“I heard he shot down the chandelier.”
“He didn’t mean to. The bullet hit the hook, broke it off the ceiling. A fluke.” Abraham chuckled sadly. “Our very own Kristallnacht.”
Chapter 31
After several months of intense training, the time came for the first of three dives, which were required to earn the paratrooper pin. Lemmy’s company hiked all night, arriving with first light at an air force base somewhere in the Negev Desert. They spent the day cleaning their weapons, arranging their gear, and memorizing topographical maps.
As the sun was setting, they strapped on the parachutes and boarded the plane, whose tail was marked with a blue Star of David. It accelerated down the runway, and the two engines snarled as the plane detached from the ground and gained altitude, heading west into the sunset.
The soldiers sat on metal benches along the fuselage, their Uzis loaded and secure, their pouches stuffed with ammunition, and their parachutes strapped on snugly. Lemmy sat sideways and peered out through the small window. Sunsets reminded him of Fridays in Meah Shearim. A white tablecloth. Burning candles. What do you know tonight that you didn’t know this morning?
But now Benjamin alone was there to answer the questions at the Sabbath table, to debate the subtleties of Talmud between dishes, and to recite the blessing after the meal. Life in Neturay Karta had continued to exist, a parallel universe of worship and study, of Sabbath meals and strict observance of myriad rules. But Lemmy was no longer part of it. For them, he was dead.
His eyes caught a herd of mountain goats, like white shadows in the twilight, fleeing into a ravine, frightened by the roar of the plane. He tried not to think of the initial drop and freefall, the immense height, and the speed at which he would hit the ground should his parachute fail to open. Instead he thought of the navigation challenges that awaited him once he was safely on the ground.
Their training had been put on a tight schedule in order to prepare them for a fighting role. The consecutive drills left little time for sleep and even less time for reflection. Like his fellow soldiers, Lemmy lived out of a military duffel bag that contained everything he owned-his uniform, folded and pressed, his only set of civilian clothes, and Uri Zvi Greenberg’s Book of Denunciation and Faith. His proudest possession was a wooden box containing his father’s Mauser. He also had a black yarmulke, which he hadn’t put on since leaving Meah Shearim.
His friends knew he came from an ultra-Orthodox family that had banished him, but they never pried into his past. With endless grueling exercises across the Negev Desert, soldiers judged each other on integrity and teamwork. The outside world of family, money, or education was irrelevant, and Lemmy had won their trust.
“Get ready!” Captain Zigelnick’s stocky figure appeared in the glow from the cockpit.
The red light above the door came on. Two minutes to destination.
Lemmy was first in line. He clipped the automatic-release strap to the metal wire that ran along the ceiling. If the canopy failed to open, he would use the emergency strap for manual opening in midair.
Captain Zigelnick walked down the aisle between the two opposite rows of soldiers, his hand moving along the metal wire, verifying that everyone’s release strap was properly attached. The inside of the plane was dark. The soldiers were quiet, their faces tense. It would be their first time leaping from a speeding plane, followed by a night of solitary navigation through the desert.
When he reached Lemmy, the captain patted his shoulder. “Nervous, Gerster?”
“No,” he lied, reaching up to unclip the strap from the wire. “I don’t need this.”
The light above the door made the captain’s face red, adding mischief to his grin. “Count to three, then pull the strap.”
“Yes, sir!”
A minute later, the red light turned yellow. When the light turned green, they would jump in twenty-second intervals, which meant a half a mile between each soldier. After landing, he would be on his own. They had memorized individual routes through dry streams and over rocky hills. Like a nighttime treasure hunt, each soldier had to find and jot down codes painted on rocks at various destination points and reach the gathering spot by dawn.
Lemmy shut his eyes and imagined the topographic map he had memorized. He recalled the desert paths that served deer in search of water, the wadis — dry streams-that were always at risk of flash floods, the sharp-edged palisades that spiked along the rolling dunes. For a good navigator, the maps gave rich information in shades of brown and green that told of the forms taken by the earth. Lemmy’s Talmudic mind, trained to digest complex facts and weigh conflicting scenarios, found it easy to interpret the map, visualize the three-dimensional landscape, and memorize the details of his route. The rest depended on his stamina.
The green light went on. Zigelnick pushed open the door, and wind whirled into the plane. Lemmy shut his eyes, leapt into the darkness, and immediately regretted it. The wind grabbed his body and tossed him like a piece of paper. A moment later his fall stabilized somewhat as the colossal magnet of the earth pulled him downward with relentless force. The acceleration screamed in his ears. The pressure grew in his chest as his guts rose to his throat. He searched blindly for the release strap, his mind intoxicated by the thrill of free fall. A voice inside his head counted, Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Twenty-four.
He reached farther down for the strap.
His hand grabbed empty air.
Grabbed again.
Nothing!
E lie Weiss examined the photograph closely. The woman was smiling. A lock of light hair dropped nonchalantly across her forehead. Moshe Dayan, in uniform, stood behind her, his hands on her hips. They were looking up, possibly at a bird or a plane. Behind them was Dayan’s staff car and in the background, a sandy beach and a cluster of buildings. The date on the back of the photo placed it about a year before Dayan retired from the IDF.
“Bella Leibowitz,” Agent Yosh said. “Her husband was Lieutenant Colonel Gabriel Leibowitz. He was found dead in their apartment, his service Uzi set on automatic. The place was quite a mess. She discovered the body and called Dayan, who was then chief of staff. He sent army medics to clean up. It was ruled an accident, but there were rumors.”
Elie touched the photo. “Did he leave a note?”
“None was found.”
“She probably destroyed it.” Having run out of cigarettes, Elie took one from his agent’s pack-Royal, a filter brand. He lit it and, taking a draw, twisted his face in disgust. “Any evidence? Letters? Witnesses?”
The agent examined his notes. “Her neighbor said Dayan had visited her whenever the husband was away. Dayan stayed for an hour or two while his driver waited in the car. It went on for a few months but ended when the husband died. His mother made a scene at the funeral, but it was all hushed up.”
“We need more evidence,” Elie said.
The other agent, Dor, pointed to a photo of Dayan holding a ceramic object.
“What’s this?” Elie looked closely. “A cow?”
“A wine jar shaped like a bull.” Dor pointed to the eyes and ears. “Wine pours out of the mouth. It’s at least three thousand years old. Biblical.” He took out another photo, showing an outdoor collection of antique jars, tapestries, small fountains, and tools. “Dayan’s backyard garden. It’s full of these. Worth millions.”
“So?”
“Ancient artifacts must be handed over to the Antiques Authority.” Dor pulled another photo, showing General Dayan standing near a gaping hole in a hillside with a group of young soldiers holding shovels. “And Dayan regularly used military personnel and vehicles on his private digging expeditions.”
“It’s a good start.” Elie collected the photos. “Keep digging.”
T he speed of descent was beyond anything Lemmy had expected. The voice in his head kept counting. Twenty-five. Twenty-six.