Begin paused, pushed his bottom lip forward in thought, and with much gravity, said, “It is a compelling moment, my friend. It is a compelling moment of extraordinary opposites.”
“Like what, Mr. Begin?”
“Like…” He held up his right palm and rotated it slightly to underscore the paradox of what he was about to say. “Like, on the one hand, it is a terrifying feeling, and on the other, it is an exhilarating one. It is a feeling of the highest privilege, and it is a feeling of the deepest humility. It is a feeling of grave responsibility, and it is a feeling of wonderful hopefulness. It is a feeling of sisterhood and of brotherhood, and it is a feeling of solitude. It is…” Again he paused, and for a lingering moment stared hard at the door as if trying to absorb the full consequences of his walking through it, and then, in a tone of absolute conviction, said, “I have the feeling of the chazan – the cantor – on the High Holy Days when he stands alone before the Holy Ark and he appeals to the Almighty in the name of the whole congregation, and he says to God, ‘I have come to plead before you on behalf of your people, Israel, who have made me their messenger, even though I am unworthy of the task. Therefore, I beseech you, O Lord, make my mission successful.’”
“Amen!” exclaimed somebody from the back of the room.
“Ken yehi ratzon” [May it be so], echoed Begin, and with an air of consecration, hands clasped and eyes lowered, he walked into the office of the prime minister.
Photograph credit: Ya’acov Sa’ar & Israel Government Press Office
Rabin and Prime Minister Begin with top staff members at the official handing-over ceremony, Prime Minister’s office, Jerusalem, 21 June 1977
Photograph credit: Ya’acov Sa’ar & Israel Government Press Office
Prime Minister Begin proposes a toast upon assuming the premiership, Jerusalem, 21 June 1977
Chapter 30
A Jew of Many Parts
A half hour later, feet perched on my empty desk, I stared crankily out of the window, dismayed at the prospect of having to keep an appointment with the bureaucrat in the personnel department of the foreign ministry with whom I had just spoken. It was a glorious day of sun and shade and summer flowers, just the kind of day to take a nostalgic stroll down memory lane before saying goodbye to this room for good, which is what I was doing when the phone rang, jerking me out of my reverie.
“This is Yechiel Kadishai. The prime minister wants to see you.”
“Me? When?”
“Now!”
I tried to assume a calm demeanor as I hurried down the corridor, through the security barrier and into the elegantly carpeted hallway which led to the outer office of the prime minister’s suite. Kadishai told me to go straight in.
As I opened the door, Menachem Begin glanced up. He seemed dwarfed by the gigantic mahogany desk behind which he sat and, close-up, the signs of the heart attack were still upon him. His face was sallow and drawn, yet still he was imperious, like a patrician, a man to be addressed by title, not by name. I walked across the persian carpet and, clearing my throat, said, “Mr. Prime Minister, as a citizen I wish you every success for the sake of us all.”
He rose halfway, shook my hand automatically, and nodded at the chair where I was to sit. I did so with the ramrod posture of a new recruit as he began searching through a pile of papers, declaring while doing so in a voice so formal it sounded like an official pronouncement: “I have this day received an important communication from the president of the United States of America, Mr. Jimmy Carter, and Knesset member Rabin suggests I show it to you with a view to preparing a reply. He tells me you have some experience in these matters.”
Wholly taken aback at this unexpected turn of events, all I could do was to nod and look about me in controlled excitement while he hunted for the letter.
But for the removal of personal photos, trophies, awards, and decorations, the wood-paneled room was exactly as Yitzhak Rabin had left it. A row of high-backed chairs stood in front of the prime minister’s desk like well-drilled guardsmen, and behind the desk were shelves filled with volumes of parliamentary legislation with deep blue covers, and timeless Jewish classics in gold-tooled, brown calf antiquarian bindings. Next to the shelves was a floor-to-ceiling relief map of Israel, with the national flag by its side. A second seating area, lounge style, occupied much of the rest of the room, where a visitor reclining in one of the sky blue armchairs could look up at the wall in front of him and take in a huge black-and-white aerial photograph of Jerusalem’s Old City, the heart and soul of the nation’s eternal and indivisible capital. On the third wall, facing three bullet-proof lace-curtained windows, was an imposing world map and, close to that, tucked in a corner well above eye-level, a discreet photo gallery of Menachem Begin’s predecessors: David Ben-Gurion, Moshe Sharett, Levi Eshkol, and Golda Meir. There was ample room left for the framed likeness of Yitzhak Rabin.
“Please read this,” said Mr. Begin, handing me the letter.
I asked his permission to retire to peruse its contents and draft a reply, as had been my wont with his predecessors, but he said in a tone that was just a shade supercilious that there was no need for that anymore. It was not his habit to put his signature to anything which he had not composed himself, including his speeches and English letters.
“I shall prepare my response to the president,” he said, “and you” – this with a warm smile, and in English – “shall polish my Polish English. You will be my Shakespeare. You will shakespearize it.”
I was quick to learn that Begin delighted in inventing neologisms – creating new words or new meanings for established words. He had just invented one now.
The telephone buzzed.
The prime minister had two telephones on his desk, one cream-colored – a regular line with press buttons – and the second a red point-to-point military set, linked directly to the defense people in Tel Aviv. He stared at the buzzing red mechanism as if he had an aversion to it. Tightening his lips, he delicately picked up the receiver and gravely said, “Hello. Begin speaking.”
It was Ezer Weizman, his defense minister, and I gathered from what was being said that there had been two Katyusha rocket attacks by the PLO, from southern Lebanon into northern Israel, albeit with no casualties or damage. Also, overnight, Moslem militia had mounted an assault on a Christian Maronite village in northern Lebanon, slaughtering civilians.
While Begin interrogated Weizman, Freuka walked in, obviously aware of what was going on. Urgently, he scribbled a note which he placed in front of Begin who, upon reading it, said sharply into the phone, “General Poran suggests the PLO attack could be a deliberate provocation to test my will on my first day in office. I am going to assume he’s right, so please consult the chief of staff about a firm response, and keep me informed.” Then, in a tone that was even more dogged and authoritarian, “As for the Moslem attack on the Christian civilians, the policy of this government is clear: it is our moral duty as a Jewish State to come to the aid of the Lebanese Christian minority. We Jews know what it is to suffer as a minority. We shall come to the aid of any persecuted minority in the Middle East. The Christian world has abandoned the Lebanese Christians. We shall not abandon them. We shall discuss this in detail in the cabinet meeting.”
When he put the receiver down, you could see the veins throbbing in his neck.
Freuka looked disturbed. He shifted uneasily from foot to foot. Menachem Begin had just turned Israel’s Lebanon doctrine on its head. Yitzhak Rabin had never permitted Israeli forces to become directly entangled in the Lebanese bloodbath for fear of being sucked into its infernal civil war, which had been ravaging the country since 1975. He wanted clarification, but as he was about to ask for it, Yechiel Kadishai stuck his head around the door to say that Reb Raphael was on the line.
“Put him through,” said Begin, his face lighting up. He slouched back in his chair, crossed his legs, and cuddled the cream receiver to his ear. “This won’t take a minute,” he said contritely to Genera
l Poran, and then, with fondness, into the receiver, “Ah, Reb Raphael, how good it is to hear from you.”
General Poran stroked his mustache and waited.
“I have been thinking much of your dear father of blessed memory,” the prime minister continued. “I know how he prayed and sacrificed for this day when we would form the government. We shall remain faithful to his legacy, I promise you.”
Reb Raphael was a name I knew. His late father was the widely adored saintly Reb Aryeh Levine – “the Prisoners’ Rabbi” – a legend in his lifetime. When Britain ruled Palestine and Menachem Begin commanded the Irgun, Reb Aryeh had toiled to render aid and comfort to captured Irgun fighters, many of whom were condemned to long terms of imprisonment, or sentenced to death by hanging. The last embrace they felt at the foot of the gallows was invariably Reb Aryeh’s. Now, his son ran the small Jerusalem yeshiva which his father had founded.
The prime minister inquired about the yeshiva’s welfare, and as he listened, his features became compassionate and troubled. “Oy vey! ” he sighed, “I’m so sorry, Reb Raphael, to hear things are so difficult. I shall speak to one or two friends to help. Meanwhile, send the electricity, water, and telephone bills to Yechiel Kadishai. I shall see to them personally. It’s a mitzvah I want to perform. So don’t fret, Reb Raphael. Your task is to sit and learn and teach. We shall see to the rest.”
It was clear from the look on his face that with Lebanon on the boil, General Poran found this benevolent tête-à-tête with an obscure yeshiva rabbi too much to swallow. He about-faced and made his way to the door, where Begin stopped him. “General Poran!” he said, in a low yet commanding voice.
Freuka spun around.
“You shall have an opportunity to express your views on my Lebanon policy at another time, not now. Now, I need you to keep me informed on our retaliation in response to the PLO attacks. Please wake me at night if necessary. And please tell Yechiel Kadishai to come in.”
Begin spent the next few minutes briefing Yechiel about Reb Raphael’s plight, and asked him to get hold of a certain Sir Isaac Wolfson in London. (The most important thing about Sir Isaac Wolfson was that he was a very rich Jew.) He then mused out loud how he should reply to President Carter, and asked me, businesslike, “Have you finished reading the president’s letter?”
I nodded an affirmative.
“In that case tell me, other than the usual pleasantries and expressions of mutual values and interests, etcetera, do you find anything particularly exceptional in his invitation to Washington, as I do?”
The way he said it, I had the distinct impression he was putting me through my paces.
“I think so,” I ventured.
“What, exactly?”
“The last paragraph.” I read it out loud: “I would like, therefore, to invite you to visit the United States during the week of July 18 and join with you in a partnership of principle leading to a just and peaceful settlement of the dispute between Israel and its neighbors. We are both blessed with the historic opportunity to give substance to the religious meaning of our societies.”
“So?” asked the prime minister, in a testing tone.
“There is something idiosyncratic in that last sentence, coming as it does from the president of a country where the separation of church and state is so sacrosanct,” I hazarded.
“Azoy? ” responded Begin, with a varnish of irony. “Yet, would you not agree there is often more content to religious life in America than there is here? What else do you find?”
Clearly, I was on trial.
“The first sentence – its innuendo,” I said. “Carter is inviting you to Washington to join with him in what he calls ‘a partnership of principle leading to a just and peaceful settlement.’ What is ‘a partnership of principle’? It’s a new term. There is a set diplomatic vernacular in our dialogue with America, and I’ve never heard this expression before. So Carter seems to be saying he wants to meet you to see if he can establish a partnership of principle, meaning a common strategy. As of now, he’s not sure there is a common strategy.”
Begin’s eyebrows arched a trifle. “I agree. That’s my reading, too.”
The cream phone buzzed again, and the prime minister’s eyes brightened in pleasure when he recognized the voice at the other end of the line. “Sir Isaac!” he boomed. “How glad I am to have found you.”
As he listened to Sir Isaac Wolfson, he settled back into his chair, and then in an English that was accented but perfect, responded by thanking him profusely for his expressions of congratulation and support. He promised, “B’ezrat Hashem – with God’s help – our new government will do good things for Israel and for the Jewish people.” Then, with a roguish glint in his eye and sarcasm in his voice, he asked, “So tell me, Sir Isaac, the British press, do they have a good word to say about me on my first day in office, or am I still their favorite fiend?”
Sir Isaac Wolfson’s answer, whatever it was, wiped the impish look from the premier’s face. He clucked his tongue and wagged his head, and in a tone huffy with disdain, said, “So The Times is at it again, preaching Middle East appeasement, just as it preached German appeasement in the thirties. That’s the newspaper, remember, which dismissed the atrocities of Hitler’s Brownshirts as mere ‘revolutionary exuberance.’ Bah! What do they want of me now – another Munich? They want me to give up the security of Judea and Samaria, like Neville Chamberlain forced Czechoslovakia to give up the security of the Sudetenland? What are we supposed to do – commit suicide like Czechoslovakia?”
Sir Isaac continued, obviously reporting other things that upset Begin, and as he listened, incredulity issued from him in the form of words like “Unbelievable!” “Amazing!” “Outrageous!” Finally, in a tone of resignation, he lamented, “So, there are still people out there who think of me only as the ex-terrorist, eh? After all these years they are still blinded by their prejudices. But I do not complain. It’s their neurosis, not mine.” He then breathed a long and audible sigh and, through it, muttered, “Sad! Very sad! Yet the truth will out. It always does.”
This maxim seemed to have restored Begin’s spirit, for he rose to his feet, squared his shoulders, stiffened his voice, and declared, “You know the truth, Sir Isaac. You know we in the Irgun were never terrorists. We were freedom fighters. We fought bravely, fair and square, man-to-man, soldier-to-soldier, against the British. Never did we deliberately hurt civilians. And yet you tell me there are still people out there who call me a terrorist and Yasser Arafat a freedom fighter? Well, let me say to you, sir, I have nothing but contempt for them.”
Flushed now, he thundered on: “That so-called Palestine Liberation Organization…‘liberation?’ Bah!…that murderous Nazi organization led by that war criminal Yasser Arafat, they target civilians exclusively, children, women and men. So, yes, Sir Isaac, I say it again: THE TRUTH WILL OUT AND JUSTICE WILL WIN THE DAY!”
He trumpeted these words with such triumph, it sounded like the finale of a speech at a rally. Having thus let off steam, he lowered himself back into his chair, leaned in repose, and in an unruffled and winning fashion spent the next few minutes expanding on the actual purpose of his call. This he wrapped up with an appeal that came from the bottom of his heart: “Sir Isaac, I would not be troubling you now did I not sincerely believe that saving Reb Raphael’s yeshiva is a mitzvah – a sacred and noble deed. And knowing of your charity, I thought you might want to have a share in it.”
The philanthropist’s response was so generous it brought a blush of pleasure to Menachem Begin’s cheeks, and over and over again he responded with his thanks. As he did so, I felt a tingle running down the length of my spine. Had a passerby happened to overhear how Begin had opened his heart to Reb Raphael, and to Sir Isaac Wolfson, he might have gone away thinking an Israeli prime minister’s job was to run some sort of yeshiva appeal, punctuated by affairs of state. Just to watch him handle, in one and the same breath, and with equal zeal, a presidential letter from the White House,
a military flare-up in Lebanon, and a yeshiva solicitation in Jerusalem, was a spellbinding experience.
To me, an observant Jew, this was heady stuff indeed. I had served Levi Eshkol, Golda Meir and, until this morning, Yitzhak Rabin – all illustrious pioneers and idealistic Zionist diehards, but none of them possessed the depth of Menachem Begin’s reverence for Jewish tradition, his cozy acknowledgement of God, his familiarity with ancient customs, and his innate sense of Jewish kinship. He came from the heart of Jewish Poland, and though not strictly observant, was an old-school traditionalist with an infectious common touch which made Jews everywhere feel they really mattered. Here, at last, was a prime minister after my own heart – the quintessential Jew.
Yet even as I drank in this intoxicating brew, there lingered in my mind the image of Begin the politician, the iron-cored patriarch who was neutral in nothing. He was the most ideological prime minister Israel had ever elected. So I was stunned when he put the phone down, and asked me with the fullest expectation of being obeyed, “I take it you will remain a member of my personal staff?” That he, the leader of a victorious, power-hungry party, many of whose stalwarts had fought under him in the underground and had stood by him through thick and thin during his decades in the political wilderness – that he should invite me, an unknown outsider, onto his personal staff, was flattering and staggering – so staggering that I blurted out impulsively, “But Mr. Begin, I’m not a member of your party.”
“I never asked you if you were. Are you saying this to disqualify yourself?”
“No, but – ”
“But what?”
I paused, hesitant to express my next thought, which was I’ve always thought we should agree to territorial concessions; a piece of land for a piece of peace. But those words never came out, because my throat went dry. My throat went dry because those words were not my own; they were Eshkol’s, they were Golda’s, they were Rabin’s. They were the essence of the speeches and letters and memoranda galore I had written for almost twenty years in their names and upon their instruction. That had been my job. But now I needed to find my own voice, sort out my own thoughts, arrange them in my own way, and speak them in my own name. So, I said, “Mr. Prime Minister, may I take a little time to think this through?”
The Prime Ministers: An Intimate Narrative of Israeli Leadership Page 40
