The Glory (39 page)

N
ext morning when the telephone rings by Zev Barak’s bedside, he wakes disoriented, peering at his illuminated clock. Four-thirty?
On Yom Kippur Day? Hearing Golda Meir’s voice, he thinks at first it must be a bad dream, like others he has been having.
“Zev, come to Tel Aviv.” The tone is harsh, tired, level. “Be at my office by seven. Zeira just called me. The war will start
at six this evening.”

His throat contracts, his spine coldly prickles. It is no dream.

D
awn streaks the sky outside the windows of the Tel Nof commander’s office. The young lieutenant with the duty watch has gone
all night without food or drink and is in a foggy state. “Yom Kippur is cancelled.” Benny Luria startles him, coming in clad
in a G suit.

“Cancelled, sir?”

“Cancelled. Call the cooks. Kitchens will be activated at once, full breakfasts prepared for the whole base. All gates of
the base to be closed. Returning personnel may be admitted. Nobody leaves Tel Nof.”

“Yes, sir.” The duty officer cannot resist. “Is it war, General?”

Luria ignores the query. “All sections go to Aleph Alert. Meeting of squadron leaders and deputies in fifteen minutes.”

He returns to his quarters, where Irit meets him with a cup of steaming coffee. In the kitchen Dov is having coffee and cake,
also in his G suit. Galia in Irit’s red bathrobe sits blinking and yawning. “I’m still fasting,” she says. “I’m not air force
personnel.”

“It’s foolish,” says Irit. “Have coffee. Who knows what the day will bring?”

“Suit yourself, Galia,” says Luria.

“Benny, is it the Six-Day War again?” Irit wants to know. “We’re attacking?”

“Can’t discuss it. I have to talk to those poor Hassidim. I’ve housed them near the kitchen. They’ll go crazy when they pick
up cooking smells.”

I
n the Prime Minister’s office, as Barak listens in silence to the sobered talk about what steps to take next, Yom Kippur does
not have to be cancelled, it does not exist. Pastry, tea, coffee, cigarette smoking, business as usual; same room, same faces,
same calm tones, with this difference, that catastrophe now appears to be thundering down on Israel. Zeira and Dayan are maintaining,
though a shade forlornly, that it may still be a false alarm. After all, Zeira’s ultrasecret special source has only raised
the probability overnight from
“very low”
to
“eighty percent sure.”
And what about the guaranteed seventy-two-hour warning? No explanation, and Dado and Golda are now assuming the worst, war
at sundown. Her words are coming back to Barak:
“Do those great warriors need an old lady to nursemaid and second-guess them?”
The appalling answer seems to be yes.

For Dayan and Dado are at loggerheads. The Ramatkhal wants immediate drastic moves to head off the surprise. The Defense Minister
urges prudence, with minimum hue and cry. A strange debate this, between the rugged handsome Elazar in field uniform, his
square face wrinkling in worry under his thick curly hair, and the world-famed balding general with the eye patch, dressed
like a civilian but bearing himself like a composed super–Chief of Staff.
How many reserves to mobilize?
That is the question, and to cut the argument short, Golda decides: less than Dado wants, more than Dayan thinks necessary.
And what about the air force, the great winner of the Six-Day War? Dado is for a preemptive strike against Syria, but Dayan
opposes it. After much talk she goes with Dayan.

The hurried meeting at last ends. When Barak is left alone with her, she turns to him a face of white stone, deeply scored
with tragic lines. “Nu, Mr. Alarmist? Go ahead, say, ‘I told you so.’ ”

“But I didn’t this time, Madame Prime Minister. And it’s not war yet.” She dismisses this with a hand-wave, as though brushing
away a fly. He adds, “The American ambassador is waiting in the next room.”

“I know that. So, Zev? What do I say to him? Do I tell him” — she falls into Talmudic singsong — “to tell
Nixon
to tell the
Russians
to tell the
Arabs
that we won’t shoot first? Will that stop them? Or will it only encourage them?”

“For the Americans it’ll establish your bona fides.”

“Bona fides, shmona fides! They’ve sent me messages all week while the Arabs were massing,
‘Don’t preempt. Don’t preempt.’
Like De Gaulle before the Six-Day War,
‘Ne faites pas la guerre!’
” As she chain-lights a cigarette the stone face melts into the concerned countenance of a grandmother. “Your children, where
are they?”

“The girls are too young to serve. My son Noah commands a Saar boat.”

“Ah, the navy.” She nods. “Well, it’s a nice navy, but what can the navy accomplish? Now it’s all up to the boys at the Canal
and on the Golan. They’ll have to hold and fight while we mobilize.” She rests her head in her hand. “Seventy-two hours. We
were promised seventy-two hours.”

Zev Barak has a strong urge to plead for immediate total mobilization. It might still give the country some precious hours
to gear up for war. Dado as army chief could demand it. Dayan as Defense Minister could recommend it. Why has the idea already
been discussed and dismissed? Various reasons. Panicking the country on this holiest of days might prove needless, after all;
a warlike move might trigger a still-doubtful Arab attack; and again,
always, always
, how will the Americans react? From the CIA as yet, there has been no warning at all. So who is Zev Barak to raise his squeaky
voice? And what is wisdom now, with all Israel observing the Day of Atonement, and tank forces as numerous as Hitler’s at
his peak, poised north and south to close on the oblivious little Jewish State like the jaws of a nutcracker?

Golda lifts her head and stares at him, her eyes reddened. “Yesterday, the minute I heard about the Soviet diplomats, I
knew
. I thought the great generals must know better. Maybe they did. Maybe they still do. Maybe it’s not going to happen. But
if it does, I’ll be beating my breast till I die because I didn’t act yesterday, and go to full mobilization.” She bitterly
smiles. “Some Yom Kippur, ha, Zev? I see you’re still fasting, you’ve put nothing in your mouth. Eat something. Drink something.
You’ll need your strength.”

Barak pours himself a glass of water and drinks it.

“That’s the way.” She looks down at her gray dress and straightens the skirt. “Call in the American ambassador.”

I
n Haifa’s main synagogue, Professor Berkowitz as a trustee rates a seat by the chief rabbi near the Holy Ark, but Shayna prefers
the overflow Yom Kippur service in the downstairs social hall, so that is where they are this morning. The rabbi’s son, an
old beau of hers, officiates here and gives no sermon, in itself an attraction; and through gaps in the cheesecloth partition
she can peek at her menfolk, Michael and Reuven, with Noah Barak, Don Kishote, and Aryeh, who all ate the last meal before
the fast at her flat.

Kishote has come to Haifa after conferring with Arik Sharon at their division headquarters about the latest air photographs
and intelligence maps of Egyptian dispositions. “It’s war, all right,” Sharon said. “But Gorodish has three hundred tanks
in Sinai. That’s enough to hold them while we mobilize, once we get the warning. I’ll try to spend Yom Kippur at my farm.
… Haifa? Why not? Go ahead. Have a light fast.” With his deceptively gentle grin, Sharon then added, “Wear a uniform and boots.
Just in case.” So Kishote has come here with Aryeh, who is still desolate because his Gadna youth group was ordered off the
Golan Heights, where they were visiting the outposts.

What an awesome view from Mount Hermon, Aryeh enthused to his father as they were driving to Haifa; Syrian tanks, howitzers,
APCs, thousands of war machines stretching far, far out of sight, beyond the antitank ditch on the plain below. At the outpost,
a narrow crowded hole in the ground, everything was thrilling: the telescopes, the guns, the military talk, the patches of
snow, the army food, the crude bunks like shelves, everything! But all leaves were abruptly cancelled, and the Gadna youths
sent home. No reason given. By chance he had encountered Amos Pasternak at a cross-roads, directing groups of clattering tanks
here and there. Amos gave him a hasty hug, but no information. “No, no war, Aryeh. Not that I know about. We’re just here
to discourage them from trying anything.” Aryeh yearns for that smelly dugout on the Hermon, and the terrific view of the
Syrians. However, spending Yom Kippur with his father and Aunt Shayna is nice, too.

Next to Shayna sits Hedva, a deeply pious friend who snagged the rabbi’s son when Shayna broke up with him. Hedva now has
three children and a barrel figure. Whenever Shayna peeks at the men Hedva frowns, but so what? Looking at Kishote and Aryeh
does her heart good. Shayna does not envy Hedva Poupko the bewhiskered Chaim and her kids. Everyone’s life is different. She
has Michael and Reuven, and in a bizarre way she has Yossi and Aryeh, too. Cooking for them all before Kol Nidrei, especially
for the Nitzans senior and junior, filled her with a unique precious emotion, an obscure deep joy tinged with pain, such as
her friend Hedva would never know.

But odd things are going on beyond the cheesecloth. A paratrooper in uniform is making his way through the rows of chairs
and taps the shoulder of a bearded youngster, who gets up and goes out, folding his prayer shawl. Moving here and there, the
soldier hands worshippers slips of paper, and one by one they leave. Kishote and Noah too drop shawls on their chairs and
depart. Shayna hurries to intercept them in the lobby.

“Yossi, what is it?”

“Reserve call-up. It may not mean much. Still, I’d better get back to headquarters, Keep Aryeh with you for the holidays,
will you? I’ll telephone tonight if I can.”

Behind the offhand manner Shayna can discern an abstracted brain turning over contingencies, options, plans. “Come on, Yossi.”

He smiles, life flows into his face, and the eyes twinkle behind the glasses. “Wonderful last meal, Shayna. Being with you
is heaven for Aryeh. I don’t mind it, either. Is the fast bothering you?”

“Kishote, is it war?”

“Not right now. If it comes, we’ll win. Shayna, I love you. Get back behind the curtain, and” — he lapses into Yiddish —
“davan gut
[pray well]!”

On the chance that some plane, military or civilian, will be flying south, Noah Barak drives him to the airport. Moving automobiles
all have their headlights on, signalling respect for the national fast day while driving on official duty. Reservists are
hurrying this way and that in the streets in holiday clothes, some still wearing prayer shawls. At the airfield planes are
being dragged by tractors from hangars. “Well, good luck in Sinai, General. An attack on Yom Kippur!” says Noah. “Makes sense
from their viewpoint, I guess, the bastards.”

“Easy, Noah. So far this is a limited mobilization. Yom Kippur’s not such a bad day for us to go to war, anyway. Empty roads,
and I know where most of my reserves are, they’re either at home or in synagogue. … Hold on, that looks like my ride.” He
jumps from the car and trots after a tall striding figure in slacks and a sweater. “General, are you going south?”

The former air chief, Ezer Weizman, turns. “Don Kishote! Come along. How’s Yael?”

“She’s in Los Angeles.”

“Ha! At the moment, a pretty good place to be.”

Climbing into the Piper Cub, Yossi waves at Noah, who speeds off.

T
he navy base, when Noah gets there, is busier than he has ever seen it: fuel and ammunition trucks rumbling about, working
parties loading every vessel in sight, boat engines snarling and coughing as they warm up. He parks the car with the headlights
ablaze, then remembers and goes back to snap them off. With that he snaps off all awareness of Yom Kippur.

The flotilla commander, a small dark man named Barkai, with a tough face and a disposition to match, is leaning over a chart
on the desk in his map-lined office, under a majestic picture of Golda Meir. “Ah, you’re here, Barak. Good. So much for army
intelligence, hah? You sail in the second group. The word is, the Arabs will launch all-out war at six tonight. By then we’ll
be off Cyprus with five boats, out of Syrian radar range. We’ll penetrate Latakia harbor after dark and sink the Syrian fleet.
Surprise the surprisers. Any questions? My staff and I will ride in your boat.”

Noah’s heart thumps. He does indeed have questions, for the Syrian fleet is armed with the Styx missiles which sank the
Eilat
. The Cherbourg boats, and the new boats constructed in Haifa, have the Gabriel missile, but its range is less than half that
of the Styx: twelve miles, against twenty-eight miles. The Syrians can stand off and fire Styxes with impunity, unless the
Israelis can somehow close the range and survive to fight. What about the newest countermeasures from Rafael, the armament
authority, he asks, is there still time to install them?

“No, no. Look, we’re already loaded up with countermeasures. If one won’t work maybe another will. Anyway, we’ve drilled and
drilled at missile-evading maneuvers, and to Azazel with the Styxes. We’re going after the Syrian navy.”

G
eneral Luria has to brief a crowd of nonplussed Phantom pilots, all suited up and ready to go, on a last-minute change of
targets. If war actually breaks out now, he explains, the reserves will need two or three days to mobilize. Meantime the small
regular forces will have to hold off the Arabs north and south. The Egyptians are two hundred miles from Israel, whereas Syrian
tanks are just a fifteen-minute run from some Jewish settlements on the Golan. Egypt remains the chief target, and the air
force will certainly smash that missile screen along the Canal, which by doctrine has been first priority for any outbreak
of war; but now, with the short warning time, crushing the Syrians’ offensive capability becomes more urgent. New target for
the first strike, therefore: the Soviet missile batteries covering the Golan front.