The reservists at the makeshift desk took down the information, handed out the shovels, and sent the volunteers to dig trenches near their homes, not only for their convenience, but to create a closer association between the physical work, which they were unaccustomed to, and their own families’ safety.
Shortly before noon, Elie noticed Tanya Galinski arrive at the building. She wore a light-blue dress, and her hair was gathered under a khaki cap. Elie followed her inside.
The office of Brigadier General Tappuzi was filled with officers, who congregated around a map of the city. Elie poured himself lukewarm coffee in a paper cup and stood in the back, listening.
“I have some bad news,” Tanya said. “General Bull has allowed the Jordanians to run cables from their anti-aircraft batteries to the UN radar station. There was some talk about safe passage for UN personnel to the airport in Amman, where General Bull’s private plane is kept.”
“There you have it,” Tappuzi said. “If we don’t disable that radar, Jerusalem is lost!”
“Not if the front remains quiet,” Tanya said. “We’re still hoping to avoid war or at least keep Jordan out of it.”
While they argued, Elie elbowed his way between the uniformed men and looked closely at the map. He found Government House on a ridge south of the city, controlling both parts of Jerusalem while guarding the roads to the southern half of the West Bank and east to Jericho and the Jordan River.
Tappuzi fingered the point on the map. “I’d like to get over there and blow up the radar, but there’s the Armistice Line, the Jordanian bunkers and patrols, the UN observers, the fences and landmines around Government House-”
“Getting caught by the UN,” Tanya said, “will make Israel look like the aggressor and destroy any chance of obtaining American and French support..”
“And in the hands of the Jordanians?” Tappuzi passed a finger under his throat. “Immediate execution!”
One of the officers said, “How about destroying the radar with artillery shells in the first moments of the war? We could later claim it was a mistake, a misfire, or something.”
A major in olive drabs and a large mustache said, “I don’t have precision artillery for something like this. The radar operates on Antenna Hill in the rear of the compound, protected by sandbags and concrete. It would take a lengthy barrage to do real damage, and I’ll probably hit the main building multiple times, kill a couple of hundred UN observers, and so on.”
“Forget it,” Brigadier General Tappuzi said. “The only option would be an attack from the air, which can’t be done until the radar is disabled, It’s the chicken and egg thing.”
“Same with the Jordanian anti-aircraft batteries,” the artillery major said. “Their bunkers are vulnerable only to surprise attack from the air, but our planes would be detected by the radar and shot down.”
Elie had heard enough to outline an operation in his mind that would save Jerusalem from Jordanian bombing and allow him to pluck Abraham’s son from the paratroopers’ corps. But a room full of loudmouthed sabra officers wasn’t the right forum. He would approach Tappuzi in private.
L emmy reached the final destination in the early morning, finding Captain Zigelnick and a driver roasting potatoes by a campfire. He showed Zigelnick the codes he had jotted down at each of his destination points, which the captain compared to a list. They were correct.
Sanani showed up almost an hour later and cursed at the sight of Lemmy chewing on a piece of potato skin. His dark face shone with sweat as he dropped to the ground, panting. “I’m going to beat you next time, Gerster!”
“Good luck,” Lemmy said.
The rest of the soldiers trickled in, handed in their lists of scribbled codes, and unloaded their gear while sharing experiences with the others. Meanwhile, the surrounding yellow dunes began to heat up under the morning sun.
Captain Zigelnick beckoned Lemmy. He was only a couple of years older than his trainees, but his rank and seniority made him seem like an adult. “Training is almost over. You feel ready for battle?”
Lemmy realized his commander wasn’t joking. He was talking of a real battle, with Arabs shooting to kill, with blood and death all around, like the war stories Lemmy had read in Tanya’s books. “I’m ready,” he said. “We’ll beat them back and then some.”
Zigelnick smiled. “That’s the spirit. Just remember, you don’t have to prove anything to anybody.”
“Prove?”
“Your father is a famous man.”
Lemmy felt his face blush. How did Zigelnick find out? Pretending to watch the other soldiers load the gear into the canvas-covered back of the truck, he regained his composure. “He’s not my father anymore.”
Captain Zigelnick’s forehead creased.
“I’m dead to him.”
“Then you don’t have a reason to die again.” Zigelnick patted his shoulder. “I don’t care about your father. He can go on preaching nonsense. But I don’t want to see you showing off when bullets start flying. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Once the truck was loaded, Zigelnick jumped in the cabin next to the driver, and they began the long drive back to the camp in the hills south of Beersheba. Lemmy sat with the rest of the soldiers in the back of the truck, surrounded by piles of gear and backpacks.
As always, Sanani was the center of attention, drawing on his endless fountain of jokes. “Do you know why the black hats grow long payos?” Sanani paused for a moment then answered his own query. “So that when they walk down the street and see a sexy woman, they can cover their eyes with the payos but still see her tits through the hairs.”
The roaring laughter was louder than the constant humming of the truck.
“And why do they wear black hats and black coats?” Sanani looked around. “Because it makes them invisible when they prowl the parks at night to find a whore.”
Lemmy said, “Sanani could just go naked,” which caused even more laughter.
“And do you know why the Orthodox don’t turn on the lights on Friday nights?”
“Because they’re cheap,” suggested someone, to the cheers of the others.
“Also,” Sanani declared, “because they rather not see their ugly wives coming to bed!”
The soldiers booed. They despised the Orthodox for refusing to serve in the IDF and defend Israel like everybody else.
“And why don’t they take off the black coats even during the hot summer?”
Someone shouted from the other end, “Because they like to stink!”
“Because they can’t take it off. It’s stuck!”
The soldiers mimicked vomiting.
Sanani’s teeth showed against his dark skin. “And why do they pile shit in the corners of a black hat wedding-hall?”
No one had an answer to that.
“To keep the flies away from the bride!”
When the laughter calmed down, Lemmy said, “You’re wrong. That smelly brown stuff in the corner isn’t shit. It’s a bunch of Yemenite relatives!”
Sanani laughed with everybody else, taking no offense.
The soldiers were chronically sleep-deprived, and soon everyone was out. But Lemmy couldn’t sleep. This Passover would be the first holiday away from his parents. He thought of the intense preparations in Neturay Karta, the cleaning of apartments and scrubbing of pots and pans. Under his father’s supervision, every dish and tableware was dipped in the water of the mikvah to cleanse them of all remnants of bread or other leavened food. Bottles of wine and boxes of matzo were distributed to needy Neturay Karta families, and the women spent three days cooking for the Seder dinner. Lemmy thought of last year’s Passover, the room full of guests, singing praiseful melodies from the Hagadah of the Israelites’ exodus from Egyptian slavery. Would they miss him this year? Or next year? Would his parents ever forgive him, or agree to see him again? He imagined walking into Meah Shearim one day, many years ahead, dressed in his IDF general’s uniform, an Uzi slung from his shoulder. He would enter the synagogue, wearing a military cap rather than a black hat, and face Father, whose beard would be white, his back bent with years. And then what? A handshake? A hug? Or a cold shoulder?