Israel (95 page)

Toward the end of his training Danny grew fond of the Messerschmitt. It wouldn't have been his first choice, but when he thought about it, he had to admit that the Nazis hadn't done so badly with it, so he figured the Jews could do okay as well. Anyway, any fighter at all was
better than a Piper Cub with a hand-held submachine gun thrust out the side window, which was what his side had been using against the Spitfires.

He spent his days flying and his evenings flirting with bar girls, waitresses and maids. There was one big-busted maid who wore her long red hair in braids and had a wiggly behind that drove Danny crazy, but he didn't know how to do anything about it. His frantic efforts to communicate with the maid, who spoke no English, put his fellow pilots into hysterics.

As the training period wound down to its final days, Danny mercilessly began to badger his flight instructor, who spoke Czech, to jot down Danny's obvious desires so that he could pass the note to the luscious redhead. The instructor refused, adding insult to injury by also sternly lecturing Danny against fraternizing with the natives.

Danny seemed to be losing his mind. The redhead dominated his dreams and ruined his concentration during flight time. Czechoslovakia was his chance to lose his virginity; it was the best chance he would ever have, and poor old Danny, the world's biggest cherry, was going to miss out.

Last night, his final night in Czechoslovakia, desperation had finally overwhelmed bashfulness. He was on his way from his hotel room to the dining room on the main floor when he encountered the maid in the corridor. They exchanged smiles—she'd always seemed to like him—but then that fanny of hers was sashaying away and out of his life.

He looked around wildly and hurried after the maid. He spun her around and he grabbed her wrist to plant her fingers on his swelling groin.

Then Danny smiled in what he'd hoped was a beseeching manner. The redhead giggled, squeezing him tentatively. Then she took his wrist to lead him back to his room.

Beneath her maid's uniform was a black bra, black
panties and a black garter belt to hold up her stockings. The brassiere and panties came off, but through much mime and sign language, which also served to break the ice, Danny was able to persuade her to retain the garter belt and stockings.

She was a redhead all over. As he savored the maid's ruddy charms, he realized this was something that beat flying.

That was last night. Now Danny yawned and watched as the last of his guns and ammo canisters were packed aboard. Then, as the cargo pilot began to feather his engines, Danny got aboard as well.

He rode in the cargo bay, settling as comfortably as he could against the stacked wings, for the first leg of the flight back to Israel. Pretty soon the drone of the engines lulled him into a sort of half-sleep. He retasted some of last night's pleasures and then drifted back to his boyhood and the pleasure he took in assembling model airplanes.

His own laughter jolted him awake as he realized that he was now in charge of one of the biggest airplane kits in the world. Soon the Messerschmitt would be put together, and then he would be a combat pilot at last.

First Danny went to Israel, and now Herschel and Benny were there as well. It was too much. Becky thought she would go insane with worrying.

She desperately tried to occupy herself organizing fund-raisers and making speeches. Her goal was to move a million dollars' worth of goods a month to Israel. Nothing less would do for those who were risking their lives for Israel.

March saw another attempt by the Pickman family to wrest away control of the store. Once again Phil Cooper stood by Becky.

It still riled Becky that Gertrude Hoffer Pickman excluded her from contributing her assistance to Carl's museum project. Becky had beaten Gertrude on two fronts. She'd kept control of the store and regained the social acceptance lost since Carl's death.

It was the beginning of April. To combat loneliness after Herschel's departure, she began to make an inventory of Carl's personal papers. She discovered a letter wedged into the back of a file drawer. It was still in its original
envelope. Becky wondered whether Carl had misplaced it or hidden it. It was dated 1911. The stationery with the Harvard seal was yellowed and brittle.

It was Carl's acceptance letter. He'd wanted to be a doctor. It was so like him not to confide to her that his dream had been denied. She'd been his wife and lover, his protege, but she'd never known the truth about him. She thought back to how she felt as a girl, when her own father took her out of school. She and Carl had been more alike than they'd known.

She called Norman Collins and instructed him to deal with the paperwork. It had not taken long to establish a fund bearing Carl Pickman's name to award scholarships to worthy, financially needy medical students.

On May 17th Becky attended a luncheon during which the main speaker, a newspaper correspondent, lectured on the military situation in the Mideast. The speaker disclosed that the United States was calling for a truce resolution in the Security Council but that Great Britain was stalling, he suspected, in order to give the Arabs a chance to grab territory.

A large map had been erected to illustrate the speaker's talk. Red arrows signified enemy troop positions. There were a lot of red arrows. Someone asked about Galilee and the speaker predicted that it would fall to the Syrians.

Becky sat numb, staring at the map, which made it very clear that Degania was the gate through which the Syrians would have to pass if they wished to seize Galilee.

The command meeting took place in the old dining hall late in the afternoon. The kibbutz membership attended; it was, after all, their home that had become the battlefield. The long tables had all been pushed to one side, the worn, backless benches arranged facing the front table, where Moshe Dayan and the leader of the three-hundred-man brigade assigned to protect the Jordan valley pondered their maps and quietly conferred.

For Herschel, sitting with Benny, his mother and old Yol Popovich, it was a long-awaited homecoming. How he had missed the land of his youth. Not even the hastily dug trenches, the barbed wire and the smell of death could mar this reunion. Benny Talkin had been unusually quiet since their arrival a few hours ago. It was as if the living, breathing history of the kibbtuz had instilled in him a sense of place, of history, of home, that the American had been sadly lacking since coming to this new country.

Degania was Israel, Herschel thought as he sat with one arm around his mother's thin shoulders and his other clasping Yol's gnarled, thick fingers. It would remain so
despite the line of Syrian Renault tanks sitting motionless in the sun like basking black toads. It would remain so despite the neighboring villages that were overrun by the Syrians.

Dayan rapped the table top to bring the meeting to order. The brigade commander who until an hour ago had held the responsibility of protecting the area did not look pleased, and Herschel could understand why. Nobody liked to lose his authority at the last moment, as this poor fellow had when Dayan arrived, bringing along nothing but a platoon of frightened adolescents from the Youth Troops, a couple of rusty bazookas and of course Benny and himself.

Dayan cleared his throat. “From what I've been told, your few machine gun nests have served to keep away the Syrian infantry. They must cross the barley fields to get to us, and they will not do so as long as the guns have ammunition.”

“What about those tanks?” the brigade commander demanded: “Machine guns won't stop tanks.”

Dayan turned his head to glare at the officer. Herschel, as always, was struck by Dayan's birdlike mannerisms. The Haganah leader was dressed in the worn khakis that served as the uniform of the Israel. He and Benny had each been issued a set as well, along with Sten guns and an extra magazine of ammunition apiece. Herschel's pants were too short and his shirt had given way under his left arm. Becky would have to send them better uniforms. He smiled to himself. He could have daydreamed about her all day, but he pushed her from his mind to concentrate on what Dayan was saying.

“We'll need weapons far more effective than Molotov cocktails if we're to hold off the tanks. From what you people have reported and from what I've seen, we're up against a Syrian infantry brigade backed by tanks and armored cars. Deganias A and B must dig in far more
effectively if they are to hold out. Things here are not so bad, but Degania B is practically undefended. I've also noticed that Bet Yerach, a stone's throw north of here, is unoccupied.”

“So what?” the brigade commander exploded. “It's nothing, merely an archaeological mound. I know you haven't been in combat for years, Moshe, and I am trying to make allowances for your inexperience, but diverting manpower and precious ammunition to protect a mound of dirt from the Syrians is going too far.”

“Commander, it is true that Bet Yerach is not a settlement, but if you look at the map, you'll see that it commands the road from Zemach, which the enemy has already taken. The Syrians must pass Bet Yerach if they wish to take Degania, the corridor between the Jordan River and the Sea of Galilee. If we can entrench ourselves on the mound's eastern slopes, we can fire on the Syrians as they pass. We will have flanked the enemy.” Dayan shrugged. “I can think of no better way to use what little we have.”

“Little is right,” the commander scoffed. “What we need is artillery to blast those tanks.”

“Ben-Gurion has promised to send us artillery as soon as it can be spared from elsewhere.”

“It'll be too late then,” the commander shouted in frustration. “I say we should evacuate.”

“Never,” Rosie murmured to her son. On her other side Yol was translating for Benny. Her hair was the color of slate, her face wrinkled by the years and made haggard by the violence of the last few days, but her deep brown eyes were as fiery as ever.

“They'll never make me leave Degania,” Rosie went on. “How can he imagine that any of us would leave?”

“No one's leaving, Mama.”

“If we evacuate now, there's a chance we can all escape before they resume shelling,” the commander was
loudly announcing. “For the life of me, I don't know why they're not shelling us now.”

“Perhaps they're just as short of ammunition as we are,” Dayan suggested. “The Syrians were never the best-equipped of the Arab nations.”

“What about my evacuation plan?” the commander insisted.

Dayan shook his head. “We must hold the Deganias. We cannot abandon the Jordan valley.”

“I refuse to follow the orders of a novice.”

“Hey, can I say something?” Benny got to his feet and glanced inquiringly at Yol. “Maybe you could translate for me.”

“Everyone here speaks English,” one of the old members shouted out.

Benny glanced at the brigade commander, who nodded. “Go ahead. Say what you've got on your mind.”

“Well, maybe you won't like me too much when you hear what I got to say.” Benny slipped his hands into his pockets and looked down at his shoes. “It seems to me that the big problem here, besides the Arabs, is who's in charge. When times are this bad, rank doesn't matter. Commander, you know you can't pull out and let those Syrian creeps just waltz in here. So that's that, right? What we can do is stall until those antitank guns get here. It seems to me that Moshe's idea of sending out a party of volunteers to flank the enemy is a good one.” Benny shrugged. “So let's hop to it and cut the crap.”

Yol nudged Herschel. “Your papa used to talk to the membership just that way.” He beamed approvingly.

“I agree with Benny,” Herschel said. “I also volunteer to lead the force to Bet Yerach.”

“We have so many leaders,” the brigade commander observed sarcastically.

“Hey.” Benny pointed his finger in warning. “That's my friend you're talking to, wise guy. It just so happens
that he grew up here. This is his turf. Get it? Who better to go running around out there in the dark?” Benny winked at Herschel. “I'll go with you.”

“I accept your offer, Herschel,” Dayan said. “It does make sense that somebody from Degania should be in charge at Bet Yerach. Let's get to it, then. This meeting is adjourned.”

As the others streamed out, Herschel noticed Yol staring at him suspiciously. “I know why you volunteered,” the old man hissed. “Don't think I don't.”

“Quiet, you old monkey,” Herschel whispered, cocking his thumb at his mother. “We'll talk about it later.”

“No later,” Rosie scolded. “I'm old, not deaf. Anyway, I also know why you have volunteered, Herschel. It's because your father's grave is just behind Bet Yerach.”

“All right, then, I admit it,” Herschel said soberly. “Tell me, Yol, during the previous attacks did you see him?”

“See who?”

“You know who.” Herschel clasped the old man's shoulder. “Jibarn Ahmed.”

Benny asked, “Hersch? Is that the guy who rubbed out your old man?”

Herschel nodded, and turned back to Yol. “Tell me, have you seen him?”

“Leave me alone,” Yol ordered, pulling away from Herschel. “I'm an old man. I don't see so good anymore.”

“Yol, please. Don't you understand? He'll be waiting for me at my father's grave. I know it. I sense it. It's almost like he's my brother.”

Yol nodded in defeat. “All right. Yes, I saw him. I was looking for him with binoculars. I knew he would come back to help destroy Degania. I saw him sitting in a command car with some other officers. I swear, it gave me a start—he suddenly turned and gazed right back at me.” Yol seemed to cave in. He had aged considerably in the
last few years. He had lost a great deal of weight, his beard had gone snow white and his scalp was totally bald and liver-spotted. “I know he could not see me, but I can't shake my gut feeling that he knew I was looking at him.”