posterity as Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego.”
“Then I don’t understand,” said ben Yuda with a frown. “Isn’t this a fortunate discovery? If we once had no way to find these families, doesn’t this present us with an opportunity to make contact?”
“You’re absolutely right, sir,” Meyer said. “Except for one thing. Prior to these documents being intercepted, it appears they were copied by the men who stole them. We hoped this might be a meaningless occurrence, that the thieves would not realize what they had. That is, until we began to see this.”
Meyer glanced at Libyon, who took the cue to slide a large black-and-white photograph over to the Prime Minister. Ben Yuda picked it up. His eyes widened and his face lost its color.
The photo depicted a pile of rubble with a large Star of David spray-painted onto the largest piece of intact slab. A small leg and foot, the size of a child’s, protruded from the nearest edge of the pile.
“In the last six days,” Meyer continued, “four civilian homes have been destroyed in various parts of Iraq. They all have certain things in common. First, neither the authorities or the Western military command had any warning of the raids, or why they might have been committed. Second, every one was considered a normal civilian Iraqi family. Third, the raids were designed to ensure that every member of the family died. And last, every one had a Star of David posthumously marked somewhere on the ruins. What initially appeared to be a random car bombing was actually carefully researched and planned.”
“You’re forgetting one last thing,” Libyon prompted. “From our end—after the fact—each family name has been linked with this genealogy.”
The Defense Minister on the left of the Prime Minister swore viciously under his breath.
“You mean . . . ?” began ben Yuda.
“Yes, sir. The hidden Jews of Iraq are being targeted for elimination. It’s a modern repeat of Haman’s ‘ultimate solution,’ on the very same piece of ground.”
The Prime Minister leaned downward and massaged his eyes for a long moment. Then he looked up, his expression grim. “No! I cannot authorize covert action in Iraq. I gave the Americans my word. Not to mention, it’s simply too dangerous. Everything could blow up, literally and figuratively, if we were discovered. It’s bad enough now. But if we take unilateral action—”
“Sir, the Americans know about this situation already,” Meyer offered.
“How is that?”
“Well, my cover is as a British scholar, liaison to the Italians. My initial discovery came after a raid on a large artifacts cache in which numerous casualties were sustained. The Americans were called in for a briefing.”
“Besides, sir,” Libyon inserted, “we at headquarters instructed Meyer to tell the Americans he had accidentally leaked this to an Israeli. We did it to give him cover and an opening for dialogue on the subject. It was hardly a surprising disclosure to them, although its repercussions alarmed them. After all, as you said, they know of our presence in Iraq.”
“So, Joseph, do you think they’re expecting to hear from me?” “I would say so. At least an ambassador-level contact, if not higher. They know how aggressively we protect our own, so they must be prepared for some kind of contact from us and have a response ready.”
“What do you think they’re prepared to do?” “Well, certainly not to allow us in. I think they expect us to do something. You see, the Americans have a dilemma. They know that most of the factions in Iraq are violently anti-Semitic, even the ones they publicly support. And the thugs carrying out these attacks know that we recovered the original list in the raid. So any direct action to punish or prevent this genocide will be detected and its motives known immediately. If the Americans are involved, then Washington will be accused of carrying out Israel’s wishes and being a Zionist puppet. Iraqi officials will feel obligated to denounce the American action in order to maintain public support, even if they privately sympathize. U.S.–Iraqi relations will be weakened at the most vulnerable time, when the new Iraq is just beginning to take control. The whole Middle East house of cards could collapse.”
“So you think the U.S. will do nothing to stop these killings?”
“Sir, I believe that at best, they will debate and vacillate and play turf wars between the Pentagon and the State Department for so long that by the time they reach consensus, the last Jews in Iraq will be dead.”
“So you’re recommending we bluff them and take action anyway?”
“It depends on how much these surviving Iraqis mean to you,” Joseph answered, looking the Prime Minister directly in the eye. “A pragmatic case could be made that it’s hardly worth risking the lives of every Israeli in a regional war for the sake of who-knows-how-many families.”
“Certainly,” ben Yuda agreed with a scowl. “But as we all know, that’s never been the policy of the State of Israel. We go after our own. Tell me this: can we reach these Jews ourselves, simply based on the lists in that genealogy?”
“It would take a great deal of Mossad manpower, sir—at a time when our resources are stretched very thin. But yes, it can be done,” the Defense Minister finished,
his tone wary.
“I’m not asking yet to pull the trigger on an operation, Joseph,” ben Yuda said, standing abruptly. “But if I decide to do just that, I want the information ready. If I choose to go in, we need to know where to find them. Right away. Is everyone in agreement?”
The men around the table nodded somberly. The Prime Minister’s recommendation had hardly been reckless. The real debate over options would begin as soon as the meeting ended and the entire cabinet came in.
“Mr. Prime Minister?” Meyer asked quietly as the others began to leave. “I have a small additional request. It’s of a quasi-private nature.” His voice had dropped to barely above a whisper.
“Oh, really?”
“Well, when I examined the parchments under improvised infrared in the field, I discovered another document along with the genealogy. One which possesses, shall we say, more historical than military value. Although that value is considerable.”
“I’m not following you.”
“Sir, this document’s authorship is not properly attributed. But from its text, it would appear to be written by—well, by Queen Esther herself. I couriered them back to Jerusalem, where our new infrared technology confirmed its age but not its authenticity. To our knowledge, there is only one place where we can do that, one extant text against which to compare it. It is, as you know, privately controlled by your wife’s family. And I know this is a sensitive time, yet I would deeply appreciate if she could be asked for her permission to examine it.”
Jacob ben Yuda nodded, now intrigued in spite of himself. He laid a hand on Meyer’s shoulder. “I will speak to my wife. I have one question, though. Why is a Mossad agent concerning himself with such a thing? Why not the antiquities people?”
