Lewis all but said as much to me when I escorted him to his car at the end of the meeting. He said, “He’s not his old self, is he? He doesn’t look good at all.”
Loyally, I replied, “Need I tell you, Sam, he’s been through a pretty rough time? He’s still mourning. He’s been inconsolable, but he’s coming out of it. He’s keeping more regular hours at the office now, and the American visit will do him the world of good.”
Lewis gave me a questioning look and asked point blank, “Do you think he’s up to a Washington trip?”
“Of course he is,” I said dismissively. “You know the importance he attaches to his relationship with the president, and you saw for yourself how pleased he was with the invitation.”
“Yes, but as you know, a Washington visit is a demanding act at the best of times, and I’m wondering whether he’ll be up to the heightened public exposure and pressure he’ll have to withstand this time round.”
“What do you mean, this time round? You know he’s an old pro at the game. He relishes the cut and thrust of it all.”
“Yes, when he is his old self, but he’s not now. He’ll be encountering a lot of skeptical audiences. He’ll have to defend his conduct of the Lebanon war that was supposed to end forty kilometers from your border, not in Beirut. He’ll have to meet with a dubious Congress, some of whose members are on important committees. He’ll have to face a critical press. He’ll still have some explaining to do about Sabra and Shatila. And he’ll have a lot of questions from certain Jewish quarters, too.”
“Sam,” I answered, my guard up, “I think you’re making it sound worse than it is. Every one of those assertions has been answered time and again. We still have lots of friends and much goodwill in America. Letters of support keep pouring in every day by the sack-load.”
“Nonetheless, it’s going to be a tough trip.”
He bent to enter his car and, with one leg in and one leg out, said, his mouth curving into a smile, “The most important thing is that Reagan is genuinely looking forward to his coming. But for Pete’s sake” – this with a wag of the finger – “you fellows go easy on his programming. Keep it as light as you can. Make sure he doesn’t overdo it.”
“Can I quote you on that?” I asked lightly.
“You sure can. You know I care for the man.”103
On the following Sunday afternoon, 24 June, the prime minister summoned me to his room, and with almost ceremonial formality, said, “Yehuda, upon my recommendation, and with the approval of Foreign Minister Yitzhak Shamir, the cabinet this morning approved your appointment as ambassador to Great Britain in place of Shlomo Argov. And since the position has remained vacant for almost a year,” – Shlomo Argov lay paralyzed in a Hadassah Hospital bed – “it would be helpful if you could commence your duties as soon as feasible, once arrangements have been made for Harry to take your place here.”
Harry Hurwitz was a longtime political associate of the prime minister who, at the time, headed the information division at our Washington Embassy (in years to come he would be founder and president of the famed Menachem Begin Heritage Center, Jerusalem).
Begin’s announcement came to me as no surprise, since I had known for weeks that my London candidacy was in the offing. The appointment passed without fuss, since throughout all the years during which I had worked part-or full-time in the prime minister’s bureau, I had remained officially seconded from the foreign office and hence was a career diplomat.
It was while I was conversing with the prime minister about the technicalities of the changeover, that an obviously bothered Yechiel Kadishai walked in to say that Sam Lewis was on the phone – for the third time in as many days – asking for the official letter of confirmation of the Washington visit. I knew that Lewis had been having a hard time pinning Begin down, because he had told me so, just as I knew that Begin was still hesitating over the very prospect of making the journey. Nevertheless, a date – 15 July – had finally been agreed upon, and President Reagan had accordingly dispatched a formal letter of invitation. I was charged with drafting the prime minister’s official response confirming his acceptance, and the letter was lying on his desk, untouched, when Yechiel came barging in. Dolefully, Begin stared at the page, picked it up, read it, put it down again, and resting his wrinkled hands on it like a pair of worn-out gloves, lamented, “How can I represent the State of Israel as I presently am? How can I possibly travel to meet the president of the United States in the condition I’m in?”
The sight of him was so pitiful that my heart sank, and I stole out of the room, leaving him and Yechiel to mull over the terrible knowledge that the prime minister of Israel was too feeble to carry out a mission of high importance to the president of the United States.
Back at my desk, the telephone rang. It was Ambassador Lewis.
“Yehuda, what’s going on?” he asked.
“About what?”
“You know about what – Mr. Begin’s Washington visit.”
“Why do you ask?” I asked.
“Because I’m hearing whispers he’s not going to make it.”
“From what sort of people?”
“People in the know.”
“Speak to Yechiel,” I said. “He’s dealing with it.”
“Is this a tip-off that he’s going to resign?”
“What are you talking about? Speak to Yechiel.” I did not know what else to say.
The next day, Begin spent tortuous hours agonizing over exactly how to communicate to the president that he was unfit to travel in a manner that would not diminish the dignity of his office nor his self-respect. Yechiel asked me to try and draft some appropriate language, but I could find none. Eventually, Begin was prevailed upon to speak directly to Reagan over the phone, and put the matter to him man to man.
“Mr. President,” said Begin, “I deeply regret to inform you that for personal reasons – not official ones – for personal reasons, I am unable to travel to Washington at this time. If it is acceptable to you, I would like to take up your invitation at some future date.”
The prime minister listened attentively to whatever the president was saying in response, and repeated softly, “Yes, that is correct, Ron, the reasons are purely personal.”
Again, he paused to listen, and then said, “I appreciate what you have just told me, and I reciprocate your kind words of goodwill. As for the idea of the two ministers traveling instead of me, I shall await your letter of invitation. And again, I thank you for your understanding and friendship. God bless you, my friend.”
When he replaced the receiver, he emitted an audible sigh of relief, and muttered, “Baruch Hashem! Thank God that’s over and done with.”
As my office colleagues, all smiles and teases, raised their glasses to me at my farewell shindig, I felt self-conscious, but enormously flattered. Begin had waxed overly lyrical about my contributions as an aide, toasting me as “a cherished friend, an indispensable colleague, a veritable Shakespeare who will make a proud ambassador of our nation.”
Pleased though I was at my appointment to London, I was sorry to say goodbye to some of the people around me, most particularly Prime Minister Begin and, of course, Yechiel. Equally poignant was the thought of taking leave of this room, whose occupants had changed more often than the furnishings. These remained much the same as they were on the day in 1963 when I had first nervously entered, to be greeted by Prime Minister Levi Eshkol, who had put me at ease with his Yiddish witticisms and repartee.
I had witnessed so much here. I had seen how that most affable of men would, four years later, on the eve of the Six-Day War, display nerves of steel while facing a frightened nation that accused him of indecisiveness. Restraining his generals from precipitate action, he had not only won a war in six days, but sown the seeds of a virtual future alliance with the United States. I had seen Golda Meir sitting there in that same prime minister’s seat, confiding her personal intimacies to Oriana Fallaci. And in 1973, I had seen her steer the nation un
flinchingly through the horrors of the Yom Kippur War, despite her advanced age and her ignorance of all things military. Then had come the no-nonsense, analytical-minded Yitzhak Rabin, with whom I had already formed a relationship in Washington. My promotion to the senior rank of adviser had allowed me the vantage point to observe him close-up as he oversaw the most daring rescue mission in living memory – the raid on Entebbe. And now here was Prime Minister Menachem Begin, bidding me farewell as I prepared to return to the country of my birth, carrying the credentials of the country of my birthright.
Packing!
Packing is one aspect of relocation which should never be done under stress. The more organized you are prior to packing, the less tiring and strenuous it is going to be, and fewer are the items likely to be misplaced or forgotten. It was the night before my family and I were scheduled to depart for London, 25 July 1983. We had already shipped off the bulky furniture by container, but we still had to pack our personal belongings. In leaving the packing until the last minute, I had failed to take into consideration the incessant interruptions: telephone calls from well-wishers, and the comings and goings of relatives and friends – terrific handshakes, heavy hugs, thumpings on the back, kisses – so it was close to midnight before I got round to bagging my own belongings, and the situation had certainly become stressful. And yet again, the phone rang, and Mimi answered.
“The prime minister wants to speak to you,” she called impatiently.
“My passport’s missing,” wailed Yael, our youngest daughter, who was joining us in London for a while, having recently completed her army service.
“Hello, Mr. Begin?”
“Yehuda, excuse my calling so late. I’ve just received a most important cable from the president of the United States and I would appreciate it if you would draft a reply. One of my bachurim metzuyanim [outstanding young men (that’s what he called his bodyguards)] will deliver the letter to you immediately, along with my suggested points of reply.”
“Anybody seen my passport?” called Yael.
“Mr. Begin, if you want me to call off London, I’ll do so,” I said, almost at the end of my tether. “I won’t leave tomorrow.”
“No, no. It’s important you go….”
“Abba, I can’t find my passport. Will somebody help me, please?” groaned Yael.
“Excuse me, one moment, Mr. Begin.” I cupped the receiver. “Yael, look in my briefcase. Maybe it’s there.” And then, “You were saying, Mr. Begin…”
“Harry Hurwitz will be starting in a couple of days, so you should go. It’s just that it’s urgent I send President Reagan my cabled reply tonight. And again, I’m deeply sorry for troubling you. My warmest best wishes to your wife. Travel well. And thank you once more for everything.”
The president’s cabled letter turned out to be a page and a half long, while the prime minister’s points of reply were a few paltry, almost illegible lines. They read:
Yehuda – Attached is the letter from President Reagan to me. With regard to the response, these are my suggestions:
a) Thanks.
b) Expressions of good wishes to Philip Habib and satisfaction at the appointment of McFarlane.
c) With regard to the visit of the two ministers – affirmative.
M.B.
My instant reaction was one of acute exasperation. Well did I recall Begin’s first day in office, when he had told me he never put his signature to anything he had not written or dictated himself. Yet here I was, under the stress of imminent departure on a major ambassadorial posting that was not without risk, and instead of packing and helping Yael find her passport, I was desperately trying to decipher the prime minister’s cramped and cryptic scribble. Still, soon enough my vexation gave way to a second and far more distressing thought: the realization that the man I had come to love and admire over these past six years was so weakened as to be virtually incapable of composing his own reply, in his own inimitable style. This wrenched at my heart.
So I plunked myself down, and frantically began to flesh out the note into a full-blown epistle. In it, the prime minister thanked the president for his generous remarks and expressions of friendship, praised Philip Habib expansively for his dedicated professionalism and invaluable contributions as the president’s Middle East envoy and noted with satisfaction the appointment of Bud McFarlane in his stead. He expressed gratification at the president’s invitation to Foreign Minister Yitzhak Shamir and Defense Minister Moshe Arens – both of whom had picked up much of the slack during Begin’s moments of relative inertia – for talks on all the issues of common interest, in place of himself who, regrettably, could not presently travel for personal reasons, and signed off with a fanfare to the everlasting friendship between the two peoples and countries.
With no secretary at hand to type the letter out, I speedily rewrote the whole thing in clear block letters, telephoned the foreign ministry’s communications center and gave instructions for someone to pick it up and send it off, and finished packing as best I could. On the morrow, I set out with my wife and daughter for London.
We were met at Heathrow Airport by a grand welcoming party, consisting of a bevy of embassy staff members, leaders of the Anglo-Jewish community, a squad of Scotland Yard bodyguards who instantly took me under their protection, and a Colonel from the British protocol office who addressed me grandly as “Your Excellency.”
Photograph credit: Sidney Harris
Prime Minister Begin’s urgent note to author on eve of his ambassadorial posting to London, 24 July 1983 (Translation, page 677)
The day soon came when I was to present my credentials to Queen Elizabeth ii, a ceremony that required my being trussed up in a tightly noosed and inflexible winged collar and white bow tie. Collar and tie were mounted by studs to a dress shirt, its starched-pleated front as unyielding as a breastplate. A white waistcoat held my middle in like a corset, and all was framed by a black, long-tailed morning coat.
I must have looked grand seated in an eighteenth-century gold-and black-lacquered ceremonial coach, with wheels as high as my head, attended by liveried, top-hatted royal horsemen who handled the team of four white horses as they clip-clopped through Hyde Park toward the gates of Buckingham Palace. There, crimson-uniformed ceremonial guards marching their sentry paths snapped to attention in salute at my entry, while tourists, delighted by the pageantry, applauded and clicked their cameras. I waved back feeling ridiculous, sweating profusely.
Escorted into the Queen’s chamber by an equerry dressed like the Duke of Wellington, I executed the choreographed dance of obeisance in which I had been thoroughly rehearsed by the chief of protocol: one bow of the head at the door, two steps forward, another bow, two further steps forward, one more bow, and then, within reach of the sovereign lady, I duly handed her an embossed document and proclaimed, “Your Majesty, I have the honor to present to you my credentials from President Chaim Herzog as the Ambassador of Israel to the Court of St. James’s.”
The credentials read:
To her Majesty Elizabeth the Second…My Great and Good Friend,
Holding in esteem the relations of friendship and mutual understanding existing between your realm and the State of Israel, and being desirous to develop these friendly relations, I, in accordance with the powers vested in me by law, have decided to appoint Mr. Yehuda Avner to reside near Your Majesty as our Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary. The character and abilities of Mr. Avner lead me to believe that he will fulfill the mission with which he is charged in such a manner as to merit Your Majesty’s trust and approbation, and prove himself worthy of the confidence I place in him. I, therefore, request Your Majesty to receive our Ambassador favourably and to give credence to all that he shall have the honour to communicate to Your Majesty on the part of the Government of Israel. May I express to Your Majesty my sentiments of high esteem and send you my best wishes for your well-being and the well-being and prosperity of your realm.
Author mounting carriage to Buck
ingham Palace for presentation of his credentials to the Queen, 8 August 1983
Your good friend,
Chaim Herzog
The Queen nodded an acknowledgement, took the document into her white-gloved hand, passed it on to her chamberlain, and in a slightly mystified voice, said, “I do believe this is the first time I have ever received credentials from a foreign ambassador actually born in this country. How did you manage that?”
Anticipating the question, I had prepared a rather high-minded response. “Your Majesty,” said I, “though physically born in this country, I was given birth spiritually in Jerusalem, from whence my ancestors were exiled by Roman legions two thousand years ago.”
“Were they really?” said the Queen. “How unfortunate!” And she began to talk about the weather.
The Prime Ministers: An Intimate Narrative of Israeli Leadership Page 73
