Chapter 23
At sunrise, the marksmen took their positions on the roofs near the prime minister’s residence and in discreet locations along the street. Major Buskilah had direct command. Elie went up to the third-story roof, which was set up for the press briefing with folding chairs, hot coffee, and maps of Jerusalem pinned onto plywood.
General Yitzhak Rabin leaned on the railing. “Got a cigarette, Weiss?”
Elie held out a pack of Lucky Strike for the chief of staff.
Rabin pulled a few cigarettes, put one between his lips, and pocketed the rest. “My wife wants me to quit,” he said with a lopsided grin. He drew deeply, holding the smoke for a long while before releasing it into the air in a long, straight thread. “Rumor has it that your Nekamah campaign has killed more Nazi officers than the Allied forces managed to kill.”
“An exaggeration. Many of them continue to live with impunity.” Elie lit a cigarette. The burns on his neck itched as hell, and he struggled to keep from scratching.
“They say that you caught an SS officer raping a Jewish girl, cut off his genitalia, and shoved it down his throat.”
“Not his throat.”
General Rabin chuckled. “An inspiring story nevertheless.”
“I like working with blades,” Elie said. “I find it nostalgic.”
Rabin’s cigarette stopped midway to his lips. “Nostalgic?”
“My father, rest in peace, was a kosher butcher.”
The young general laughed. But when he realized Elie had not been joking, he tried to control himself, his face turning red. “Sorry, Weiss, it just sounded funny.”
“I understand.” Elie hid his anger, thinking how this ignorant sabra knew nothing of Jewish life in old Europe. A shoykhet was the only person trained in the ritual slaughter of livestock. Without him, the community would have no kosher meat and starve through the harsh winters, losing children to simple infections. A shoykhet should have been more important than a rabbi, yet the Jews of his childhood had revered Abraham’s father, Rabbi Yakov Gerster, while Elie’s father, Nahman Weiss, was treated like the carpenter, the shoemaker, or the blacksmith. How the tables had turned!
“J erusalem!” It was his father’s voice. “Wake up!” Lemmy got out of bed and opened the door. Rabbi Gerster was dressed and ready. “We must go now.”
On Saturdays, morning prayers were held later, giving the men of Neturay Karta an opportunity to observe the command: And on the Sabbath you and your livestock shall rest from all the work that you have done. But for some reason his father was up early.
When they left the house, Rabbi Gerster turned in the opposite direction from the synagogue. Lemmy followed, still not completely awake. They entered an apartment building at the edge of Meah Shearim and went down a damp staircase. The rabbi knocked on a door.
Redhead Dan was still in his pajamas. He held the door open, and they entered a small room packed with a table, a sofa, and a bookcase. A baby started crying in the next room.
“Good Sabbath, Dan,” Rabbi Gerster said. “I believe you have in your possession something that a God-fearing Jew should not possess.”
Redhead Dan’s mouth opened for an instinctive denial, but he thought better of it.
They waited as he disappeared into the other room. The baby cried harder, and a woman’s voice comforted him. A moment later Redhead Dan returned with the box, which he placed on the table. “God had ordained this,” he said. “A righteous man was jailed with me and we just knew that God-”
“You were tricked by the Zionists.” Rabbi Gerster opened the box. “These things could have killed you and your family.” He took out each of the grenades and checked the fuses. “And the neighbors too.”
Redhead Dan sat down, his face buried in his hands.
The rabbi closed the box. “Tonight, when the Sabbath is over, you’ll pack a suitcase and take the bus to Safed, where Rabbi Shimon Elchai will take you into his yeshiva on probation. Your wife and son will remain here, and the community will take care of them. One year from now, not a day earlier, you may return. If I find your repentance sincere, you’ll be allowed to return to this holy community and reunite with your family.”
Lemmy carried the box up the stairs. He shuddered at the sound of Redhead Dan crying and realized that his father had taken him along to witness the banishment of a Neturay Karta member and to hear his sobs.
It was a lesson.
A warning.
The alleys of Meah Shearim were still deserted. At the gate, Rabbi Gerster turned east toward the border. They heard soldiers chattering in Hebrew and an occasional laughter from the concrete bunker facing the rolls of barbed wire and the Jordanians across. The entrance to the bunker was surrounded by sandbags. Two soldiers sat outside, their backs against the sandbags, smoking.
Rabbi Gerster said, “Shalom!”
The soldiers were startled.
“We found this box.” He motioned for Lemmy to put it on the ground. “Please be careful.”
One of the soldiers opened the box. “Hey! Look at these puppies!”
“Have a good Sabbath.” The rabbi walked away.
“Wait! What’s your name?”
He kept walking, his pace fast but not rushed. Lemmy kept up. They turned a street corner, the soldiers’ excited voices fading behind.
A n aid came up to the roof to summon General Rabin and Elie Weiss downstairs. Prime Minister Eshkol was sitting alone at the kitchen table, sifting through a pile of newspapers. A black-and-white television set was tuned to the BBC without sound.
“Look at this!” The prime minister threw a copy of the daily Ha’aretz across the conference table.
Elie read the front-page headline: New Delhi Summit: Tito, Nasser, and Mrs. Gandhi Express Support for the Legitimate Rights of the Palestinian Arabs.
“Look at the rest,” Eshkol said impatiently, “look!”
Elie scanned the front page.
Anti-American riots in Manila.
Washington to cease bombing N. Vietnam if political solution is found.
Syrian deputy prime minister accuses Israel of preparing to attack Egypt and Syria.
British spy George Blake escaped London prison via ladder of knitting needles.
“Look here!” The prime minister flipped the pages. “Only here, in the corner of page three, they finally mention it: Eshkol Appoints Galilee as Information Minister. A charade, that’s what it is!”
Rabin and Elie read the piece, which quoted Prime Minister Levi Eshkol’s speech before the Knesset assembly: The new Information Ministry will direct the provision of information to the public. While information is not a substitute for policy, the government must communicate clearly its sound policy to the Israeli citizenry.
“Can you believe this?” Eshkol shook the newspaper. “A knitting English spy belongs on the first page, but the prime minister of Israel is dumped in the corner of the third page, next to wedding announcements.”
“After this morning’s operation,” Elie said, “every word you utter will make the front page, and you’ll have public support to make difficult decisions.”
“That would help.” The chief of staff shifted uncomfortably. “The army needs permission to call up the reserves. At least forty thousand troops.”
“Not so simple,” the prime minister said. “It could signal aggressiveness, make us look bad. Our best defense is an American guarantee. And a UN declaration.”
“Those won’t protect us from a joint Arab attack, which would be deadly without our reserves stationed along the borders. In fact,” Rabin said, “it would be deadly even if our troops are fully engaged, but we’ll have a better chance of survival.”
“That’s my point! We can’t win!”