“He applied to the sayeret as an enlisted man, got the run-around from Brom, so attended the officer’s course.”
“Brom won’t like another immigrant,” said Feldhandler, surprising Yatom with his knowledge of the inner-workings of the sayeret.
“He’s not—his parents came over in 1979. He was born in Beersheba.”
“Even so.”
“Brom will live with it. He’s the best qualified man available. Mofaz has already made him his second—replacing Yoram.”
“Good. And your equipment?” asked Feldhandler. “Well, according to the guidelines you just handed me” said Yatom “we should be able to take our basic load of personal weapons and ammo, plus load the capsule with at least a machine gun or two, sniper equipment, demolitions, and an anti-tank weapon—am I correct?”
“Yes,” said Feldhandler. “Don’t skimp. Take plenty of ammo—I know you can’t take too much. I’ll check you out when I get back, but prepare to take what you need, and consider contingencies. We’ll review matters if there is a problem.”
Yatom wondered at Feldhandler’s sudden generosity. Yatom had fought hard to get stowage on the Iranian mission that would have allowed for extra operational flexibility. But Feldhandler nixed it, fearing it would overload the capsule. Now he was pushing weapons and ammo on the assault team like a Jewish nana forces extra matzo balls her grandkids. Well, thought Yatom, a few extra matzo balls, or grenades, never hurt.
Chapter 4
Yatom left the Kirya with thought of children, not war, in his head. His own child to be precise, a six year old princess named Ronit. She lived with her mother in Holon, a working class suburb of Tel Aviv, and easy drive from the Kirya. Yatom, as a sayeret commander rated his own car, though not his own driver, and he checked one out of the motor pool, advising the nineteen-year-old conscript clerk, that he would be driving on to Dimona. The skinny young soldier, was one of a huge flock of conscripts avoiding combat service by doing petty administrative service at the kira, usually by way of parental influence, gave him the paperwork and the keys as if he couldn’t care less if Yatom were driving to the moon. Such soldiers irked Yatom. It wasn’t like in the old days, when service in combat units, and especially elite commando formations was fought over by young Israelis, and a successful stint in the IDF was the was a necessary qualification for any male to advance in society. Now, these rear area mother fuckers—as Yatom knew the Americans called them—seemed to constitute the vast majority of troops. Well, at least they were doing some service thought Yatom. About twenty percent of young Israeli men now managed to avoid military service completely, through exemptions for religious study, mental or physical disabilities or criminal records. Jews should be grateful that they can fight in a real army Yatom thought ruefully—for two millennia of suffering and humiliation it was a right denied to them. But less than a century of Jewish independence was already sapping the will.
He shook these thoughts from his head as he pulled out onto Tel Aviv’s crowded Ben Yehuda street and drove for Holon. Instead he thought again of Ronit, and considered how he would keep things civil with her mother, Devora. His ex-wife’s name meant hornet in Hebrew, and in this case thought Yatom, the name fit. She’d stung him so hard and so many times, that the occasional piece of shrapnel felt like a relief. Well, an exaggeration; but the bad marriage had been the rocky result of two forceful personalities, and the divorce had been worse. Unfortunately, Yatom was tired and under pressure, while Devora had no patience for his problems. He knew that Ronit deserved a better father than a tired soldier who stopped by now and again.
Devora and Ronit lived in a new upscale garden style apartment on a quiet side street. Yatom parked the car, energized at the thought of seeing his daughter. He secured his weapon in the trunk of the car—no need for Ronit to see her dad carrying around an assault rifle all the time—and took the stairs two at a time to the top floor. They were waiting for him at the door.
“You’re late again” is all Devora said as Ronit leapt into his arms and he gave her a sloppy wet kiss. The little girl recoiled a bit from the saliva and his rough beard, but wore a bright smile on her face anyway. Yatom ignored Devora, and tousled his daughter’s hair.
“You can’t stay here, you know that“ Devora continued, in her disturbingly direct manner. It was no wonder they didn’t last—two people shouting orders at each other all the time. Yatom bit back his own annoyance.
“We’ll go to the movies!” he said enthusiastically to Ronit, eyeing Devora from the corner of his eye.
“And afterwards?” said Devora dubiously.
For the first time Yatom addressed his ex-wife directly. “We’ll find something to do. Come Ronit!” he said brightly to the child, “we’ll get some ice cream first…” And with that he pounded easily back down the steps, Ronit giggling in his arms.
Despite Yatom’s preoccupations, and the unpleasantness with Devora, he fell back into fatherhood gladly, at least for the first few hours. They ate ice cream and watched some silly American-made children’s movie with computer animations. He couldn’t follow the plot and dozed off several times, but Ronit seemed to enjoy herself, so he was happy. But by five o’clock he’d run out of things to do, Ronit was tired, and he was already anxious to hit the road. He dragged her to a too solemn dinner at too nice a restaurant just to kill time until seven. They arrived back at the Holon apartment a few minutes early and so waited in his army car and listened to the radio until Devora pulled in a few minutes late.
“Don’t even say it” Devora said waiving an arm dismissively at Yatom as she left her car and walked briskly toward the building.
“How long have you been waiting here with nothing to do—an hour?” she accused him, turning her own tardiness into a weapon. Yatom ignored her.
Devora swept up the child, who looked relieved to be home. The girl eyed Yatom over Devora’s shoulder as she was carried away, and gave her father a tired wave goodbye.
Yatom got back into the car feeling blue. It seemed so often the case that visits with Ronit, for all the initial enjoyment, left him depressed and saddened at the end—and not just because it meant he wouldn’t see the child for a few weeks. He hadn’t been a very good father or husband, and still wasn’t. That thought, for all its self-awareness, didn’t make him feel better. He started the engine, and shifted into first, then thought better of it, and slipped the stick back into neutral. He got out of the car, and retrieved his assault rifle from the trunk. He detached the magazine, cleared the action, reinserted the magazine, charged the weapon and placed it on safe. He put the weapon on the passenger seat and finally drove off. Even in the heart of Israel these days, thought Yatom, you couldn’t be too careful.
Chapter 5
Feldhandler wanted more than anything to return to Dimona, by car, aircraft or on foot if it came to that, but he was stuck with Defense Minister Arbel until after they could dispose of the Americans—if they could dispose of them. From Tel Aviv, a helicopter flew him, Mina, Arbel plus several aides, to Ramat David airbase in the north of the country. The selection of Ramat David was deliberate. It was far from Dimona—by Israeli standards anyway.
At Ramat David, Feldhandler and Mina were directed to a simple officer’s barack and allowed a few hours to rest. Afterwards, and reluctantly, they visited the dining facility and unenthusiastically nibbled at poor quality army food. If armies really fought on their stomachs, the IDF would have lost all its battles. Enough Israeli soldiers still smoked that their taste buds were deadened to the tasteless fare. This left the cooks, who tended to be derided in the army anyway, little incentive to try harder.