I sat back and looked around the café. Six other patrons other than myself. Five men and one woman. The woman laughed at something her companion said. At another table, one of the other men was busily scribbling in a notebook. Two of the others were talking in Yiddish, each armed with a cigarette. Greta served them coffee, and one of them said something that made her wag her finger at him.
A man entered the café, one of the regulars, a Russian guy who worked as a bank teller. He called to Greta, "Turn on the radio. They say Ben-Gurion's going to give an address."
Bulky and encased in weathered wood, the radio monopolized a shelf on the wall behind the serving counter. An ancient contraption, it had come into Greta's possession as a result of her softheartedness. A customer who was down on his luck had given it to her in lieu of settling his tab. I'd advised Greta against the exchange, pointing out that a radio of such vintage could be had for half the outstanding debt. But Greta had accepted, on the grounds that to refuse would hurt the man's feelings, which was more important than money, especially given the fact that he'd frequented the café for many years.
"Did you at least check it's working properly?" I'd asked.
"He assured me it does," Greta had replied.
And the radio had worked properly. For five whole days. After this brief grace period, it began showing its age by supplying an incessant hiss as an accompaniment to all broadcasts. Sometimes the hiss was loud like a snake sibilating in your ear; at other times, it was but an indistinct susurration, like a gaggle of distant busybodies sharing gossip. In either case, it was irritating to the point that the radio saw gradually less and less use. These days, it was turned on only when one of the patrons requested it, and usually not for very long.
Greta shook her head, suggesting in her mild tone that perhaps it would be better to read about Ben-Gurion's address in tomorrow's papers. She pointed out that the radio's performance deteriorated on cloudy days.
But another patron seconded the first's request, and soon the woman and her companion voiced their support as well. Surrendering to their will, Greta turned one of the large knobs on the radio's front, and the crackle of static burst from the speaker as the machine roused itself to life.
Then came the all-familiar hiss, and over it, and only somewhat more pleasant, the nasal, strident voice of David Ben-Gurion, prime minister of Israel, with his Polish accent and distinct clipped enunciation. It was not the voice of a statesman, not the tone of the founder of a country. But then Ben-Gurion had none of the outward characteristics of a leader. With his five-foot-one frame, his bald dome of a head fringed by unruly hedges of white hair, his sausage of a nose and near invisible lips, Ben-Gurion had the appearance of a hapless grandfather rather than the man who, against all odds, had led his tiny nation to military triumph and renewed independence.
His was an elusive, hard-to-define charisma. He did not have Begin's eloquence, nor his gushing fervor. He was not blessed with the good looks of some of his young generals. He did not possess the easy charm of a socialite. He dressed simply, his tastes were humble, and he always looked unkempt, even in a suit and tie. Yet, despite all these shortcomings, Ben-Gurion had been the foremost leader of the Jewish Yishuv during the British Mandate of Palestine, and as prime minister, his domination of Israeli politics was near complete.
"Yesterday," Ben-Gurion said, "a nefarious hand was raised against the sovereignty of the Knesset. An attempt was made to destroy Israeli democracy. It was proclaimed that Israeli policy would not be decided by the people's representatives, but by men of the fist and the political murder."
Greta looked at me. Her expression was angry. I felt like burying myself out of sight of the world. The prime minister of Israel, a man I admired despite everything, was talking about me.
Ben-Gurion went on to explain that the previous evening, a wild and incited rabble made up of communists and former Irgun members had attacked the Knesset and assaulted the policemen ordered to protect it. Over one hundred officers had been wounded.
The man who had fomented this revolt, as Ben-Gurion called it, was Menachem Begin. He had incited the crowds in Zion Square. He had declared a "war to the death" against the Knesset and the government. Ben-Gurion stressed that, despite the danger posed to the Knesset by Begin's followers, he had ordered the police to refrain from using their firearms; and he praised the brave policemen who, without exception, had followed this order, even when many of them lay injured in the street.
Ben-Gurion was angry now, and this sharpened the grating qualities of his speech. Yet his outrage was more controlled, less flamboyant than Begin's, and I couldn't help but think of Birnbaum's observation: that Menachem Begin was better suited for the role of a resistance commander than that of a statesman. Fiery passion was a prerequisite of the first, but the second called for a calmer, coolheaded attitude.
To whip up a crowd into a frenzy, one would pick Menachem Begin. But to run a country, and to successfully prevail upon assailed policemen to not use deadly force in the face of serious physical harm, choose Ben-Gurion.
All were silent in Greta's Café as the prime minister spoke. The only sounds were his voice and the underlying hiss of the radio. The other patrons either stood to move closer to the radio, or sat forward in their seats, drawn toward the prime minister's voice.
Ben-Gurion said that he took the treasonous threats made by Begin with the utmost seriousness. That he did not underestimate the courage of Irgun members, nor their willingness to pay a heavy personal price for their beliefs. And that he knew full well that he was the prime target of these threats. But he assured the public that the State of Israel had the means to safeguard its democracy and to thwart any prolonged terroristic activity. That even if ministers and members of Knesset became targets for assassination, the security forces would be able to maintain order and the rule of law.
He concluded by promising the citizenry that despite this serious threat, Israel would remain a free and democratic country, and that any attempt to undermine the sovereignty of the Knesset and the government would be squashed without compromise.
Conspicuously absent from Ben-Gurion's speech was the cause of the demonstration yesterday in Jerusalem. The prime minister did not utter a single word regarding his proposal for negotiations with Germany on the matter of reparations. Politically cunning, as well as dishonest in its omission. Also unmentioned was the possibility of outlawing Herut. Perhaps Birnbaum was right and Ben-Gurion was too smart to take such a step.
Greta switched off the radio. The ensuing silence lasted but a few seconds. Then the other patrons began voicing their opinion about Ben-Gurion's speech and Begin's actions. The words fascist, terrorist, and criminal were hurled into the air. All of them were directed at Begin and his followers. Even two of the regulars whom I knew opposed negotiations with Germany expressed disgust at what had happened yesterday near the Knesset. One of them opined that Begin should be stripped of his parliamentary status and arrested.
I sat immobile, struck by the horrific realization that what had happened yesterday not only failed to sway public opinion against negotiations with Germany, but had likely done the opposite. People might still find the prospect of dealing with the Germans unpalatable, but they viewed the assault on the Knesset as a greater offense.
And I, by my heedless stupidity and unbridled rage, had contributed to this. I screwed my eyes shut and breathed deeply, trying to quell the rising tide of guilt and shame that threatened to drown me. But it was impossible to keep out the accusations flying through the air of Greta's Café. My sanctuary had been breached. I needed to get away from there, from the others. I jerked to my feet so abruptly my chair toppled, and I pounded toward the exit.