He had to find the strap and pull, or in a few more seconds he would hit the ground and die.
Twenty-seven.
He felt the strap on the tip of his fingers. Then it was gone again.
Twenty-eight.
It touched his palm, and he clasped it, pulling hard.
Nothing happened.
Twenty-nine.
Crack! The canopy popped open, and the straps yanked his shoulders. The howling wind suddenly quieted, and he was swaying in midair, surrounded by silent darkness. The plane’s buzzing sound faded into the night. He looked down, trying to estimate the distance to the ground. It was too dark.
The rocks appeared suddenly, leaving him little time to bend his legs, double over, and roll.
Everything hurt, but he managed to move all his limbs. He unstrapped the parachute, folded the canopy, and stuffed it into a backpack.
The skyline separated the starry sky from the hills. He recalled the map, visualizing the topography. From his landing point he was supposed to see a wadi ascending north, with steep rocks forming the right bank and more shallow, round hills on the left. He looked at his compass. The tiny arm glowed with yellow phosphorus, pointing north. He followed the skyline and exhaled in relief, recognizing the formation he had memorized back at the base.
He made sure the Uzi was loaded and the safety latch secured. The Egyptian border was only a few miles south, a porous line often crossed by Palestinian terrorists heading for the Israeli farming communities in the Negev Desert. Their attacks had intensified recently. Only a few days earlier Lemmy had read in Ha’aretz that Egyptian president Gamal Abdul Nasser had ordered his generals to transfer all remaining Egyptian forces from Yemen, where they had taken part in a bloody civil war, to the Sinai Peninsula, declaring: The Arab nation is ready to remove the last foothold of imperialism from our land. PLO leader Ahmad Shuqairi had told reporters at his headquarters in Gaza: Very soon the Jews will be repatriated to the countries they came from, but I estimate that none of them will survive the war.
The thought crossed Lemmy’s mind that PLO infiltrators might be lurking in the darkness, ready to welcome him with a burst of automatic fire. He pushed the thought away and focused on the task ahead. With a strip of cloth tied around his head to keep the sweat from his eyes, Lemmy ran up the narrow wadi, his boots stomping the rocks. He counted his steps to measure the distance. After two thousand steps, he held up his compass and searched the skyline, finding the boulder at the top of the hill on the right-a massive rock, wide and flat, reminiscent of the boulder his father had mounted every Friday to pray in view of Temple Mount.
Once on top of the boulder, he cupped his flashlight with his hand and turned it on. The series of letters and numbers had been painted on the boulder in black, and he copied them down on a piece of paper. He shoved everything back into his pouch, leaped off the boulder, and ran.
By the third target, Lemmy’s feet ached, his leg muscles burned, and his shoulders grew sore from the heavy backpack. The landscape had flattened, the skyline harder to decipher. He looked at his watch. He was making good time, but one erroneous turn and his advantage would disappear. He closed his eyes and concentrated, imagining the path ahead: Down a moderate slope at exactly thirty-seven degrees from the north, turn right and head east into a wide valley. He adjusted the strap of the Uzi and shifted the backpack slightly higher.
At the bottom of the hill he turned right. His throat was dry and his shirt was wet with sweat. But he kept going, determined to reach the final destination before anyone else. The army had become his new home, his new family. He hoped to be chosen for officers’ training and pursue a military career like Captain Zigelnick.
A wide valley should open before him any minute now. He had not been able to tell from the map whether the valley would be bare or cultivated. Such valleys had rich alluvial soil, and farmers from the kibbutzim traveled hours on their tractors to farm every piece of fertile land.
Lemmy sprinted across the field, happy to gain some distance at high speed, but his boot hit a hard object, and he fell. The packed parachute landed on his head, pushing his face into the dirt. He cursed, rolled over, and spat out the sand.
When he realized what had tripped him, his anger turned to joy. He lifted the watermelon with both hands and let go. It dropped and split open. A second later, his teeth sunk deep into the juicy, sweet flesh. It filled his mouth, dripping on his chin and onto his shirt.
Earlier that year, Israel had opened the largest manmade waterway in the Middle East, connecting Lake Kinneret in the Galilee to the Negev Desert through open canals and underground pipes. The immense project had been the brainchild of Prime Minister Levi Eshkol, whose dedication speech predicted: This waterway will transform our barren land into fertile soil, like blood flowing in countless arteries to every part of the human body.
The Syrians responded with efforts to divert the Yarmuch River, intending to dry up Lake Kinneret. When diplomatic mediation proved futile, Israeli fighter jets destroyed the Syrian dams. Lemmy thanked the anonymous IDF pilots whose attack had kept the water flowing south to nourish this watermelon field.
He was chewing on the last piece when rocks tumbled from a nearby hillside. He placed the watermelon on the ground, rubbed his sticky hands against his pants, and reached for the Uzi.
A man’s silhouette appeared against the starry sky.
Lemmy pressed the Uzi to the inside of his forearm, aimed at the figure, and threaded his forefinger into the trigger slot.
A watermelon burst open.
Lemmy’s forefinger eased out of the trigger slot. He picked up a piece of watermelon skin and tossed it.
A cry came in response, and an Uzi was cocked.
“Don’t shoot,” Lemmy yelled, laughing.
“Gerster! I’ll kill you!” It was Ronen, who had jumped from the plane right after Lemmy.
“Chill out. And let me help you with this watermelon.”
“Steal your own watermelon!”
“I already did. They’re so good.” Lemmy strapped on his backpack and shouldered the Uzi. “How many targets have you found?”
“Only two. The first was real close, but I got lost, had to go back and start over.”
“Don’t shoot anyone unless they speak Arabic.” Lemmy started running, and a piece of watermelon chased him.
Chapter 32
The IDF lent Elie Weiss four reservist officers to assist him in setting up the Civic Defense operation. They put up a tent near the entrance to the IDF command center and posted signs in Hebrew and Yiddish. It was Passover Eve, and large numbers of Orthodox men showed up to volunteer. He watched with satisfaction as they arrived by foot or by bus, chattering in Yiddish as they queued up to register. The stories of Arab atrocities in the Old City in 1948 had been told and retold over the intervening two decades, and now the Jews of Jerusalem seemed determined to prevent a repeat.
Per Elie’s instructions, each volunteer had to present a form of identification and provide the names of their community, yeshiva, and rabbi. For Elie’s Special Operations Department, this was a treasure trove of new information, to be added to the existing files. He estimated that the next few days would double his already vast database of potential religious agitators who were hostile to secular Zionism.
Many of the black hats mentioned Rabbi Abraham Gerster’s proclamation, which had been printed and plastered on walls all over West Jerusalem: The duty to guard Jerusalem supersedes the duty to study Talmud until the evil forces of the Muhammadians have been repelled from our sacred city. Such words from the leader of Neturay Karta-the most virulent anti-Zionist sect in Jerusalem-left all the other rabbis no choice but to permit their followers to volunteer for the trench-digging effort.