The Siege of Tel Aviv

by Hesh Kestin

  Its lobby is empty of furniture but not of people. These are not reading the Jerusalem Post and drinking espresso, signaling waiters for another round or meeting business associates. Instead the cavernous hall is full of children squatting on the now-filthy carpeting in juryrigged classrooms whose walls are the box springs that until recently supported the mattresses moved to the beach. In the classic manner of educators everywhere, the volunteer teachers attempt to hold the attention of their students through a combination of charm and discipline. They use blackboards of all sizes and shapes, some merely framed prints from the guest rooms painted over in matt black. The children sit on the floor, some rapt, most allowing their gaze to widen at the entrance of Yigal and Misha followed by forty men, half of them in uniform, the rest in the telltale mufti of muscle shirts and gold chains. All are armed.

  Yigal is surprised there is a clerk at the long front desk, quite as if there could possibly be paying guests now that almost all foreign nationals have been evacuated via special flights from Ben Gurion International Airport—now Yasser Arafat International, though no one in Tel Aviv can bear to utter the name.

  The receptionist is not a Hilton employee but a dedicated civil servant, working of course without pay, because there is no one to pay him, and even if there would be, the money he receives will be worthless. A hand-printed sign is propped on the desk:

  Government of Israel

  RECEPTION

  Unauthorized Entry Prohibited

  Misha tips over the flimsy cardboard with the barrel of his gun. “Where do you keep the government?”

  The clerk is not about to argue. He points in the direction of a sign that has not yet been taken down to become the name of a tent neighborhood. Misha motions to four of his men to remain in the lobby.

  The others follow their leaders through the makeshift school, some making funny faces at the children in the way of adults who never had a proper childhood themselves. The kids laugh, any break in the school day a delight.

  In a moment, the armed men come to a conference room whose double doors are open for ventilation—all exterior windows in the Hilton’s public rooms are sealed. The entire ground floor is one big hothouse.

  Around a long table covered in red cloth sit twelve men and women, their aides making up a second row so that altogether about forty are in the room. At midpoint around the table, his back to the entry, sits a sixty-year old bureaucrat named Uri Ben-Dov, who is so intent on his words, which are being inscribed for posterity by a stenographer—the hotel hasn’t the electric power to run a voice recorder—that he is unaware Yigal and Misha have entered behind him.

  “Any ideas, then?” Ben-Dov is saying. He notices the eyes of the others are fixed over his right shoulder.

  “I got one,” Misha says quietly. “Who’s in charge here?”

  Like any politician, Ben-Dov is not pleased at the interruption, nor by Misha’s tone. “I am acting prime minister.”

  “Not a very convincing act,” Misha says. “You’re Ben-Dov, then?” The acting prime minister looks beyond his two guests to the men in the corridor. “And who precisely are you?”

  “What’s important is who this is.” Misha nods in the direction of Yigal.

  “I know who Yigal Lev is. Mr. Lev, we met some time ago at a conference. In Caesaria?” Ben-Dov realizes he is not exactly displaying authority. He alters his tone. “Regrettably, this is not an open meeting, Mr. Lev. It is in fact closed to the public. A sign to that effect is posted downstairs at the—”

  “Mr. Ben-Dov,” Yigal says. “We’re not the public. We’re the interim government. You’re being replaced.”

  Ben-Dov stands, looking around him for affirmation from the seated group, then back to Yigal. “I am the single surviving member of the Knesset. As such I am authorized by the Basic Law of the State of Israel, which stipulates that in case of emergency the senior—”

  “The Knesset doesn’t exist.”

  “Israel is still a democracy, Mr. Lev.”

  “Israel barely exists. Her only chance is to put herself in the hands of people who know what they’re doing. You don’t.”

  “I vehemently protest.”

  “Noted,” Yigal says, with a nod to the stenographer. “Let the record show that the former deputy minister for culture and sport protests.” He smiles at the woman, whose face seems at once to reflect confusion and relief. “You have that?”

  “This is outrageous,” Ben-Dov says, his voice rising an octave. “In this room is the legitimate government of the State of Israel.” Misha pulls out his gun. “In this room is a lot of bullshit.” Ben-Dov suddenly recognizes him. “I’ve seen your face in the papers.”

  “Misha Shulman, at your service.”

  “The gangster. I will say this once and once only. Please leave. You have no place here. Not you, Mr. Shulman, nor you, Mr. Lev. The State of Israel has problems enough without—”

  “You know who fought to the last man in the Warsaw Ghetto?” Misha asks conversationally, cocking his pistol. “Jewish gangsters.” The silence in the room is absolute. “Commander?”

  “Okay,” Yigal says quietly, addressing the room at large. “In a moment, papers will be distributed to each person here. They are formal letters of resignation. Those who sign will be free to go.”

  Ben-Dov’s voice goes up another octave. “And if we choose not to sign?”

  “You don’t want to know,” Yigal says.

  54

  US MARINE AVIATION FORWARD Attack Base Wildcat does not appear on any publically issued list of American military facilities, officially because it is a temporary base leased from the Principality of Oman for the purpose of search and rescue. This is disingenuity of the highest order, but it permits Oman’s rulers to appear independent of the West and pure of desert heart should it be discovered that even so little as this twelve-plane squadron of F/A-18 Super Hornets exists, tucked as it is into an especially empty quarter of an empty sheikdom. The principality thus attempts to stay on the good side of groups such as ISIS and Al Qaeda, which have declared war on the royal families of Arabia, among other Middle Eastern leaders, for allowing non-Muslim fighting men (and women!) to set foot on the Arabian peninsula, upon which northeastern Oman sits like a sandy carbuncle. Though remarkably there is in Arabic no single word for Arabia, the very land upon which these feudal kingdoms sit is broadly considered to be holy unto itself: the Arabian peninsula is the home of Mecca and Medina; Arabia was the first conquest of the Prophet. To radical Islamists, that this first jewel in the crown of Islam should be occupied by the infidel forces of the Great Satan defies the deathbed injunction of Mohammed himself: “Let there not be two religions in Arabia.”

  Thus the Pentagon and the Omani leadership came to an accommodation: Marine Corps Aviation is just passing through, and as a guest in the desert its personnel must be welcomed and the baggage of its caravan protected, especially since its official mission is humanitarian in keeping with the hadiths: “Protect the innocent, ransom the enslaved, save the lost.”

  The base’s unofficial mission is somewhat different: USMA Forward Attack Squadron Wildcat is deployed to protect the oil-rich Emirates from Iranian invasion.

  Because its personnel serve six-month tours punctuated by month-long rotations back to their home base at Beaufort, South Carolina, the installation, which is totally isolated from any contact with the indigenous population, must supply its own entertainment. Thus it maintains extensive sports facilities, including two indoor basketball courts and a sixty-foot swimming pool, access to some 300,000 books and videos via the Department of the Navy’s Online Library, and—aside from CNN—the full panoply of US television stations serving coastal South Carolina. There is not a burglary in the city of Beaufort that is not hometown news at Marine Air Forward Attack Squadron Wildcat.

  Perched overlooking Iran’s western flank, the base’s pilots tend to watch CNN with interest. Their hearts may be in Beaufort, but their minds are alert to any change in t
he regional political situation: if things are heating up in the Persian Gulf, these airmen want to know about it.

  In the duty room, three pilots watch with fascination as anchor Damian Smith narrates a special report called Hell in Tel Aviv. Once part of the international press’s anti-Israel front, like most other news outlets CNN now finds itself in the unfamiliar position of rooting for the Israeli underdog in an update of the original David-and-Goliath story, except this time David lies mortally wounded on the Mediterranean coast.

  The special report is little more than a visual dirge narrated by the normally upbeat Smith. “Thousands of Jewish refugees continue to stream into Israeli-controlled Tel Aviv,” Smith reads as footage from Al-Jazeera shows rivers of refugees filling the highway past a sign that says TEL AVIV 30KMS, then footage of former Israel Railways carriages, now crudely stenciled over in Arabic and English ISLAM RAIL, with Jews packed tightly within and riding between the cars and on top.

  “Meanwhile, in Jerusalem, the Islamic Liberation Force has confirmed the destruction of the Western or Wailing Wall, the single remnant of the Holy Temple, said to be, to have been, the single most sacred spot for Jews everywhere.” Grainy images show the massive stones of the Wall tumbling down in a cloud of ancient dust as Arab soldiers dance in celebration, then footage of weeping Orthodox Jews in New York rending their garments in mourning. “In London, when the destruction of the Wall was announced, Britain’s chief rabbi, considered by many Jews to have inherited a mantle of authority from the chief rabbinate of Israel, now defunct, called on Jews around the world to begin a week of fasting, prayer, and repentance. Destruction of the Wall was met by harsh criticism from most Western leaders, including the president, who termed it ‘an act of violence against Jews, Christians, and peace-loving Muslims everywhere.’

  “In Tel Aviv, widespread looting is reported to have broken out as an estimated six million Jews search desperately for food and water. Arab control of Israeli airspace and access from the sea has cut off the city and, some say, sealed its doom. From nearby Cyprus, Connie Blunt in the port of Limassol.”

  Perky as ever, Blunt does a stand-up against the background of fishing boats lined up romantically at Limassol harbor, a classic Mediterranean view that could just as well have been painted on. Her attire is vaguely nautical and clearly not inexpensive. Unlike earlier generations of female correspondents, who felt they must prove to be as tough as their male colleagues, Blunt does not travel light. As well, CNN is contractually bound to pay for her on-screen wardrobe. “Damian, from reports by Israelis who’ve escaped from what is being called Ghetto Tel Aviv, mostly in small boats, a few in private planes, the rump state of Israel has only weeks, perhaps days, before its population starves to death. Think of Manhattan Island, quadruple its population, cut it off from food, and you can imagine the mounting fear and very real chaos in the once-thriving metropolis, known as the White City for its unique 1930s Bauhaus architecture and lit-up nightlife. It used to be said of Israel’s three major urban areas that Haifa works, Jerusalem prays, and Tel Aviv plays. Now both Haifa and Jerusalem are ghost towns, and in Tel Aviv, nobody is playing. The people of Israel are dying, and the State of Israel with them.”

  “Connie, a moment ago you compared Tel Aviv to Manhattan. We should point out that Manhattan is an island, surrounded by fresh water. Sources in Washington tell us that water is in extremely short supply in Tel Aviv. Can you confirm that?”

  “Yes, Damian. I can. With me here in Cyprus is Dr. Heinz Wortzel, head of emergency relief for the International Committee of the Red Cross, who tells me the water situation is very bad indeed and becoming worse, not least because Israel’s National Water Carrier, the pipeline system which supplies drinking water from the north of the country, has been disrupted. Dr. Wortzel, isn’t this an act that some would term genocide on the part of the Arab conquerors of Israel?”

  Blunt’s cameraman pulls back so that the television screen in the ready room of Marine Aviation Forward Attack Squadron Wildcat shows her standing with a tall, thin man in rimless glasses, a lightcolored suit and tie. He speaks with a Swiss-German accent at once dour and surprisingly musical. “In my professional capacity, I regret that I can neither confirm nor deny that the lack of potable water in the city of Tel Aviv is caused by purposeful tampering or redirection of the National Water Carrier. Such a speculation is not within my purview. Also it appears that the city of Tel Aviv is without electricity, as coal to power its generators is now terminated. This alone could be a factor of significance—water must be pumped, you see. However, it is a fact that the population of Tel Aviv is not in a good condition, which becomes worse every day.”

  “Dr. Wortzel,” Connie asks, “what can be done to relieve the city and bring in needed supplies to avert a humanitarian disaster?”

  “Since three weeks we have been in daily contact with the Red Crescents of the Arab nations concerned to find a way round many complex logistical and political obstacles.”

  Blunt becomes aggressive. “And how is that working out, doctor?”

  “Under the circumstances, we are doing our best. These efforts will, of course, continue.”

  “Has the Red Cross been permitted to visit Israeli prisoners of war who are said to be—”

  “Because of the many armies and political entities involved, we have not yet succeeded in this.”

  “I’m told over four hundred thousand Israeli POWs are being held in overcrowded camps, with no shade, little to no food or water, and no medical care at all for the sick and wounded.”

  “Having not visited these facilities, I am not in a position to comment. In coming days my colleagues and I hope to—”

  James Boatwright, the pilot they call Jimbo, cuts off the sound with the remote control. That it is in his hand is a measure of his status among his fellow airmen. He is one of the few black graduates of Annapolis in Marine Aviation. These few spots are limited to those in the top ten percent of each class. Jimbo graduated third overall, first in English, Spanish, and French. However, despite his unerring linguistic abilities, when among his fellow pilots Jimbo prefers to affect the down-home accent that reflects his early childhood in Atlanta rather than his later education at Choate, the New England prep school that specializes in supplying wealthy white boys to the Ivy League. When it comes to his identification as a Marine, Jimbo is a reverse snob. A Marine, he likes to say, ought to talk like a Marine, and a Marine don’t talk like they mouths is wired shut.

  “You be all right, Stanny?”

  A captain like the others, Stanley Field, whose father (born Greenfeld) was a decorated Marine helicopter pilot in Vietnam, grew up dreaming of Marine Aviation. “Why the hell shouldn’t I be?”

  “You don’t look awright is why,” the third pilot says. This is Christian Thurston, a Houstonian who seems perpetually to engage Jimbo in a competition to see who can talk more down home. He normally wins—with Thurston, the accent is not an affectation.

  “Would you be lookin’ awright?” Jimbo says. “I mean, seeing as how, you know, considerin’.”

  “Considering what?” Stan says.

  “Might be you should have a word with the padre,” Chris says. “He’s the closest thing to a rabbi we got.”

  “I don’t need a rabbi, or the padre.”

  “Stanny, we don’t like this business no better than you do,” Jimbo says. “It’s just we don’t want to be surprised by no six o’clock developments. If’n you get my drift.” By this he means too late a warning that enemy aircraft are coming up from below.

  Chris picks up the theme as though the two Southern boys have rehearsed it, which they have. “Stan ma man, we don’t want you to go all vigilante on us.”

  “I don’t know what you pricks are talking about.”

  “Just sayin’,” Jimbo says, looking up for a moment at the mute TV screen. “Sometimes people gets all hot and bothered about certain things. Like one day when I’s a kid I hit another kid for something someone tol’ me he
was sayin’, and it weren’t even not somethin’ me and the other black kids might be sayin’, on account we said nigger every third word, but it kind of got to me, from the white kid’s mouth I mean. So I hauled off and done broke his jaw. Later I heard he weren’t even the one sayin’ it, was some other shit-faced—”

  “Look, as a Jew it’s true I may have certain feelings—”

  “Hey, man, you don’t have to be a Jew to have them kind of feelings,” Jimbo says. “I mean, those things on CNN, man, they not right.”

  “Hell, this here matter ain’t no Jew thing,” Chris says. “Anyhow, I never even so much as knowingly viewed a Jew before I set eyes on your ugly face. First time we met I was all wondering how you fit them horns under your flight helmet. Ain’t no Jew thing.”

  “I file them down every night.”

  “I mean to say, Stanny, not only Jews got feelings for the holy land is all. Or for a buddy.” Suddenly Chris seems to find a bit of interesting lint on his flight suit. “I mean, just sayin’.”

  “Yeah?” Stan says. “Just what the fuck are you saying? You think I’m a Jew before I’m an American, is that it? Because if that’s what you two-bit shit-kickers think—”

  Jimbo cuts in. “Just, you know, lets us toss this around a little bit before we go and cowboy up.” He turns on the TV sound.

  “Meanwhile,” Damian Smith is saying, once again hauling out the same predictable connective without which television news would be mute, “here at home, many churches have declared Sunday a national day of prayer for Israel. Rev. Gerry Stallwell, pastor of Nashville’s Christ the King Family Mega-Church, leads a group calling itself Christ 4 Israel. Rev. Stallwell, your group has chartered two ships to bring aid to Tel Aviv. Is that true?”