by Herman Wouk
“Girl, put that down,” he panted. “That’s a Moses, and I’ve sold it.”
She glanced at it; Moses, all right, Ten Commandments, horns, and all, looking furious and raising the tablets high. “I wouldn’t care if it was Jesus, just let me alone.”
The ceramicist frowned, looking very offended. “I don’t make Jesuses, girl,” he panted. “I’ve never made a single Jesus, and there’s money in them, too.”
“Shimon, I’m engaged. All right?”
Reverberating knocks at the metal door.
“Who is it?” Shimon yelled.
“Is my sister in there? I’m Dov Luria.”
He turned to her. “You have a brother?”
“I have two. This one’s a Phantom pilot, and strong as a lion.”
“She’s coming,” called the ceramicist, and he hissed at her, “You’ve still got my Moses, you idiot! Put it down. I’ll let him in … Hello, there,” he panted. “Yes, she’s here.”
Daphna, her chest heaving, was fooling with a red thing on a stand littered with tools and statuary. “What’s that,” said Dov, “a cat?”
“Not so bad for a first try, eh?”
“Is it such hard work?”
“Hard, no, why do you ask?”
“You’re winded as if you’d just run a mile.”
“Nonsense. How was the wedding?”
“Well, they got married. Noah wanted to know where the devil you were. That Dzecki was there, too.” Dov was noting the broken bread and cheese on a small table, the bottle, and the two glasses, one empty and the other knocked over in a puddle of wine. “Come on, I’ll drive you to your flat.”
“I can get a bus. I’m in the middle of something.”
“I gather that. Let’s go.”
Daphna put down the cat, quailing a bit under his eye. “Dov, I think I’ve got a career.”
“So do I,” said Shimon. “She has hands.”
Dov said, “Whatever happened to the ballet?”
“I’m too zaftig.”
The ceramic artist burst out in roars. They could hear him laughing as they went down the stairs.
“What’s he laughing at?” said Dov. “That guy, talk about zaftig! Did he get fresh?”
“Him? He’s as harmless as one of his cats.”
“Don’t be so sure. If he tries anything, Daphna, I’ll zaftig him and his whole studio.”
The Ezrakh slept all the way to Jerusalem, sitting beside Benny Luria’s driver. In the back seat, Benny worried about Daphna’s not showing up (that girl was going to lose Noah Barak, and serve her right); about his sister Yael’s tense demeanor (that marriage seemed to be going down the drain); about the spectacle his wife and Nakhama Barak had made of themselves, passing a bottle of Carmel brandy back and forth and getting drunk; he knew Irit’s problems, but what was bothering Nakhama? Most of all, he was worrying about Sadat.
The talk at the wedding had been a babble of guesswork. Benny had kept silent, for the air force intelligence was not reassuring. Sadat’s missile wall at the Canal now included not only SAM-2s and SAM-3s, blocking the sky up to forty thousand feet, but the dreaded mysterious new SAM-6. It was mobile, therefore a difficult target, and it could pick up aircraft that skimmed the ground. So much was known. The sardonic word in the air force was that the SAM-6 could also make espresso and play “Hatikvah.” It was, in any case, very bad news. Egyptians could not handle such world-class weaponry, and even if they could, the Russians would not trust them at the firing buttons, so the expulsion had to be at least in part a fake.
When Benny’s driver stopped the car at the Ezrakh’s cellar in an old stone Jerusalem house, the aged scholar opened his eyes.
“Thank you. A mitzvah, it was,” he said, “gladdening the bride and groom, blessed be the Name.”
“Rabbi, what do you make of what the Egyptian man has done?”
With a gentle gesture of a frail white hand, the Ezrakh said, “What happens behind the high windows, I don’t understand.”
“Is it good or bad?”
The Ezrakh looked at him with heavily pouched blue eyes sunk in deep sockets. “That young man at the wedding, in an air force uniform, was your son?”
“Yes.”
“Is he a pilot like his father?”
“Yes. My other son is only sixteen, and talking about flying school.”
Taking Benny’s hand in his dry cool paw, the Ezrakh raised it to his lips and kissed it. This made Benny Luria very uncomfortable. “Let’s part with a word of learning,” the Ezrakh said in his feeble hoarse voice. “In Genesis, at the end of the sixth day it says, God saw everything that he had done, ‘and behold, it was very good.’ You remember that?”
“Well, even in the moshav we learned Bible. Of course I remember it.”
The Ezrakh nodded. “Rabbi Akiva commented, ‘Good is life. Very good is death.’ He didn’t explain. You ask about what the Egyptian man has done? It will be very bad and very good.”
Like Akiva, he did not explain. He got out of the car and slowly trudged down into his dark dwelling.
14
The Raid
In the captain’s cabin of the missile boat Gaash, tied up in Haifa, the second hand of the clock clicked to 5 P.M., whereupon Noah Barak spun the combination lock of his safe and took out a coarse brown envelope, rubber-stamped in red TOP SECRET. Opening the sealed inner envelope, he avidly read the blurry cover page of a mimeographed op order.
CHIEF OF GENERAL STAFF
April 2, 1973
TOP SECRET
OPERATION “SPRINGTIME OF YOUTH”
Sayeret Matkhal will conduct a seaborne raid into Beirut on the night of 9/10 April 1973, in a combined action with paratroopers, sea commandos, naval units, and air force rescue helicopters. The task group will execute the terrorists’ leaders and demolish their headquarters, armament dumps, and weapons workshops. The task group will penetrate Beirut, carry out the mission, and withdraw by sea before the Lebanon police and army are alerted, so as to keep political repercussions to a minimum.
Sayeret Matkhal, General Staff Reconnaissance Force, was Amos Pasternak’s elite group. Noah flipped the next two pages listing assignments of various units, and there it was: Unit Amos embark in Gaash. Target Rue de Verdun apartment. A list followed of the fighters and the details of their task, the killing of the terrorist chiefs.
Early that morning Amos Pasternak had already brought aboard his paratroopers and frogmen, with their clutter of weapons, walkie-talkies, signal gear, and rubber boats. This afternoon they were all down on the wharf, listening to the Ramatkhal, who had driven up from Tel Aviv to talk to the raiders. Noah yearned to go down to the dock and hear him, but he was too new a missile boat captain to allow himself that freedom. By chance, he commanded the same boat he had sailed in from Cherbourg, much upgraded in firepower and engine performance. He climbed to the bridge for a last-minute check on preparations for sea, and saw General Elazar ascend the gangplank, then come leaping up the bridge ladder like a boy. “You’re Zev Barak’s son, eh?” he said, returning Noah’s salute. “Your father and I are old comrades in arms. Are you prepared in all respects for this mission?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any comments?”
“I wish I could go with them into Beirut.”
Dado peered at him. “So do I, Captain, but we both must stick to our dull support jobs. I’ll have a look around your boat.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“Stay on your bridge.”
The stocky Ramatkhal strode up and down the deck, dark curly hair stirring in the harbor breeze, talking to the raiders and to sailors at sea details, then he descended to the CIC and the engine rooms. Noah did not warn the watch below that Dado was coming. Surprise inspection, for good or ill, was salutary. Returning from below, Dado remarked, to Noah’s considerable relief, “A smart boat. You’ll do well.”
As the Ramatkhal’s car drove off the wharf, it passed two women approaching the Gaash
in slovenly jeans. What the devil? Noah thought, who arc these civilians, and what arc they doing here? He hurried to the gangplank, where sailors were gaping at them as they came aboard. The blonde was a stranger, but he recognized the beefy woman with the bouffant brunette hairdo at once. It was Amos Pasternak.
This raid had been a long time coming. Arab terrorism had been expanding into a fourth front against Israel, with the hijacking and blowing up of airliners, taking and killing of hostages, letter bombings, car bombings, and machine-gun and grenade attacks on airport terminals, synagogues, Israeli consulates and embassies, all planned, armed, and funded by PLO headquarters in Beirut. The seizure of Israeli athletes as hostages at the Olympic Games in Munich had achieved a peak of world attention. A bungled attempt at rescue by the German special services had resulted in the bound and helpless athletes being machine-gunned to death. Great were the media cries of outrage. Talk of actually calling off the Olympics lasted a day or two. Then, after suitable memorial ceremonies for the murdered Jewish competitors, the Games went on as before.
Within the Israeli government an exceedingly grim mood prevailed thereafter. At a meeting of the armed forces chiefs in the Prime Minister’s residence, Sam Pasternak presented the picture of possible retaliation. “It comes to this, Madame Prime Minister. If it’s to be a decisive blow, then the target is Beirut. Specifically, two buildings in the heart of Beirut — the PLO headquarters building, and the apartment house where the big shots have their fancy suites. We have the intelligence and forces to do that job. It’s a political decision.”
Drawn and sallow from her sleepless nights during the Munich hostage crisis, Golda asked, “Do it how?” She cut short discussion of a “surgical air strike” in a very tired voice down to a cigarette croak. “ ‘Surgical’ is a word, gentlemen. There would be civilian deaths, maybe many. The terrorists welcome headlines of death, the gorier the better. We have to consider world opinion.”
From the long bitter colloquy the general decision emerged that something would have to be done, probably in Beirut, and that planning for various options should go forward. Six months later nothing had yet been done. Then the same terrorist group kidnapped two American diplomats in Sudan, and after some inconclusive negotiations with Washington, murdered them.
“Now we go,” said Moshe Dayan, and Golda approved.
Sam Pasternak asked his son that morning, when he came to say goodbye, “You’ll be wearing women’s clothes? Why? They’ll only trip you up, if things get warm.”
His extended term in the Mossad ended, Sam now had a small office in Ramat Aviv, one secretary, and at the moment no income. Offers from industry and political parties were coming his way, including an invitation to run for mayor of Tel Aviv. In this courtship time he was going slow, being not coy but careful. Committing himself would be easy. Making a wrong move which he would regret for years might be even easier. At his age the margin for recovery from wrong moves was shrinking.
“I’ve trained and rehearsed in a dress. No problem,” Amos said. “The target’s a luxury high-rise, where ladies come and go. Some of those PLO big shots screw whores at all hours of the night. We strike at one in the morning. It makes sense.”
“All right, you land on the beach. How do you get from there into Beirut?”
“Mossad guys, passing as rich European businessmen, will be waiting. They’ve rented cars.”
“Let’s say the cars aren’t there.”
“Then I guess we abort. They’ll be there.”
“Traffic in Beirut is a mess. How can you keep to a timetable? Moreover — what are you smiling at?”
“Dado called us in yesterday, and asked those same questions and plenty more. He’s satisfied with the plan. So is Moshe Dayan, and he’s been keeping track of our training for months. He kept postponing the raid until the American diplomats incident came along. Great instinct.”
“But what about your tank battalion? How could you leave your command for this devilry?”
“They sent out the call for Sayeret Matkhal veterans months ago. I volunteered, and my brigade commander approved.”
“Well, I hope this is the last time. You’ve done enough special jobs. You’ve got your decorations, Amos. Your future is in the tanks.”
“You just don’t want me to have a good time, Abba, the way you did.”
The telephone rang. Pasternak grunted and pressed an intercom buzzer. “I told you, no telephone calls.”
The secretary croaked in the box, “It’s Mrs. Nitzan. She says it’s important.”
Sam glanced at his son, whose face went blank. “I’ll call her back.”
“Abba, this is an excellent plan,” Amos said. “We’ve rehearsed it down to seconds.”
“I’ve rehearsed many such plans. Some successful. Some not so successful.”
“I know that. Dado said to us, ‘The deeper you go behind the lines, the greater the surprise, and the better your chances for success.’ I believe he’s right, and we’ll soon see.”
Pasternak’s stern look faded in a laugh. “Okay, I’ve already studied the plan.” Senior Israeli officers after retiring tended to stay in touch as consultants. “In fact I contributed a detail or two. I’m still welcome as a kibitzer at the Mossad. I’ll probably be in the Pit to hear how it goes.” He came out from behind the desk and they hugged each other. “One thing, Amos. Has Colonel Shaked drilled you to bring out not only the wounded but the dead, if there’s trouble? At all cost?”
“That’s doctrine, Abba.”
“It’s more than doctrine. Your raid may be a big success, but if the Fatah gets one Jewish boy’s body, they’ll claim a victory. They’ll blackmail us to trade for his body all the terrorists we’ve got in jail, and for millions of dollars, too. They’ll hang the body upside down in a public square. They’ll stage dancing crowds for American television. They think that’s good public relations.”
“You exaggerate, but we’ll bring out our casualties. I hope there won’t be any.” Another embrace, and the son left. Staring out the window, Sam returned Amos’s wave from his car across the street.
Scratchy voice on the intercom: “General, Eva Sonshine called. Her mother’s back in the hospital. Dinner is off. She’ll phone you at home later and may come by.”
“Anyone else?”
“Uzi Rubin. He wants you to return his call.” This was the chairman of a heavy-industry conglomerate.
“Get Mrs. Nitzan.”
Dead of night.
Three hundred yards from the landing beach, Noah’s boat was barely moving on a black glassy sea. The city glow on low clouds shed a sort of artificial moonlight over sea and shore. The cluster lamps of the promenade lined the cliff above the beach, and neon signs glittered and jumped, blue, red, white, yellow. “Could almost be Tel Aviv,” said Colonel Shaked, the raid commander. A lean bespectacled officer in uniform, Shaked was remaining aboard the boat to control the many-pronged operation by wireless network linked to the Pit, the underground command center in Tel Aviv.
“Engines stop,” Noah ordered. “Prepare Zodiacs for launching. Raiding party prepare to disembark.”
“There go the headlights,” said Amos. The automobiles on the shore were blinking: two flashes, pause, two flashes, darkness. After a full minute, the signal repeated.
“So, Amos, you move,” said Colonel Shaked.
Heavy splash of rubber boats. Lighter splashes of frogmen who would tow them in; silent approach, not even putt-putting of outboard motors. Noah shook hands with Amos, and Colonel Shaked accompanied the unit leader to the deck. The raiders, in shabby city clothes, went climbing down jingling chain ladders, Amos in a hiked-up red wool dress. Sea and wind conditions lucky, thought Noah. Gentle swell, light offshore breeze. In a fresh wind the frogmen would have had problems pulling in those high-riding Zodiacs, which now moved off smoothly and melted into the night. Colonel Shaked returned to the bridge and put on headphones. Side by side he and Noah watched the promenade with binoculars
until the cars pulled away. “Unit Amos en route to target,” Noah heard Shaked report to the Pit. The commander laughed and turned to him. “Dado says, ‘Keep calm,’ ” he told Noah.
The phosphorescent bridge clock read a quarter to one. “What do you hear from the other units?” Noah ventured to ask Colonel Shaked.
“Holding to plan. So far, so good,” said Shaked, and he dropped down the ladder to the control and communications center. Overhead Noah heard the thudding of a rescue helicopter showing no lights.
Under the bright globe of a promenade light, a man at the wheel of a Mercedes gave Amos a waggish greeting as he was sliding into the front seat. “Giveret [Madame], how’s your father?” A woman made room for Amos, a real one, apparently a real blonde, and by the streetlights, quite attractive; especially compared to the phony blonde, a very tough-looking paratrooper under the wig, who was getting into the other car, a Buick.
“He’s fine.”
“Great gentleman, your father.” The pudgy driver wore a dark Italian-cut suit and several gold rings. He had the beautifully waved gray hair of a European man of affairs, maybe an importer or a banker; much too soft and sleek a fellow, one would have thought, to be anything else. Amos glanced over to the other car, where all his paratroopers were now inside. The blond-wigged one gave a thumbs-up.
“Yallah,” Amos said.
The Mercedes drove out into a boulevard jammed with traffic, much resembling Hayarkon Road on the Tel Aviv beachfront. Altogether Beirut was an Arab Tel Aviv: squat old structures and towering new, office buildings, shabby shops, fancy shops, and brightly lit cafes lined higgledy-piggledy along the avenues. In the dark narrow side streets the buildings were tumbledown, the pavements full of potholes. Just like home! The driver led the other car in a zigzag route through the city, getting directions in French at each turn from the blond woman. Amos broke his silence to say in French, “You know this city pretty well.”
“Born and raised in Beirut. In the good old days, Papa was in business here.” She smiled at Amos. “You look very pretty.”
