The Jerusalem Inception (29 page)
“The French want to teach us national defense?” Prime Minister Levi Eshkol looked around the table. “It took Hitler three days to conquer France and gobble up all their baguettes!”
In the midst of laughter, Chief of Staff Yitzhak Rabin remained serious. “De Gaulle might be right. If Jordan fights us, the war will be a blood bath.”
“But look at this!” General Ezer Weitzman, CO of operations, went to the window and pointed. “How can we pass up the opportunity to recover the Old City? Return to our historic capital? It’s crazy!”
Now Elie understood why the prime minister had chosen to hold this strategy meeting on the top floor of the King David Hotel rather than at the Pit. The unobstructed views created an irresistible temptation for the sabra generals, whose lives had been dedicated to recreating the ancient Jewish kingdom in the Land of Israel. The glorious sights provoked them to say what they really had in mind.
“We must,” Weitzman said, “recapture our ancestral land, all the way to the Jordan River.”
“That’s enough,” Rabin said.
But Weitzman couldn’t hold back, “What kind of a Jewish state is it without Jerusalem? What kind of Jewish warriors are we without the courage to restore King David’s glory?”
“That’s a political question.” The prime minister shook his finger like a scolding teacher. “You boys harbor impossible dreams!”
Chief of Staff Rabin lit another cigarette.
“Strategic decisions,” Abba Eban said, “must be contemplated in conjunction with the appropriate analysis of all diplomatic, strategic, and fiscal ramifications. Acquisition of our ancient biblical sites, tempting as it might be, could jeopardize our very chance of national survival. The pending wholesale attack by the Arab nations could pit us against Soviet-supplied firepower of great magnitude. We must utilize diplomatic maneuvers to preempt a war through UN and American guarantees. The Egyptians won’t fight the United States!”
“In other words,” Eshkol said, “the Arabs are idiots, but not
meshuggahs
.”
“We have to assume,” Eban said, “rational behavior by our adversary.”
“Exactly!” The prime minister looked at Chief of Staff Rabin. “We shouldn’t let the holy places tempt us into a ruinous war.” He waved at the window. “The Arabs will throw us in the Mediterranean—a second Holocaust!”
Elie saw Yitzhak Rabin cringe, as if the word Holocaust was a slur. “Israel isn’t a
shtetl
in Poland,” the chief of staff said. “The IDF is stronger than the sum of our units. It’s a matter of sequence and allocation. And sacrifices. But we can win.”
“Ah!” Eshkol groaned. “Gambling with our lives!”
There was silence in the room, which Elie guessed was not because of General Rabin’s interjection, but due to the attendees’ shock at the prime minister’s explicit panic.
“It could be a pyrrhic victory,” Abba Eban said. “The territories biblically known as Judea and Samaria, where our forefathers once dwelled, will come into our proverbial hands with multitudes of hostile indigenous inhabitants whom we must feed, clothe, and treat medically. The costs would drastically surpass our financial means, deplete our scarce material resources, and overburden our bureaucratic infrastructure. Furthermore, ruling over an Arab population dominated by paternalism, tribalism, and primeval customs would conflict with our democratic, pluralistic, and modern social fabric. In time, this conflict could undermine Israel’s international standing.”
“That makes no sense,” Weitzman said. “Wouldn’t the world support our modernity?”
Abba Eban shook his head. “We must remember that democratic nations are, and will remain, a minority among the global community, while dictatorships and banana republics will continue to dominate the most powerful international organizations.”
Elie heard one of the generals whisper to his neighbor, “What the hell is he talking about?”
“Pardon me,” Abba Eban stood. “I am obliged to use the lavatory.”
As soon as the foreign minister was out of the room, Prime Minister Eshkol shook his head. “
Der gelernte Narr!
”
Everyone laughed. By calling Eban
The learned fool
, Eshkol punctured the foreign minister’s inflated aura. Unlike the erudite, highly educated Eban, who had taught at Oxford before devoting himself to the Zionist movement, the sabra generals were at best high-school graduates. They distrusted his wordiness, tailored suits, and oversized spectacles, yet recognized the value of his ability to meet world leaders as an equal and deliver awe-inspiring speeches in world capitals. Eban’s startling ability to communicate Zionist concerns with Churchillian oratory had won many of Israel’s existential diplomatic battles, as well as the breathless pride of Diaspora Jews everywhere. But the sabra warriors never accepted him as a true Israeli, and Prime Minister Eshkol’s contemporaries, the older generation of pioneers and party apparatchiks, mocked Abba Eban behind his back.
“Our strategy must be logical,” General Rabin said. “If diplomacy succeeds and the Arabs stand down, then all is well. But if diplomacy fails, we’ll have to disable the Egyptian fighter jets and bombers before they mobilize. If we achieve air superiority, then we can destroy their armored forces in Sinai and turn to Syria.”
“If. If. If.” The prime minister took off his eyeglasses and made like he was throwing them away. “If we had enough locusts! Or frogs! Or if we could turn their rivers to blood, or kill their firstborn, ah?”
“Those would work too.” Rabin drew from his cigarette. “But whether or not we can fend off Egypt and Syria, Jordan is the wildcard. If the king orders an attack, fifty thousand Jews will die in West Jerusalem, and Jordanian forces in the West Bank will roll across the coastal strip and slash Israel in half.”
Elie was impressed with Rabin’s ability to offer a clear analysis that solidified a consensus in the room. The soft-spoken Chief of Staff was cleverer than his boyish appearance implied—no less a politician than a soldier. He raised his hand. “The Armistice Agreements forbid military activity in West Jerusalem, but we can mobilize civilians to dig trenches as shelters.”
General Rabin nodded. “Trenches are defensive in nature. Very clever. But who’s going to dig?”
“The ultra-Orthodox.”
Everyone burst out laughing.
Elie lit a Lucky Strike and took a deep draw, waiting for the laughter to die down.
“Do you really think,” Rabin asked, “that the black hats would come out of their synagogues and yeshivas to dig trenches?”
“They avoid military service because they object to Zionism, but they’ll pick up a shovel to keep the Arabs out of West Jerusalem.”
“Why?”
“Because they remember ’forty-eight. Many of them saw with their own eyes what happened when the Jordanians captured the Jewish Quarter of the Old City—the burning of Torah scrolls, the raping of girls, the indiscriminate killing of defenseless Jews.” Elie drew from the cigarette again, letting them digest what he’d said.
“Okay,” Rabin finally said. “There’s no harm in trying.”
Abba Eban returned, carrying a cup of tea. The discussion turned to diplomatic efforts to obtain a U.S. promise to honor its 1956 guarantee to punish Egypt if it attacked Israel. Eban explained that President Johnson was already overwhelmed by losses in Vietnam. Prime Minister Eshkol was unmoved, insisting that only an American declaration would prevent war—and Israel’s demise.
As everyone was leaving, an aide asked Elie to join the prime minister in his car for a moment.
Elie sat on the jump seat, facing him.
“Excellent meeting, right?”
“Yes,” he said, though he didn’t think so.
“My job is to prevent war. But these sabra hotheads want to use their toys, conquer and pillage like King David. They’re children who dream childish dreams!”
“They beat the Arabs before.”
“But not the Soviet Union. What chance do we have?” Eshkol formed a circle with his finger and thumb.
“Soviet weapons and a few thousand advisors, but the commanders and soldiers are Arabs, and Rabin seems confident—”
“Yitzhak Rabin is a nice boy.” Eshkol made a dismissive gesture. “A
schmendrik
, that’s what he is. I’m not worried about him. He’ll follow my orders. My problem is Moshe Dayan. He’s a warmonger, strutting around with the fancy eye patch. Who’s ever heard of a Jewish pirate?”
Elie touched the scabs over his burns. “My agents are combing his past. I’ll let you know as soon as we find something useful.”
F
or several weeks, Tanya seldom left her house. She spent day and night listening to UN communications. The European and Indian officers spoke primarily English in varying accents. She was especially attuned to any mention of the UN radar at Government House. Formerly the seat of the British High Commissionaire, in 1948 Government House had become the UN Middle East headquarters. It occupied a high ridge that controlled the southern approaches to Jerusalem as well as the road to Bethlehem and Hebron. It was the highest vantage point in the region, and her equipment tapped into its wireless radio channels and its physical phone lines. Finally, on a morning that brought blooming scents of early spring through her window, Tanya heard a revealing conversation. She wrote down the exchange, switched the equipment to automatic recording, and left the house.
At the IDF command in West Jerusalem, she was taken straight into the office of Brigadier General Tappuzi, military commander of the city.
He looked up. “Good or bad?”
“They’ll open the gates to Jordanian troops as soon as war begins, no matter who started it.”
“And the radar?”
“Goes with the territory.”
“
Damn!
”
“There’s more,” she said. “Bull allowed them to bring anti-aircraft batteries up to the ridge, just outside the UN compound.”
Tappuzi called a group of officers into the room. They congregated around a map. It quickly became clear that only a massive Israeli air strike at the outset of war could prevent the Jordanian artillery from turning Jewish West Jerusalem into a deathtrap. But with the UN radar and Jordanian anti-aircraft guns working in sync, IDF aerial activities anywhere near Jerusalem would be suicidal.
Tappuzi accompanied Tanya outside. “We have to destroy that radar.”
“You want to attack the UN Mideast Headquarter?”
“What choice do we have?”
“The diplomatic consequences would be catastrophic.”
“Not as catastrophic as Jordanian carpet bombing of West Jerusalem!”
“A lot worse,” Tanya said. “Attacking the UN will make us an international pariah. We’ll lose any support, any chance for armaments or parts for our jets and tanks. The world will install a complete embargo on Israel—no flights, no shipping, no imports of food and oil—”
“Okay. Okay.” He raised his hands. “I got it. No attack on Government House. Fine. But you must find another solution for that radar. I won’t sit still and wait for Jordan to massacre our people!”
T
he unusually hot spring day made Elie sweat under the beggar’s cloak. The burns on his cheek and neck had almost healed, the scabs dry and peeling off. But the new skin was still red and tender against the rough cloth.
A book landed in his lap. He glanced up and saw Abraham enter the public urinal. The door let out a whiff of stench.
Elie opened
The Zohar
and leaned over it so that his cloak sheltered it from the eyes of men entering and leaving the foul place. There was no note inside the book. He stuck an envelope between the pages. It contained cash and a note describing the planned recruitment of ultra-Orthodox residents of Jerusalem, including Neturay Karta, to dig trenches in the streets. Abraham was to enlist his own men, as well as convince other rabbis to have their followers join the life-saving effort. The new Office of Civil Defense, which Elie had set up at the IDF command in West Jerusalem, would hand out shovels and city maps showing them where to dig.
Abraham exited the restroom, but rather than pick up the book from Elie’s lap, he walked away. Elie got up and followed him at a distance. Exiting through the long passage onto King George Street, they merged with the midday pedestrian traffic. Farther down the street, Abraham entered an old building. Elie did the same.
The unlit landing was barely enough for them to stand, facing one another beside a rusted stairway railing, which served as an anchor for a dusty bicycle, chained together.
“I decided to quit,” Abraham said. “Immediately. I’m done!”
Elie pulled out a pack of Lucky Strike and tore off the cellophane wrapping. This development was not completely unexpected. Abraham’s rebelliousness had occasionally reared its head over the years, requiring careful manipulation by pressing the correct buttons of grief and guilt, grandiosity and gullibility, which still dominated this powerful-yet-vulnerable man. “What about your fiery disciples?”
“Neturay Karta won’t cause any trouble. I’ve ruled that they must study and pray to make the world better, never attack another Jew. My work is done.”