By the Rivers of Babylon (5 page)

Abdel Majid Jabari sat staring at a cup of black Turkish coffee laced with arak. “I don’t mind telling you I was badly frightened. I came very close to shooting a security man.”

Miriam Bernstein nodded. Everyone was jumpy. It was a time of celebration, but also a time of apprehension. “My fault. I should have realized.”

Jabari put up his hand. “Never mind. We see Palestinian terrorists everywhere, but in fact, there are not many left these days.”

“How many does it take? You especially should be careful. They really
do
want you.” She looked at him. “It must be difficult. A stranger in a strange land.”

Jabari was still high-strung from his dawn encounter. “I’m no stranger here. I was born here,” he said pointedly. “You weren’t,” he added, then regretted the remark. He smiled in a conciliatory manner and spoke in Arabic. “‘If you mingle your affairs with theirs, then they are your brothers.’”

Miriam thought of another Arabic saying. “‘I came to the
place of my birth and cried, “The friends of my youth, where are they?” And Echo answered. “Where are they.”’” She paused. “That applies to both of us, I suppose. This is no more your land now, Abdel, then it was mine when I landed on these shores. Displaced persons displacing other wretched persons. It’s all so damned . . . cruel.”

Jabari could see that she was on the verge of slipping into one of her darker moods. “Politics and geography aside, Miriam, there are many cultural similarities between the Arabs and the Jews. I think they have all finally realized that.” He poured a glass of arak and raised it. “In Hebrew, you—we—say
shalom
alekhem
, peace unto you. And in Arabic, we say
salaam
aleckum
, which is as close as we’ve gotten to it up to now.”

Miriam Bernstein poured herself a glass of arak. “
Alekhem
shalom
, and unto you, peace.” She drank and there was a burning in her stomach.

As they sat at breakfast they spoke about what might happen in New York. She felt good talking to Jabari. She was apprehensive about sitting face to face with Arabs across a conference table at the UN—the long-heralded confrontation— and Jabari was a good transition for her. She knew he had been far from the mainstream of Arab thought for thirty years, and his loyalties were with Israel; but if there were such a thing as a racial psyche, then perhaps Abdel Jabari reflected it.

Jabari watched her closely as she spoke in that husky voice that sometimes sounded weary and often sounded sensuous. Over the years, a bit at a time, he had come to know her story as she had come to know his. They had both known what it was to be the flotsam and jetsam of a world in upheaval. Now they both sat at the top of their society and they were both in a position to change the currents of history for better or worse.

Miriam Bernstein was a fairly typical product of the European holocaust. She had been found by the advancing Red Army in a concentration camp, whose purpose was as obscure as its name, although the words
Medizinische Experimente
stuck out in her mind. She remembered that she had once had parents and other family—a baby sister—and that she was Jewish. Beyond that, she knew little. She spoke a little German, probably learned from the camp guards, and a little Polish, probably learned from the other children in the camp. She also knew a few words of Hungarian, which had led her to believe that this was her nationality. But mostly she had been a silent
child, and she neither knew nor cared if she was a German, Polish, or Hungarian Jew. All she knew for certain, or cared about, was that she was a Jew.

The Red Army had taken her and the other children to what must have been a labor camp, because the older children worked at repairing roads. Many of them died that winter. In the spring, they all worked in the fields. She had wound up in a hospital, then was released into the custody of an elderly Jewish couple.

One day, some people came from the Jewish Agency. She and the old couple, along with many others, traveled across war-ravaged Europe for weeks in crowded railroad cars that gave her nightmares. They boarded a boat and went to sea. At Haifa, the boat was turned away by the British. The boat attempted to unload the people further up the coast at night. A fierce battle broke out on the beach between the Jews, who were trying to secure the beachhead, and the Arabs, who didn’t want the boat to unload. Eventually, British soldiers broke up the fight and the boat sailed away. She never knew where it went because she had been one of the people who had been landed on the beach before the fight. The old couple, whose name she could not remember, disappeared—dead on the beach or still on the boat.

Another Jewish couple picked her up from the beach and told the British soldiers that her name was Miriam Bernstein and that she was their child. She had strayed from their house and gotten caught in the fighting. Yes, she was born in Palestine. She remembered that the young couple were very poor liars, but the British soldiers just looked at her and walked away.

The Bernsteins had taken her to a new kibbutz outside Tel Aviv. When the British left Palestine, the Arabs raided the settlement. Her new father went to defend the kibbutz and never returned. As the years passed, she discovered that her older stepbrother, Yosef, was also an adopted refugee. She found nothing unusual about that because she imagined that most children in the world—or in her world—came from the camps and rubble of Europe. Yosef Bernstein had seen what she had seen, and more. Like her, he knew neither his real parents nor his real name, his nationality nor his age. They became young lovers and eventually married. During the Yom Kippur War, their only son, Eliahu, was killed in action.

Miriam Bernstein had taken an early interest in private peace groups and had cultivated the good will of the local Arab
communities. Her kibbutz, like most, was hawkish, and she felt increasingly isolated from her friends and neighbors. Only Yosef had understood, but it was not easy for him, a fighter pilot, to have a dovish wife.

After the 1973 War her party appointed her to a vacant seat in the Knesset in recognition of her popularity with the Israeli Arabs and with the women’s peace movement.

She quickly came to the attention of Prime Minister Meir and the two became personal friends. When Mrs. Meir resigned in 1974, it was understood that Miriam Bernstein was her voice in the Knesset. With Mrs. Meir’s backing, she rose quickly to a deputy minister’s post. Long after the grand old woman no longer sat in the wings of the Knesset, Miriam Bernstein held on to her seat and her post through one government crisis after another. On the surface, it appeared—and she believed—that she survived every Cabinet shuffle because she was exceedingly good at whatever she did. Her enemies said that she survived at least in part because of her striking good looks. In fact, she survived in the high-mortality world of parliamentary politics because she was an instinctive survivor. She was not consciously aware of this side of her character, and if she were ever confronted with a synopsis of her political machinations or a list of the people she had politically eliminated, she would not have recognized that it was Miriam Bernstein who had done those things.

Whenever she thought back on Mrs. Meir’s help and support, it was always the small things that stood out, such as the times the Prime Minister took her back to her apartment after an all-night Cabinet session and made her coffee. Then there was the time the Cabinet requested that she adopt a Hebrew name in keeping with government policy for office holders. Mrs. Meir—formerly Mrs. Meyerson—understood her reluctance to sever the only thread she had with the past and supported her resistance to the change.

There were people who thought that Miriam Bernstein was being groomed to fill Mrs. Meir’s old job someday, but Miriam Bernstein denied any such ambitions. Still, it had been said that Mrs. Meir was appointed Prime Minister
because
she didn’t want the job. The Israelis liked to put people in power who didn’t want power. It was safer.

Now she held a job that she coveted more than Prime Minister: Peace Delegate. It was a job that hadn’t existed a few
months before, but she always knew it would exist someday.

There was much to do in New York, and there was personal business to attend to there, also. Yosef had been missing for three years now. She wondered if she could find out something about his fate from the Arabs when she got to New York.

Jabari noticed a small disturbance outside and instinctively put his hand in his pocket.

Miriam Bernstein seemed not to notice. She was caught up in what she was saying. “The people have elected a government ready to exchange concessions for solid guarantees, Abdel. We have shown the world that we will not go under. Sadat was one of the first modern Arab leaders to understand that. When he came to Jerusalem he was following in the footsteps of countless others who have come to Jerusalem since the beginning of recorded time to find peace, and yet he shattered a precedent of thirty years’ standing.” She leaned forward. “We have fought well and have won the respect of many nations. The enemy is no longer at the gate. The long siege is ended. The people are in a mood to talk.”

Jabari nodded. “I hope so.” He looked over her shoulder at the crowd gathered in the street as she continued to talk. He felt her hand over his. “And you, Abdel? If they founded a new Palestine, would you go?”

Jabari stared straight ahead for a long moment. “I am an elected member of the Knesset. I don’t think I would be welcome in any new Palestine.” He held up his mangled hand. “But even so, I might take that chance. Who knows—I might be reunited with my family there.”

Miriam Bernstein was sorry she had asked the question. “Well, we will all have decisions to make in the future. What’s important now is that we are going to New York to discuss a lasting peace.”

Jabari nodded. “Yes. And we must strike now while the mood is in the air. I have this fear that something will happen to break the spell. An incident. A misunderstanding.” He leaned forward. “All the stars—social, historical, economic, military, and political—are aligned for peace in the Holy Land as they have not been in millennia. And it’s spring. So it can’t hurt to talk. Right?” He stood. “But I wish we were in New York already and the Conference were under way.” He looked into the street. “I think our planes are coming in. Let’s have a look.”

People from the café were hurrying into the street.
Approaching Lod Airport from the north were two Concordes. As the first aircraft began its descent, the crowd could see the blue Star of David against the white tail. There was some scattered applause from the mixed Arab and Jewish crowd.

Miriam Bernstein shielded her eyes as the Concorde dropped lower and approached from out of the sun. Beyond the airfield, the Samarian hills rose up off the plain. She noticed that new almond blossoms had come out during the night and the hills were smudged with pink and white clouds. The rocky foothills were softly green and carpeted with brilliant red anemones, cream-colored lupins, and yellow daisies. The yearly miracle of rebirth had returned, and along with the wildflowers brought into bloom by the
Hamseen
, peace was breaking out in the Holy Land.

Or so it seemed.

Tom Richardson and Teddy Laskov left the café in Herzlya and got into Richardson’s yellow Corvette. They hit the heavy Friday traffic of Tel Aviv and the car slowed to a crawl. At a traffic light a block from The Citadel, Laskov opened the door. “I’ll walk from here, Tom. Thanks.”

Richardson looked over. “O.K. I’ll try to see you before you scramble.”

Laskov put one foot out of the door, then felt Richardson’s hand on his shoulder. He looked back at Richardson.

Richardson regarded him for a long second. “Listen, don’t get trigger-happy up there. We don’t want any incidents.”

Laskov stared back with cold, dark eyes. His brows came together. He spoke loudly, above the noise of Tel Aviv’s traffic. “Neither do we, Tom. But the best we’ve got are going to be on board those birds. If anything that looks military gets on my radar screen, and if it’s in missile range, so help me, I’ll knock it out of the goddamn sky. I’m not putting up with any fly-bys, reconnaissance, or harassment horseshit from
anyone.
Not today.” Laskov slid his big bulk out of the low-slung car and moved as if he were heading for a barroom brawl.

The light was green, and Richardson edged ahead. He wiped the sweat from his upper lip. At King Saul Boulevard, he made a right turn. Laskov, big and burly, was still in his mind’s eye. He could actually see the great burden on the man’s broad shoulders. There wasn’t a top military commander in the world who didn’t wonder if he was going to be the fool to start World
War III. The old warrior, Laskov, liked to bellow, but Richardson knew that if and when a quick, tactical decision had to be made, Laskov would make the right one.

Richardson turned onto Hayarkon Street and stopped in front of the American Embassy. He finger-combed his damp hair in the rear view mirror. The day had gotten off to a bad start.

Through the car’s sun roof, he could see two white Concordes overhead. The bright sunlight gave them an ethereal glow. One was in a holding pattern, heading out to sea. The other was heading in the opposite direction as it began its final descent to Lod. For a split second, the aircraft seemed to cross paths and their delta wings formed the Star of David.

Sabah Khabbani chewed slowly on a piece of pita bread as he stood looking through his field glasses at Lod Airport. He shifted the glasses. Below, on the Plain of Sharon, the plowed earth was a rich chocolate. Between the cultivated fields, the Rose of Sharon and the lilies of the valley flowered as they had done since long before Solomon. A distinctive grey area marked Ramla Military Prison where so many of his brothers were wasting away their lives. To the south, the rocky Judean hills, brown a few days before, had turned red and white, yellow and blue, as wildflowers blossomed. Around him, the Jerusalem pines, part of the reforestation program, swayed as the
Hamseen
came over the crest. The old Palestine of his boyhood had been beautiful in a wild way. He had to admit the Jews had improved on it. Still . . .