He looked longingly at her, waiting for her response. At first she said nothing.
“Do you believe me?” he asked again.
“Yes,” she answered quietly. “But it’s a little late now.”
Sara rose again and whispered, “Good night, Ted.” Then she leaned over, kissed him on the forehead, and started out. Leaving him alone at the top of the world.
Jason Gilbert’s parents flew over to Israel in the spring of 1974. First they stayed a week on the kibbutz getting to know — and love — their grandchildren and daughter-in-law.
Then Jason and Eva showed them every inch of the country from the Golan Heights to Sharm El-Sheikh in the occupied Sinai. They spent their final five days in Jerusalem, 459 which Mrs. Gilbert pronounced the most beautiful city in the world.
“They’re lovely people,” said Eva after they had waved goodbye to his parents at Ben Gurion Airport.
“Do you think they enjoyed themselves?”
“I think if there’s a state beyond ecstasy, they’re in it,” she replied. “What pleased me most was this morning when your father kissed the boys, he didn’t say goodbye, he said shalom. I bet anything they’ll come back again next year.”
Eva was right. The Gilberts returned in the spring of 1975 and again in 1976. The third time, they even brought Julie-who, being “between husbands,” was keen to test the myth of Israeli machismo.
Jason was an instructor now. Not exactly a sedentary job in the most elite of the special units, but less dangerous than the work he had done in the past.
It was his task to go to the enlistment center outside Tel Aviv and determine which of the eager young recruits would be fit enough mentally and physically for the impossible demands of Sayaret Matkal. He was under the direct command of Yoni Netanyahu, who had been much decorated for his bravery in the Yom Kippur war.
Yoni had spent one year at Harvard and was trying to engineer the opportunity to complete his BA. He and Jason sat many a summer evening reminiscing about familiar Cambridge landmarks like the Square, Widener Library, Elsie’s, and running paths along the Charles River.
These conversations awakened in Jason a longing to visit the one place in his life where he had led an uncomplicated and happy existence.
He and Eva discussed it. What if they went to the States for a year after he completed his present army contract? If they’d accept him at the advanced age of thirty-nine, he could finish his law degree and then set up practice in Israel representing U.S. firms.
“What do you think, Eva?” he asked. “Would the kids enjoy it?”
“I know their father would.” She smiled indulgently. “And I’ve heard so much about Harvard all these years, I’m practically homesick for it myself. Go on, write the letters.”
Even after being AWOL for so many years, Jason had no trouble being readmitted to the Law School. Especially since the Assistant Dean of Admissions was now Tod Anderson, with whom, in his previous life, he had been a carefree jock.
As a postscript to his letter of acceptance, Tod added, “You may be a major over there, Gilbert, but to me you’re still my captain. Squash captain, that is.” To which he appended a P.P.S., “I’ve been working on my game a lot and I think I can finally whip you now.”
Jason was admitted as a third-year law student for the-1976-1977 academic year. He and Eva planned to take the boys over in mid-July and leave them with his parents while they searched for an apartment in Cambridge.
In May 1976 he left the Sayaret and active army service. Now all he owed Israel was a month of reserve duty every year until he was fifty-five.
When he said goodbye to his young commanding officer, Yoni could not help betraying a bit of envy.
“Think of me when you’re jogging on the Charles, saba, and send me a few postcards from Cambridge.”
The two laughed and parted.
Then, on the 27th of June, everything changed.
Air France flight 139 from Tel Aviv to Paris was hijacked after it stopped to take on passengers in Athens.
But this was not-even by Palestinian standards-a routine terrorist operation.
Landing once to refuel in — Libya, it then proceeded to Entebbe, in Uganda. There, the 256 passengers were herded into the old terminal at Kampala airport. And made hostages.
The following day, the captors made known their demands, They wanted fifty-three of their comrades-forty of whom were sitting in Israeli jails-handed over, along with several million dollars.
It had always been Israel’s policy not to negotiate with terrorists. But the families of the passengers besieged the cabinet offices in Jerusalem, pleading for an exchange that would save the lives of their loved ones. The government wavered. -
Under normal circumstances such a crisis would have been immediately handed over to the antiterrorist section. But this time the hostages were five thousand miles away. Unreachable by any military rescue operation. Or so it seemed.
Minutes after the first radio broadcast of the terrorists’ demands, Jason walked into the classroom where Eva was teaching the three-year-olds how to tell time. He motioned her to step outside.
“I’m going,” he said tersely.
“Where?”
“Back to the unit.”
“You’re crazy. They can’t do anything. And besides, you’re retired.”
“I can’t explain it, Eva,” he said urgently. “It’s just that I’ve spent half my life chasing some of those murderers who are sitting in jail. If we hand them back, that’ll destroy everything we’ve accomplished. The world will become a terrorist playground.”
Tears began to well up in her eyes.
“Jason, you’re the only thing I’ve loved that I haven’t lost. Haven’t you sacrificed enough of your life? Your children need a father, not a hero.…”
And then she paused, realizing that no words could stop him. Already feeling the ache of his absence even as he stood before her.
“Why, Jason?” she asked. “Why does it always have to be you?”
“It’s something I learned from you, Eva,” he replied softly. “The whole reason this country exists is to protect our people everywhere.”
Eva cried softly against his chest, realizing she’d made too good a Jew of him. His love for Israel now transcended even what he felt for his own family.
And so she let him go. Not even telling him that she was pregnant again.
“Get the hell out of here, saba. This is young men’s work.”
“C’mon, Yoni,” Jason insisted, “if there’s an operation, I want to be part of it.”
“Look, I’m not saying there is. So far, the government thinks it’s much too risky. To be perfectly frank, we haven’t been able to come up with a game plan that’ll have even a fifty-fifty chance of working.”
“Then why not at least let me in on the skull sessions? For God’s sake, I’m not too old to think.”
Their argument was interrupted by Major General Zvi Doron, former head of Sayaret, now chief of intelligence of the entire Defense Forces.
“Hey, guys,” he barked, “this is no time to bicker. What are you doing here, Gilbert?”
“I’m reporting for duty, Zvi.”
“Look,” Yoni said sternly, “we’re up against a wall and we’re wasting precious time. So I’m going to give you sixty seconds to convince me why the sentries shouldn’t throw you out. Now talk fast.”