by Herman Wouk
“Good. Have dinner with me?”
“Thanks, I’ve got to go over some accounts with Sheva. He’s leaving for Singapore in a few hours. I’ll have coffee with you.” In the lounge she ordered a pastry with her coffee, laughing and slapping her stomach. “I don’t want it, but this pest does.”
They chatted about the film fiasco, Yael maintaining that she had always been against the idea but Lee had overborne her.
“How’s Aryeh?” Kishote asked.
“Oh, he’s in heaven.” She touched Kishote’s shoulder ornament. “When I told him about that third leaf he jumped to the ceiling. It looks mighty good, dear. Do you go to the Sinai right away?”
“No. Three days up north to turn over my post. Then before I report to Southern Command, a few days of rock-climbing in Maktesh Rimon.”
“Maktesh Rimon? Kishote, that climbing is for kids, very tough kids. Be sensible, please.”
With his old uncivilized grin he said, “You’re telling me to be sensible?”
“Look, when I’m in the hospital having this baby, I don’t want its father falling off a cliff in Maktesh Rimon.”
He turned serious. “Maybe I should stay around until you have it. That can be arranged.”
“Nonsense, why? You need recreation, Yossi, just stay off cliffs.”
“I guess I can go skiing in Switzerland.”
“Much better.”
“Say, Yael, Shayna Matisdorf’s here, and —”
Yael interrupted, frowning. “I know, we came in on the same plane. What about her?”
“I’m just thinking that while you’re in the hospital, she might stay at the flat with Aryeh.”
“Whatever for? He’s a big boy.”
“Would you mind?”
“You’ve already talked to her?”
“I’m not sure where she is now. I’m asking you first.”
“That’s thoughtful. Well, as you wish. I have no objection.” She struggled out of her chair. “Thanks for the coffee. Tell me, don’t you think Nasser will be tempted to start something, with that old yenta as our Prime Minister?”
“Not to worry. Ben Gurion once called Golda his only cabinet minister with balls.”
“Ha ha! I hope he was right.”
“He was. You’ll see.”
Shayna was staying in a richly furnished villa on Mount Carmel, owned by Guli Gulinkoff. Professor Berkowitz had parked her there on his rich American relatives, the Barkowes, who had reluctantly come to live in Haifa for a while because Dzecki had begun his three years of army service.
“He’s our son, even though he’s slipped his trolley,” Leon Barkowe had observed to his mutinous wife Bessie, when she tried to balk at the idea. “He can’t be all alone while he’s adjusting to army life. He needs support. We’re going, and that’s that.”
Dzecki had appealed to Gulinkoff to house them magnificently and Guli had done so, at a very steep rent. Leon Barkowe, a mild-mannered balding little man, was finding Gulinkoff a congenial landlord. They shared a taste for certain Havana cigars unobtainable in Israel — except by Guli, who kept him provided — and they were even talking about investing in real estate together. Once a divorce lawyer, Leon Barkowe had made a lucrative switch to Long Island real estate, and he thought Haifa was full of opportunities, a view Guli was warmly encouraging.
“To me, she might as well be talking Chinese,” Bessie Barkowe fretted. “I’m sorry, but I swear I can’t stand the sound of Hebrew.”
On a black-and-white TV set Golda Meir was addressing the Knesset, and an oddly assorted group was watching: unshaven Guli in his worn leather windbreaker, the skullcapped professor and his wife Lena in jeans and sweaters, and Shayna with a faded apron over an old housedress; whereas the Barkowes were holding to their Long Island style, tie and sport jacket for Dzecki’s father, a smart black pantsuit for the plumpish mother.
“Never mind, she isn’t saying much,” observed Professor Berkowitz.
“She is too. She’s brilliant,” snapped Lena, in her most prickly kibbutznik manner. “That woman will save Israel. Shut up.”
Leon Barkowe was giving the Berkowitzes cousinly help in their divorce process, working with a Haifa lawyer. The sluggish pace of Israeli law promised to keep them yoked for a while yet, and reconciliation had been Barkowe’s forte, so he was working at it. Lena still seemed bent, however, on marrying an irreligious Australian Jew who exported kangaroo leather. She had met him in London, where she had gone to a sister’s funeral, and he had come to hawk his wares. Sparks had flown, and ever since, letters from Melbourne had been expressing amorous impatience.
“You know something, Bessie?” said Dzecki’s father in a soothing way. “Golda looks sort of like Lyndon Johnson — same big nose, little eyes, bulldog jowls, tough jaw. Doesn’t she?”
“I wish Lyndon Johnson was still President,” said Mrs. Barkowe, irked with the whole world, “instead of that Nixon. President Nixon! I still can’t believe it. Everything’s disintegrating.”
“She’s talking about him right now,” said Lena.
“What’s she saying?” Barkowe inquired. “Anything encouraging?”
Shayna freely translated, “The American President is a man of peace … I welcome his new peace initiative …”
“Oh sure she welcomes it. Like an attack of hemorrhoids she welcomes it,” said Gulinkoff gruffly. “Be flexible and give everything back, that’s what it’ll amount to. It always does —”
Bessie Barkowe jumped to her feet and went to a window. “I think I hear the Porsche. Jack’s coming.”
The telephone rang on a side table by the professor’s armchair. It was Noah Barak, calling from the navy yard to convey in cryptic words that the missile test had been advanced, at General Pasternak’s request, by one hour; also that his boat would be taking part, substituting at the last minute for another vessel whose skipper had fallen sick. “Can you get here all right, Uncle Michael? Otherwise I’ll organize a navy car for you.”
“I’ll manage. So the test is all set?”
“Affirmative. We just have to fire the thing and see what happens.” Noah’s laugh was a trifle uncertain.
In greasy fatigues, himself grease-streaked on face and hands, Dzecki strode in carrying a bulging laundry sack. The mother hugged and kissed him. “You’re so sunburned, Jack! What have you been doing?”
“Daphna has to use the bathroom, okay?”
“Of course.”
He went to the window, waved, and carried off his laundry to the back. With a smile for everybody, her blond hair in some disorder to her shoulders, Daphna Luria hurried through the room. When Dzecki’s parents had first met Daphna she had been an impeccably groomed air force sergeant in uniform, but her service was finished, and she now wore the Tel Aviv bohemian outfit of the moment, a coarse brown skirt, a multicolored sweater, and many beads and bangles. Soon she passed through the other way, saying, “Good old Golda! Still drivelling? Tell Dzecki I’ll be waiting in the car.”
“Young lady,” Guli said, “you should talk more respectfully about Golda Meir.”
Daphna stopped to give him an impudent stare. “Should I? Why?”
“Because you may be Prime Minister someday. Then you’ll want respect from fresh youngsters.” With a loud sniff and a toss of her head, Daphna walked out. “And who is that?” Guli asked Barkowe with a wolfish grin. “Your son’s girlfriend? She looks like trouble.”
The professor said, “She’s my nephew Noah Barak’s girlfriend. Dzecki just hangs around her.”
“And very, very foolish of him,” said the mother.
“But understandable,” said Guli.
Shortly Dzecki reappeared more or less cleaned up, in slacks, a short-sleeved sport shirt, and sandals. “I have to drive Daphna to the navy yard.”
“Right away?” complained his mother. “Eat something first, you’re always starved when you come home.”
“She’s in a rush.” He peered at the TV set. “Some Prime Ministe
r! All the guys thought it would be Dayan or Allon.”
“That’s how she got in,” said Professor Berkowitz. “Because of the standoff. Can you take me to the base, too?”
“Why not? Say, Shayna, can I talk to you?”
She followed Dzecki into the hall. “What is it?”
“Listen, you know this Colonel Yossi Nitzan, the one they call Don Kishote?” She rounded startled eyes at him. “He’s coming by here today. He saw me pick you up at the airport last week, so he asked me where he could find you.”
“But when and how did you talk to Yossi Nitzan?”
“This morning he turned over deputy command of the brigade at a relief ceremony, and afterward he called me out of the ranks.” Dzecki shrugged and grinned. “The private with the Porsche. They all know me. I told him you were staying with my folks.” Dzecki looked at his wristwatch. “He should be here in an hour or so.”
“Ayzeh maniac!” Shayna went scampering upstairs, whipping off her apron, black hair flying.
When Don Kishote showed up she was in the living room, holding in her arms the Berkowitzes’ crippled two-year old Reuven, a smiling chubby child, just awakened from a long nap. His mother and Bessie Barkowe were laying out cake, soda, fruit, nuts, and wine on the coffee table, though Shayna had begged them not to fuss, this was just an old friend dropping by. The red silk dress from Toronto and the hurried coiffure told them otherwise. They had cleared out the men, and the moment Yossi appeared Lena took her child and they made themselves scarce. “Then you’re not married!” Yossi said when they were gone, giving Shayna a rough hug.
The hard arms felt inexpressibly sweet around her, and his chest muscles were like a wall. All but speechless, she babbled whatever came to mind. “Kishote, why are you so lean? Doesn’t the army feed you? Have some cake.”
“Sure, anything. Listen, I’ve been promoted. Full colonel, almost the youngest in the army.” He pointed to the third leaf on his shoulder bars.
“Congratulations, let’s drink some wine to your promotion.”
“By all means. Shayna, my new assignment is command of an armored brigade on the Canal.”
She stopped pouring the wine. “The Canal! There’s been a lot of trouble there.”
“Motek, it couldn’t be a better assignment. Me, I’m drinking to your return. It’s wonderful. Now, what to all the devils happened in Canada?” Yossi took a gulp of wine and dropped beside her on the couch.
“I don’t want to discuss it.”
“Come on! In two words, Shayna, why are you back?”
“In two words? Well, all right. In two words, HIS MOTHER.”
“What about his mother?”
“That takes a lot more than two words.” But Shayna ran on, of course. “Paul’s family, it turned out, owns office buildings and shopping centers all over Ontario. His father’s just a nice nebbish. Mama’s the big boss. His older brother’s a doctor, his sister’s husband teaches at McGill, so that leaves Paul to take over, eventually. Therefore he can’t settle in Israel. He can buy an apartment in Jerusalem, and come here for Passover and the High Holy Days, period. That didn’t emerge until we began planning the wedding, then Paul had to choose between the real estate and Shayna.”
“Well, you had to choose, too.”
“I did. Actually Mama was very nice to me. Bought me a fur coat and dresses — ‘You’re going to be a Rubinstein, get used to dressing like one’ — mind you, Canada’s beautiful, Toronto’s a big exciting city, and Paul is a good fellow, but —”
“But you love Israel,” said Don Kishote, “and me.”
She struck his arm with a fist. “Has Yael had her baby yet?”
“Any day now.”
“How could you let her travel in that condition?”
“What have I got to say about it?” He pulled a key from a breast pocket. “Look, Aryeh will be alone when she goes into the hospital. I told him you’d come and stay with him. Here’s the key to the flat.”
Almost too choked up to speak, Shayna pushed away his hand. “I still have my key, unless you’ve changed the locks.”
“I haven’t.”
“You’ve got your nerve, Yossi, taking me for granted like this.”
Kishote looked around. “You’re not planning to live here with these Americans, are you?”
“No, I’ve rented a flat near the Technion, starting next month, when I go back to work.”
“Shayna, why didn’t you come right home? You were there almost two years.”
“I was stranded. I wouldn’t accept their money, once Paul and I broke up. Not even for fare to Israel. I gave back the fur and the clothes, and I taught in a Hebrew school. To tell the truth, I also kept working on Paul. Maybe he was working on his mother too, I don’t know. When he got engaged to a girl whose family had even more real estate, I bought my El Al ticket.”
“Mrs. Rubinstein is my favorite Canadian,” said Yossi, “and that Paul is a dish of noodles. I always knew it. I’m going.” They both stood up. “About this baby, Shayna, I think Yael will take it to California and never come back.”
“What do I care what she does?”
“You’re beautiful, Shayna. A week at home and you’re a mentsch. At the airport you looked awful.”
“If you’re going, go already.”
“When Aryeh saw you he all but danced. Me, too.”
He embraced and tried to kiss her, but she struggled free. “For God’s sake, no crazy heroics at the Canal, now. You’re a senior officer. Act responsibly.”
“There are telephones at headquarters, Shayna. I’ll call you at the flat when I can. I love you.” He managed a swift kiss on her mouth, and he was gone.
In a heavy sweater and wool cap, for the weather at sea was predicted to be very cold and windy, Noah Barak was waiting for Daphna Luria at the bus stop near the base, when to his great disgust, far down the curving waterfront, the blue car came in sight. L’Azazel! It was bad enough that he had to call off their planned evening in Tel Aviv; dinner at Shaul’s, the Joffrey Ballet, and then a whole night in the two-room flat on old Nakhmani Street, which she shared with another rebellious military daughter. Once she had acquired a place of her own Daphna had given Noah her all, and since then there had been many an exhausting roar of tempestuous marvellous sex in her narrow bed. Not, however, in the past three weeks of naval maneuvers, and Noah was on fire for more of that wild carrying-on. But now she would drive off with that pest Dzecki in his cursed Porsche, to do God knows what.
This nuisance had been dragging on and on while Dzecki took courses in Israeli law, then decided to serve his army sadir. Now and then when Noah was at sea or on duty at the base, Daphna had been dating his fool-headed American cousin, averring that it didn’t mean a thing, that Dzecki was just fun and his car a convenience. That she would not consider marriage now — “Look, I’ve just gotten my freedom, let me enjoy it a bit” — was something else Noah had to put up with. Meantime what could he do about Dzecki? How could he show jealousy of a dizzy draftee, with the green passport that was his escape hatch from Israel anytime he wanted out; a garagenik with a knack for tinkering, for there was no other way to keep a Porsche running in Israel; a deliberate rosh katan (small head), choosing to remain a private, when with his education he should have applied for an officers’ course?
“I do my three years and I’m out,” Daphna had quoted Dzecki to Noah. “Rosh katan for me. Contracting is the thing here. These kablanim make fortunes. Look at Guli! A lowbrow, a boor, and a millionaire. The field’s wide open, and once I make a bundle I’m getting into politics. This country is being run by old doctrinaire dumbbells, and it can’t go on.” Daphna had recounted this chatter with giggles, but Noah had not been amused. It was just like that American airhead to think he could run Israel better than the Israelis, even if the politicians were a sorry lot.
“No! I don’t believe this,” exclaimed Daphna, when she got out of the car and Noah told her their date was off. He saw his Uncle Micha
el sitting in the back of the Porsche, dressed much too lightly for the sea. What a mess, altogether! She was calling into the Porsche, “Dzecki, don’t go yet … How come, Noah? Did you make a mistake? Aren’t you off duty? Why didn’t you CALL me?”
“Hamoodah [Darling], I’m sorry, I can’t talk about it.”
“Oh, you can’t! Well, what about tonight?”
“I just don’t know yet, Daphna.” He led her aside by an elbow. “Look here. I got sudden orders, not two hours ago. Top secret, and I may be back tonight, I may not. It’s one of those unpredictable things. I know it’s rotten, but this could be important. Forgive me.”
“Oh, to all the devils, I’m sure it’s important. This country can drive you mad.” She kissed him tenderly on the lips. “You’re forgiven.”
“What will you do, Daphna? Where will you be tonight, in case I do get back?”
“Forget about me, motek. I’ll be fine.” Daphna was cheering up a shade too quickly to suit Noah. “Let’s talk on the phone whenever you return. Call me at the flat. If I’m not there, Donna will be. Leave a message.” Her roommate Donna was usually at home, doggedly writing unproduced screenplays. Off rolled the Porsche to deposit the professor at the base entrance, leaving Noah to trot after it, grinding his teeth. He helped his uncle get out of the car, and walked slowly with the limping scientist through the gate into the navy yard.
“Poor Noah!” Daphna settled back in the blue leather seat as they drove away. “And we were going to have such a big time in Tel Aviv. There’s this ballet I’m dying to see, I’ve got the tickets and everything —”
“So? I’ll take you there. No problem.”
“Are you serious, Dzecki? You told me you intended to sleep for twenty-four hours.”
“What else is there to do at home? I’ll just grab a quick shower, put on some clothes, and we’re off to the ballet.”
“Dzecki, you’ll fall asleep at the wheel and we’ll both get killed.”
“So you’ll drive and I’ll sleep. Just don’t speed. If the Mekhess ever gets this car again, bye-bye.”
“I won’t speed, but are you sure the ballet won’t bore you, motek?”
