by Herman Wouk
“Dzecki, by my life, there are no richer Jews than those Frenchies,” he had exclaimed on hearing of the wedding, “especially the ones from Iraq and Syria. And from Egypt, Egypt! By my life, those Egyptian Jews, the ones who got out before Nasser, have money. And they’re very Zionistic, very idealistic, all these rich Frenchies. What we have to do, Dzecki, is bring some of them into our waterfront project.” Thus Guli, wangling the invitation. Guli particularly loved Zionistic investors, because they risked great sums in Israel, and lost them with reasonable good cheer as a sort of involuntary UJA contribution.
Dzecki was resolutely blocking out the depression of his maiming by a plunge into business, and Guli kept him distracted by bringing projects to him and discussing them quite seriously. He thought Dzecki had a pretty good head for business, though not good enough to escape being fleeced in due course. For his part Dzecki had a fair idea of what Noah thought of Guli, so he called Julie Levinson, and Julie, feeling sorry for Dzecki as everyone did, said of course he could bring his friend. When Noah found out that Dzecki Barkowe was bringing Guli Gulinkoff, his first reaction was, “Let’s call it off and get married in Cyprus.” But he simmered down, sharing his bride’s sympathy for poor Dzecki.
The Lincoln snaked down the Mount Carmel hairpin turns, and soon was zooming south on Haifa Way. An ordinary Israeli driver had to figure two hours between Haifa and Jerusalem. Guli’s best time was one hour and thirty-eight minutes, and he kept trying to beat it. Speed limits and solid dividing lines were not for Guli. The Barkowes in the back seat had driven often with him and had learned to relax, as a wise rider will on a runaway horse. But Daphna was wincing so visibly, as Guli whipped around trailer trucks into the other lane where like as not a car was coming, that he had to pat her silk-clad knee now and then with a hairy gold-ringed hand.
The kablan was astonished at how elegant and beautiful Dzecki’s girlfriend looked. When he had last encountered her, on the stairs to Shayna’s apartment, he had seen a tired female soldier in wrinkled uniform and no makeup. This was a different creature, fresh out of a beauty parlor, dressed to kill in a beige suede outfit made for export and bought cheap after much wear by models. Daphna’s idea in attending the wedding was to tear Noah Barak’s heart with vain regret. She had no notion of captivating the gorilla, but seemed to be doing so, as the Lincoln careered through dense traffic as though travelling at midnight on an empty road. Guli’s hand was now resting steadily on her knee, with an occasional squeeze by way of calming her nerves.
“Guli, don’t you ever get arrested?” she asked.
From the back seat Dzecki said, “Arrest Guli? All the cops in Israel know this car. It’s worth their job to pull him over.”
“Foolishness,” said Guli. “Don’t believe him. I respect the police. I’m a trustee of the national policemen’s benevolent association.”
As he spoke, he was overtaking a roaring convoy of army trucks, and heading straight for a hay wagon drawn by a mule team. Darting between two trucks to the derisive yells of the soldiers in them, Guli said, “Those wagons are a hazard. There ought to be a law to make them stay on back roads.” He passed the entire convoy and was bowling along at his usual 150 kilometers an hour when a patrol car drew up behind him, red light revolving and siren wailing.
“Oo-ah,” said Daphna.
“No problem,” said Guli. “He must be new.”
The patrolman was very dark and very young. As the Sephardim, the “second Israel” from the Arab countries, were gaining political clout, their employment in the lower government jobs was increasing.
“I’m Guli,” said the kablan genially, opening a wallet that displayed various cards and badges.
“I recognized your car, sir,” said the patrolman. “License and registration, please.”
“Certainly. What’s the problem, officer?”
“You almost covered the highway with mule meat, sir.”
Guli did not argue, and the ticket was soon issued. He said, as he drove on, “He’ll learn. He’s a nice kid.” After going a mile or so he tore up the ticket and scattered it out the window.
Dzecki’s mother was scandalized. “Guli, for heaven’s sake! Don’t they have those tickets on computers in Israel?”
“Of course, but someone has to read the computer, and do something about it. No problem. Now, Dzecki, where do we pick up that Porsche of yours?”
“It’s far out of the way, Guli, in a body shop in Netanya. Let me off at the Netanya exit, and I’ll catch a hitch or a bus —”
“Let you off? Foolishness. Five minutes, no problem.”
The Zion Gardens restaurant in Jerusalem offered modest weddings on a trellis-bordered lawn. Julie’s parents had wanted to stage a big affair at the Hilton, but had yielded to the Baraks’ advice that the somber mood in the country called for austerity. In the bride’s retiring room Daphna came upon a grand to-do around Julie Levinson, who sat on an elevated thronelike chair radiating joy. Galia, Nakhama, Ruti, Shayna, and a portly woman who had to be Julie’s mother were all giggling wildly as they fussed at her gown. “Hi, Daphna.” Julie guffawed. “Delighted you could come.”
The others all turned to Daphna, still laughing, and she felt like the butt of a joke she hadn’t heard. The radiance of bridal white haloed the French girl. There was no outshining her today, alas. “Julie, you won’t believe the present Avram Gulinkoff has brought,” Daphna blurted. “A Mondrian! Not a big one, but it’s real. Everyone out there is admiring it.”
“Mon Dieu, un Mondrian, Julie,” exclaimed the mother. “Quel bon ami!”
Galia said, going out, “Oo-ah, I want to see that Mondrian. You look marvellous, Daphna.”
“So do you, dear.” For a fact Galia was not withdrawn and sad today, and her frock was a cheerful flowered yellow.
The little painting was propped on a round table. Galia edged herself into the crowd around it, naval officers, army officers, older couples chattering in French, and many young people she didn’t know. She found herself beside Dzecki Barkowe, whom she had not seen since the war. “Hello, Galia,” he said. “My God, I’m sorry about Dov.”
“Thanks. I’m sorry about —” she clumsily indicated the pinned-up sleeve in his blue blazer jacket.
He shrugged, and gestured at the painting. “What do you make of that? To me it’s like a square of kitchen linoleum. Guli says it’s worth a lot of money.”
She slipped her fingers into the fingers of his left hand. “Listen, Dzecki, will you tell me all about that bridge sometime? What I’ve heard and read is unbelievable.”
Dzecki grinned. “How about right now? Let’s find something to drink.”
Daphna came back to the group around the Mondrian as Guli was introducing Dzecki’s father to the Alliance guests as “my American partner, the prominent Long Island lawyer and developer, Mr. Barkowe,” by way of extolling the golden opportunities in Haifa real estate. His French was fluent. The Mondrian gave him instant credibility. Clever guy, she thought. Guli’s background was murky. Unfriendly word had it that he was a camp survivor with a dubious record. He lived part-time in Paris, and he owned a home in Geneva which he rented out. So much she had learned from Dzecki. Now she perceived that the wily gorilla could put on smooth manners and even a certain jolly charm. As for Dzecki, he was off at the bar talking with Galia Barak, which Daphna did not mind at all.
“Shayna, Shayna!” At the door of the bride’s room, Don Kishote appeared and beckoned. She came out exclaiming anxiously, “Well? What did Dado say about your resigning?”
“He calls it a futile gesture that would make no difference. Your opinion almost word for word.”
“And Zev Barak? Did you talk to him?”
“Just now. I told him I honestly couldn’t go on now in the army, I’m sick to my gut at what’s happened to Dado. Zev says I shouldn’t quit, I might be sorry. If I ask for a year’s leave or even longer, it’ll probably be granted.”
“That makes a lot more sense than resign
ing. But —”
He interrupted. “Shayna, there’s Dayan.”
The Minister of Defense was hesitating at the flower-decked archway into the lawn. He had a wan look and his shirt collar seemed a size too big. Zev Barak brought the bride’s father to him for an introduction. They shook hands, and Levinson proudly led the Minister to meet his Alliance friends.
Shayna said, “My God, is he sick?”
“Heartsick maybe,” said Kishote, and he acidly quoted the Book of Numbers, “ ‘A land that eats its inhabitants.’ They’re trampling him in the mud. Why? He didn’t write the Agranat Report.”
“God bless you, Kishote,” remarked Sam Pasternak, who had come up beside Yossi and heard him. “He’s still a great man, and they’re hounding him to death. He and I were walking down Ben Yehuda yesterday, and a woman spat at him, screaming, ‘You murdered my son,’ and ran off. He turned dead white. It happens to him often, things like that. God pity anyone who’s ever led the Jews! From Moses onward.”
Noah Barak appeared in a new blue suit, accompanied by a fat French-speaking rabbi with a square red beard, engaged by his parents because of the Alliance guests who would be baffled by a harangue in Hebrew. Passing the table of presents, Noah saw the people gawking at the painting and halted. “What is that?” he asked his father, who was showing it to Dayan.
“It seems to be a Mondrian, son,” said Barak, “and it seems Guli brought it.”
“Guli, eh? It goes back to him tomorrow.”
“The Levinsons are thrilled by it, Noah. Better ask Julie.”
“I don’t have to ask her. I’ll tell her.”
The two musicians furnished by Zion Gardens began to play an old wedding tune on loud electronic instruments. “It’s starting, Yossi,” said Pasternak, and he walked off toward Amos, deep in converse at a side table with Irene Fleg.
Abruptly Shayna said to Kishote, “I may go to Australia, you know.”
“What!” Yossi pushed up his glasses and stared.
“Just to see Reuven. Lena writes that he isn’t eating, and doesn’t like it there. She’s invited me to come and cheer him up.”
“Well, Shayna, I may be going to Los Angeles myself.” At the dark look crossing Shayna’s face he hastily added, “Listen, I want to see my daughter, and there’s business I can look into.”
“By your life, Don Kishote, California? Whatever you do, come back.”
“Do you imagine I won’t? There’s the bride. The ceremony’s on.”
In a buzz of admiring comment among the guests seated in rows of gilt chairs, Julie was entering the lawn on her father’s arm, and she came to Noah’s side under a permanent canopy adorned with fresh flowers. The French-speaking rabbi was expansive. He was a Rumanian refugee from Hitler, he said, and he had lived in France before making aliya. How heartwarming to be marrying a Jewish girl from France to an officer of the Jewish navy, the first since the reign of Solomon! France had been Israel’s greatest friend in her struggle to survive, and one day would be again. Young people like this happy couple could not conceive how Jews had been regarded in his own youth; a cowardly, weak, helpless, victimized race, surviving only by cunning, like rats. He still thanked God every day that he had lived to see the rebirth of a strong free Jewish people in the Holy Land, with powerful armed forces. And so on and so forth, at passionate length.
Standing with Nakhama at Noah’s side, Zev Barak was very ill at ease with all this galutnik effusiveness, but looking around he could see that the Alliance people were eating it up, while the Israelis who knew no French were fidgeting, and those who understood exchanged cynical smiles. What surprised him was that Moshe Dayan, half-hidden in the crowd, was listening with enthralled attention, his pallid face lit with something like its vivacity of former days.
Noah crushed the glass with his heel, the musicians struck up a gay tune, and nearly all the men took off the skullcaps supplied by Zion Gardens. Dayan came to Zev Barak, grasped his hand, and with his one eye agleam, looked him in the face. “Thank you for inviting me, Zev. Beautiful bride, splendid son.” He walked out without another word to anybody.
Amos was helping himself to chicken salad when his father came beside him. “So, when do I celebrate yours?”
“When I meet the right girl.”
“You fancy that blond French lady, eh? You won’t find one like that in Israel.”
“I’m not looking for one, Abba.”
“Well, just watch yourself. A lady like that, Amos, can eat you for breakfast, and you won’t even know it until she shits you out.”
Amos screwed up his face. “To all the devils, Abba, that’s crude. That’s disgusting.”
With a heavy-lidded look, his father put a hand on his shoulder. “I see a great future for you, but not as a Parisienne’s poodle.”
After a buffet lunch the wedding guests left Zion Gardens with the customary extravagant compliments to the Levinsons and the Baraks, who stood at the archway making farewells. Soon they were all gone, and waiters were dismantling the table and cleaning up the littered lawn.
“Alors, c’était très joli,” sighed Julie’s mother.
“Well, it was in good taste,” said Mr. Levinson, “and considering the country’s mood, the Hilton might have been too elegant at that. With whom do I settle, Zev?”
“I’ll take care of it and let you know.”
“Now, I’m the father of the bride. This was at my expense, everything.”
“Most generous of you.”
When Nakhama and Zev were left alone amid the debris and the gossiping cleaners, she said, “So, Noah goes first, not Galia. The war, the war! Poor Galia.”
He put his arm around her. “They say married people get to think alike, Nakhama. There’s an instance for you.”
She laid her head on his shoulder. “Oh, what a fool that Daphna Luria was, what a stupid fool, with her stupid ceramics. But Julie’s nice, and they’re decent people, they’ll be nice in-laws.”
“Especially living in Cherbourg,” said Barak. It made her giggle. “Nakhama, where are the girls?”
“Waiting in the car, I guess.”
Ruti was, but Galia sat with Dzecki Barkowe in his newly repainted gleaming blue Porsche, parked behind their car in the street. “If it’s all right with you,” Galia called to her parents, “I’d like to drive out with Dzecki for a while.”
“Why not?” said Barak. Nakhama clutched at his arm as the Porsche rocketed off.
The brisk woman behind the Air France counter in the Athens airport cast an admiring eye at the broad-shouldered man in brown tweed who handed her an Israeli passport with his ticket. “All the way to California today, Monsieur?”
“Yes, land of dreams.” She laughed and checked the bags through.
“Kishote!” Amos Pasternak exclaimed, as Yossi dropped beside him in the tourist section of the Air Bus. “What were you doing in Athens?”
“Knocked around Greece for a week. Very educational. And you?”
“Going to Paris on a five-day leave.”
“No place better, but you should have a girl along.”
“You’re going there too?”
“Just to change planes, then on to Los Angeles.”
“You haven’t resigned, have you, Yossi? There’s been talk —”
“I know. Motta Gur agreed to my going inactive for at least a year, possibly two. I’ll spend some time with Yael and my daughter in L.A., do some travelling, and then — what’s the matter?” Pasternak was staring at a black-mustached swarthy man arguing with the stewardess at the front of the section.
“Nothing. How will Motta do as Ramatkhal, do you think?”
“Motta was lucky. He was in Washington, so he made no mistakes in the war and he starts clean.”
Amos put a hand on his arm, as the stewardess wrested a large bag away from the man and stowed it. The man passed down the aisle, muttering. Amos whispered, “You remember the Sabena plane?”
“Who doesn’t?” Sayeret M
atkhal had stormed the hijacked aircraft at Lod airport and gunned down all the terrorists.
“That guy is the twin of a hijacker I killed. This sure is the airport for them, it’s a security sieve. They shot up the TWA counter here, you know, a bloody massacre.”
“I know.” Kishote spoke low. “Well, are you concerned?”
“No, no. TWA had a flight going to Tel Aviv, so they were killing Jews and Americans, fair game. Air France isn’t a terrorist target, Yossi, no government crawls to the Arabs like the French.”
“Amos, will my son make Sayeret Matkhal?”
“He’ll just have to apply, when the time comes.”
“You put the idea in his head.”
“I did.”
“Now he’ll be heartbroken if he can’t get in.”
“Look, he’s courageous and physically he excels. He’ll get his chance.”
At takeoff Amos passed the International Herald Tribune to Kishote. “Seen this?” he shouted over the jet roar. A cartoon reprinted from the Los Angeles Times showed Kissinger trying to drag a balky mule with a Golda Meir face to a wagon labelled “Peace Process,” where a Sadat-featured mule stood smiling in the traces, ready to pull. On the ground lay a wooden plank, lettered NO MORE AID. The caption read, “To reason with a mule, use a two-by-four.”
“I’ve seen worse in our own press,” said Kishote. “The country’s in a total funk. In the army, in the government, in the people, I see nothing but decay and collapse.”
Amos argued against Kishote’s gloom. The war-weariness in the country was a natural thing, he said, but in fact the future looked good. The Arabs had blown their one shot at a decisive surprise assault, Israel had passed an ultimate test of fire, and Zahal now controlled more Arab territory than it had before the war. The enemy had learned once for all that the military option led nowhere. Egypt had broken the united Arab front with the face-to-face disengagement talks at Kilometer 101. If the national objective was peace, it was coming closer.
“Well, I like your attitude, young fellow,” Kishote said, “but we don’t hold the cards we held, our image is badly damaged, and to me the crime against Dado is a symptom of deep rot.”
