“So?”
“It’s Elie. I’ve always worried that he would somehow ensnare Lemmy, turn him into another cog in his machine. That’s why I kept my son here.”
“You don’t need to worry about Elie.” Tanya squeezed his hand. “I made him swear that he won’t interfere with the boy. And I paid dearly for it.”
Abraham turned sharply. “You gave him the ledger?”
She nodded.
“God almighty!” He stood up, suddenly regaining the stature of Rabbi Abraham Gerster, leader of Neturay Karta. “Think of how he gave those grenades to Redhead Dan! Now, with this kind of money, there’s no limit to what he’ll do!”
“Elie won’t get the money.” Tanya stood, facing him. “Klaus chose his banker carefully-a schoolmate whose personal loyalty is to Klaus. The Swiss will find an excuse to deny Elie access to the account.”
“But he has the ledger!”
“It won’t be enough.” Tanya gestured at the open door. “How is your wife?”
“She barely eats, doesn’t go out, keeps crying. During the day, the women of the sect care for her, and the men pray.”
“Why hasn’t she written to Lemmy? I asked Elie to tell you.”
“I haven’t seen Elie since before the grenades debacle.”
“That’s odd.” Tanya reflected on Elie’s description of Abraham’s anger. Should she mention it? He didn’t seem hostile now, but raising it could reignite his anger. Her visit had one purpose, and Elie’s games were no longer important. “Maybe I misunderstood him,” she said. “Anyway, please tell your wife to write to Lemmy. It will be good for him and good for her. Address it to the IDF and write his name and military ID number on the envelope.” Tanya jotted down the number.
“I’ll do it first thing in the morning.” He caressed her hair. “You are kind and generous. In my heart, we are forever together, you and me-”
“ Abraham! ” Temimah Gerster stood at the door, wrapped in a sheet, her shaved scalp exposed.
He moved fast, catching her as she collapsed.
“You touched her,” Temimah cried.
“She brought us news from Jerusalem.” He lifted her in his arms, cradling her as a child.
“Tell her to go!”
“He is in the army. A soldier.”
“My Lemmy?”
“He’s doing very well.” He carried her down the hallway. “We’ll write to him tomorrow. It will make you happy, yes?”
Tanya buttoned up her coat, slipped on the wool cap, and left the apartment.
Chapter 29
“I’m not doing this!” Sanani pointed up at a wooden platform affixed to the summit of a giant eucalyptus tree. A thick rope came down from the platform, across a wide gulch, ending in a knot around the trunk of another eucalyptus.
“I need a volunteer,” Captain Zigelnick said, “to show Sanani how to be a man.”
The soldiers looked up. No one stepped forward.
“I’ll show him.” Lemmy raised his hand, and the captain tossed him a bent steel bar.
Short sections of wood were nailed to the trunk, forming a makeshift ladder. He stuck the metal bar in his belt, shifted the Uzi so it rested on his lower back, and started climbing. The trunk was smooth. It had a sharp smell. He climbed one rung after another. His muscles began to ache.
His friends clapped rhythmically. “Gerster! Gerster! Gerster!”
Lemmy paused and looked down. Their upturned faces surrounded the base of the tree, approximately four stories below him. He held on with one hand, his feet planted securely, and pretended to unzip his fly. They scattered, hooting.
A light breeze was blowing from the north, and the tree swung from side to side. The platform was built like a raft of rough-cut logs tied together with wires, the cracks between the logs wide enough to put his hand through. He made the mistake of looking down. Far below, his friends seemed small.
He reached up to the rope, which was tied to the trunk over his head, and slowly rose to stand on the platform. It swayed under his weight, creaking in protest. The rope was as thick as his arm. It dropped steeply about two-thirds of the way then curved in a gradual slope before leveling off near the opposite tree.
Gripping the rope with both hands above his head, Lemmy inched forward until the tips of his boots lined up with the edge of the platform. The chanting below stopped. He heard Zigelnick yell something.
Acting against every survival instinct, Lemmy let go of the rope with one hand and pulled the hooked bar from his belt. Slowly, without disturbing his careful balance, he slipped the hooked bar over the rope, slid his other hand to the opposite end of the bar, and eased forward into the air.
The acceleration was blinding. The friction of the metal bar on the rope produced a high-pitched whizzing. He heard himself howling.
The pressure on his arms and shoulders grew as his slide changed direction and leveled off. The deceleration was as drastic as the initial acceleration, and his vision cleared just in time to see that he was hurtling head-on toward the trunk of the opposite eucalyptus. He let go before colliding with the tree, curled up, and rolled on the ground several times, coming to rest in a cloud of dust.
A moment later, his friends were all over him, and someone emptied a bucket of water on his head.
Cursing and laughing at the same time, Lemmy got up. His knees were weak and his hands trembled, but he knew he could climb all the way up to the flimsy platform and rappel down again right now. But it was Sanani’s turn, and everyone goaded him up the eucalyptus tree.
E lie was summoned to a strategy conference at the King David Hotel. From the top-floor suite, the border with Jordan passed practically under the windows, which offered sweeping views of East Jerusalem and the Old City. A light breeze diluted the smoke of cigarettes.
Minister of Foreign Affairs, Abba Eban, who had arrived straight from the airport, spoke first. “My consultations in Paris left me with an unequivocal conviction that King Hussein has in fact received our non-aggression communique through the French consular intermediary.”
“You mean,” Eshkol said, “they told Jordan we don’t want war?”
“Precisely. The French ambassador to Amman personally conveyed our fervent preference for a non-confrontational detente in lieu of Jordanian participation in the belligerent military campaigns currently contemplated by Egypt and Syria.”
“And?”
“The Elysee Palace remains utterly concerned.” Eban’s British accent, usually a cause for chuckles among the sabra generals, somehow seemed appropriate in this opulent hotel suite. “Our diplomatic overtures, notwithstanding their sincerity, have been spurned decisively by the royal Jordanian court. The king’s counselors misinterpreted the message as insidious machinations, contrived merely to lure His Majesty toward injurious inaction while we surreptitiously prepare to launch the IDF at his prized territorial and theological possessions.”
“You mean,” Eshkol concluded, “the Jordanians think we’re bluffing.”
“A poignant understatement,” Abba Eban said. “The Jordanian consorts infused their analysis with undertones that historically have been accorded to our Jewish race, such as underhandedness in commerce and money lending. They advised King Hussein to array his armed forces in a forthcoming posture, cohesive with the other Arab armies, and to issue a proclamation soliciting the incursion of Iraqi and Saudi battalions into the West Bank as fortification of Jordan’s combat units.”
“Hussein is inviting the Iraqis into Jordan?” General Rabin threw his cigarette out the window. “If they reinforce the existing Jordanian units in the West Bank, we’re doomed. There’s no way we can defend the coastal strip. They’ll cut us in half between Natanya and Herzlia, then march south and north to take Tel Aviv and Haifa.”
“During our meeting,” Abba Eban continued, “President De Gaulle was lucidly unambiguous about the pertinence of Israeli non-aggression. He assured me that he’s a loyal friend of l’Etat Hebreu, but insisted that we unequivocally forgo war. When I left, De Gaulle pressed my hand and admonished me: Ne faites pas la guerre! ”