The Glory (2 page)

In Israel, and among Jews around the world, all is light, gladness, joy, honor, and euphoria …

The Dreamers

WHEN THE LORD RETURNED US TO ZION,

WE WERE LIKE DREAMERS.

THEN OUR MOUTHS WERE FILLED WITH LAUGHTER,

AND OUR TONGUES WITH SONG …

Psalm 126:1, 2

On a blustery morning in October 1967, the destroyer
Eilat
, returning from patrol off Sinai, was approaching Haifa at a leisurely ten knots to conserve fuel. In the unsteady charthouse
Noah Barak, a lieutenant of twenty-three with the haggard overworked look appropriate to an executive officer, was checking
through a sheaf of navy yard requisition forms: hull repairs, engine maintenance, work on radar and signal gear, and — marked
in angry red ink
VERY URGENT
— missile countermeasures.

The officer of the deck spoke through the voice tube. “Sir, collision course out here.”

“Coming.”

The day was fair, the sea moderate: rolling glittery blue swells, a few whitecaps, brisk chilly north wind. The sun was high
over Mount Carmel, and ahead was the long stone Haifa breakwater. On the port bow some two miles away, a large rust-streaked
white vessel was also heading for the channel entrance. Noah asked, peering through binoculars, “How long has he held course?”

“Since 0700, sir, no change.”

Noah buzzed the captain. “Sir, request permission to go to twenty knots.”

“What’s up?” Noah told him. The captain yawned. “Well, so what? You say we have him to port. He’s got to give way —”

“Sir, it’s one of those Italian automobile ferries.”

“Oh,
l’Azazel
. Those fellows never heard of the rules of the road. How far out are we?”

“Four miles to number-one buoy, sir.”

“Very well. Go to twenty, Noah, and take her in.”

The
Eilat
leaped ahead, smashing through the swells. The automobile ferry slowly fell back to port, then dead astern. When the
Eilat
entered the harbor and approached the naval base, the captain came up on the bridge, clean-shaven and in a fresh uniform,
and took the conn to tie up alongside its sister ship, the
Jaffa
. These two old British one-stackers, purchased out of mothballs and reconditioned by the Israelis, were the capital warships
of the Jewish navy, dwarfing the huddle of gray patrol and torpedo craft that made up most of the little sea force.

Noah shouted to the executive officer waving to him from the
Jaffa’s
bridge, “Shlomo, what’s the word on the countermeasures?”

“The word is we have to sail without them again,” Shlomo yelled back. The two destroyers spelled each other in the Sinai patrol
station.

Noah uttered a pungent Arabic curse. “I’ll go to supply section this morning and set fire to the place.”

“Let me provide the kerosene and a blowtorch,” called back the
Jaffa’s
exec.

By now the automobile ferry was inside the breakwater, slowing as it passed from foaming swells and sea winds to flat murky
harbor calm. At the bow a young man about Lieutenant Barak’s age leaned on the rail, dressed in a tan sport jacket, gray slacks,
and a red racing driver’s cap. He somewhat resembled the exec of the
Eilat
, and this was no coincidence, for they were distant cousins who had never yet met. Like Noah Barak the young man was broad-shouldered
and round-faced though not as tall, and like Noah he had a thick thatch of straight hair, sandy instead of black. “I’m here,”
he was murmuring. “I’m here. Everybody thinks I’m crazy, but I’m the sane one, and I’m dizzy with joy.”

The sight of the destroyer racing ahead of the ferry had thrilled him, an honest-to-God warship flying the blue-and-white
Star of David, and this approach to Haifa was giving him a yet greater thrill, his first close look at the Promised Land:
sun-drenched white buildings mounting the green Carmel slopes, a waterfront crowded with the parti-colored funnels of docked
ships from many lands, a naval base lined with combat craft, and on flat ground to the north, imposing chemical plants and
oil refineries. The whole panorama was stirring his blood like brass band music.

A deep voice behind him in Hebrew: “Beautiful view, yes?”

The burly speaker wore soiled jeans and an old leather wind-breaker. His coarse jowly face was scraggly with black bristles,
and his overgrown grizzly hair stirred in the breeze. On the three-day trip from Italy the newcomer had seen this man before,
a loner of some sort, sitting apart in the dining salon or the shabby little disco, smoking big cigars.

“Ken, yofeh m’od.”
(“Yes, very beautiful.”)

“Ah, so you’re an American.” The man switched to guttural English.

The young man laughed. “Three words in Hebrew, and you can tell?”

“You must be bringing in that new blue Porsche.”

“That’s my car.”

“Tourist?”

“Nope, making aliya.”

The pudgy face showed amused surprise. “You’re coming to Israel to
live
? For good? From America?”

“Why not? For a Jew nowadays, this is where it’s at, isn’t it?”

“Oh, absolutely.
Kol ha’kavod
! [All honor!] But look here, you may run into problems with that Porsche at the
Mekhess
. You know what that is, the Mekhess?”

“Sure, Israeli customs. I’ve brought certified bank checks for the taxes, and all the required documents. Got them in the
New York consulate.”

“Really? Very wise. Do you have family here?”

“Sort of. Heard of General Zev Barak?”

“Our military attaché in Washington? Who hasn’t?”

“We’re related.”

“You don’t say.” The Israeli pointed at the naval base. “The destroyer that just came in is the
Eilat
. His son’s the second in command.”

“So that was the
Eilat
? Well, Noah Barak’s my cousin. I’ll be looking him up. You’re an Israeli, I take it.”

“What else?”

“Were you in the war?”

“Of course, I’m not fifty yet. Antiaircraft unit in the north. Not much to do, since our air force wiped out all the Arab
airpower on the first day.”

“Yes, wasn’t that marvelous? Christ, what a victory. Six days! Made me proud to be a Jew.” At the Israeli’s quizzical look
he added, “Not that I wasn’t proud anyway.”

“And that inspired you to make aliya?” The Israeli’s tone was warm, almost paternal. “The Six-Day War?”

“It tipped the scale.”

The diesels growled, the deck shuddered, and the vessel churned toward the wharfs.

“And is your name Barak, too?”

“Nope. Barkowe.” He added with a grin, “Both changed from Berkowitz,” and he offered a card from his wallet:
John A. Barkowe, Attorney-at-Law, Real Estate
, with an address in Great Neck, Long Island.

“Real estate, hah? I dabble in it myself.”

“I was just getting started.”

“John Barkowe. Doesn’t even sound Jewish.”

“I know. My Hebrew name is Yaakov. That’s what I’ll be using here.”

“Fine Israeli name.”

Approaching a broad wooden slip, the ferry blasted its siren several times. “Here we go,” shouted the Israeli, hands to ears.
“Get into your car, and be ready to drive off.” He handed Barkowe a card. “Have fun in Israel with that Porsche, Yaakov.”

“Thanks. See you around.” Barkowe glanced at the card and dropped it into a pocket.

The stream of debarking cars, mostly decrepit small European models, was directed by hard-faced men into an enormous shed,
where the drivers after parking queued up at grilled windows along the far wall. A huge sign proclaimed in Hebrew over the
windows

WELCOME, ARRIVALS

and below that, in much smaller letters

CUSTOMS

The Porsche came rolling in, attracting stares all the way. As Barkowe parked and got out, a tall bony man in a green peaked
cap approached him, saying,
“B’dikah
[Inspection].” More men came up, surrounded the Porsche, and began peering into it and feeling the blue leather upholstery.
Since this was happening to no other car that he could see, Barkowe mentioned the fact in his limited Hebrew to the inspector
in the cap.

“
Ani mitzta’er
[I’m sorry],” said the inspector, who had a very pronounced squint; a suspicious look or a physical defect, the American
couldn’t be sure which. Another inspector was crawling under the car with a big flashlight, while a third banged here and
there on the bumpers and fenders with a wooden club. Two more pulled out Barkowe’s luggage, three fine leather bags, and began
rummaging through them.

“What is this? Do you think I’m a —” Not knowing the Hebrew for “smuggler,” he pantomimed cocaine-sniffing with back of hand
to nose and a loud snort.

The squinter shrugged, frisked Barkowe head to foot, and stopped at a pocket. “Show please.”

Barkowe handed him his wallet. The inspector looked at the credit cards, the driver’s license, the wad of dollars, and the
small stash of Israeli currency. “Tourist?” he inquired.

“Making aliya,” said the American.

The squint was not a defect after all. It cleared away in a look of utter amazement, then returned more pronounced and suspicious
than before. Lifting the hood of the Porsche, he squinted under it, borrowed the flashlight from the man under the car, crouched
to squint more intently at the engine, and scribbled in a pocket notebook. Then he said, “Documents.”

“Don’t they go to the Mekhess?”

“I’m the Mekhess.”

A shiny white Mercedes pulled up nearby and the Israeli in the windbreaker jumped out, seemingly in a hurry, for he went off
toward the windows at a trot, swinging his overlong arms. Barkowe produced a rubber-banded envelope, and the inspector took
a long leisurely squint at the papers inside. Meantime two of the other men were pulling up the floor mats, one was flashing
the light into the gas tank, and another was kicking the tires. Long queues lounged and fidgeted at all the windows, but even
while the inspector was glancing over his papers Barkowe saw the burly man lope back to his Mercedes and drive off through
a gate into the waterfront traffic.

“New car?” said the inspector at last.

“Almost new. I drove around Europe a bit when I first picked it up.”

“Where was that?”

“In Milan, Porsche agency.”

“Ah good, no problem then.” The squinter snapped the rubber band around the envelope and handed it back to Barkowe. “You can
book return passage on this same boat tomorrow.”

“Slikha?”
(“Pardon?”)

“You have to take this Porsche back to Milan.”

“I don’t understand.”

The Mekhess man blasted a spate of Hebrew at him.

“Slower, please,” said Barkowe.

The squinter said in heavily accented English, “Your model Porsche not available in Israel. No model in Israel, no car come
in.”

“Oh, so you do speak English? Fine. The New York consulate didn’t mention any regulations about models.”

“
Ani mitzta’er
. New regulation.”

“Is that my fault? Look, let me make myself clear. I’ll fight this up to the American ambassador if I have to, but I’m not
taking this car back to Italy. That’s an absolutely insane idea.”

Squinting toward a chain-fenced area full of cars, the inspector said with a shrug, “Impounded vehicles park there. Storage
charge, twenty American dollars daily.”

W
hen Noah Barak returned to the wardroom of the
Eilat
from the supply section, four officers at lunch burst into a popular new song of the war.

O Sharm el Sheikh

Once more we’ve returned,

Our hearts to you ever,

Ever have yearned …

Noah poured coffee from a simmering pot on a sideboard. “Look, isn’t the joke getting old?”

“What joke? What old?” said the captain, a roly-poly lieutenant colonel (the Israel navy used army ranks), gesturing at a
blown-up newspaper photograph taped to a bulkhead. It showed Noah, wearing only shorts and an officer’s cap, nailing the Star
of David flag to a pole atop a stone fortress. “Who else in this navy captured an enemy base singlehanded?”

It was in fact a very old joke. On temporary detached duty, commanding a patrol boat in the Red Sea, Noah Barak had led a
landing force ashore at Sharm el Sheikh, only to find that the base had been abandoned in the pell-mell retreat of the Egyptians.
So at negligible risk he had “captured” the deserted base, an army photographer had snapped the shot, and it had appeared
next day on the front page of
Ha’aretz
. Aboard warships jokes tend to be durable. He had been serenaded off and on for months about Sharm el Sheikh.

Noah shook his head irritably and took the coffee to his cabin, where a telephone chit on his tiny desk read,
Daphna Luria called. Phone her 1800 tonight Ramat David
. He could seldom see the luscious Daphna, tied as he was to the ship and she to her duties at the air base, and just those
dry words sent a warm flush from his scalp to his toes. There was also a hand-delivered letter on Dan Hotel stationery, from
someone signing himself Jack Barkowe, who wrote in English that they were cousins, that he had come to Israel on aliya, and
that he was having difficulty getting his car through customs. Could Noah recommend an agent in Haifa to assist him?

Noah was astonished. He knew that a branch of the family in Long Island had altered the Berkowitz name to Barkowe, but this
was the first he had heard of the cousin, and an American making aliya these days was a real rarity. The newspapers were full
of articles complaining about the failure of American Jews to start emigrating en masse to Israel, now that the Six-Day War
had secured the Promised Land as the Jewish State once for all. What was wrong with those millions of American Jews? Here
was the moment they and their fathers and their forefathers had been praying for three times a day, century after century,
the glorious chance to Return to Zion! And American Jews were indeed coming to Israel in droves, to see sights hitherto barred
to them — the Wailing Wall, Jericho, Hebron, Sinai — for three, five or ten days, depending on the tour plans. Tourism, yes,
aliya, no. In and out.
Z’beng v’gamarnu!
(Bang and finish!) More power to this Long Island cousin, Noah decided, he deserved help at the Mekhess.