The Glory (69 page)

“Natke, you’re wrong,” says Don Kishote. “Thank God for Kissinger.”

Natke Nir stares at him in stupefaction, as the Egyptians sing and cheer on both sides of the Canal.

Emily Halliday has not been in the King David Hotel in seventeen years, and like an old love song the unchanged lobby wakes
poignant memories. She remembers her thunderstruck surprise when Zev Barak came through that revolving door, she remembers
the small shabby room where they listened to Ben Gurion’s speech, she remembers that first kiss which ran through her body
like a live-wire shock and made her cry with joy. And here comes General Barak through that same revolving door, white-haired
but otherwise hardly changed. “Welcome, delighted to see you both.” Same deep warm voice and slight charming accent. “My car
is just outside.”

General Halliday insists on putting her beside Barak in the front seat, asking as he gets in the back, “How’s your navy son,
Barak?”

“Still at sea with his flotilla, thank you.”

“We’ve had good reports about your navy’s role in the war.”

“It did well. You and I will visit the base in Haifa, and the CNO will brief you on the sea campaign. The battle off Latakia
has interesting aspects. Yes, you might say our navy found itself in this war. And you might say we almost lost ourselves.”

“It came out all right,” says the American.

“Not at that cost. But the bill was presented, so we paid it.”

Sitting beside Barak, hearing his voice, her senses stirring with the King David remembrances, Emily feels nineteen years
old and vibrantly alive, and at the same time all too weighted with the years.

Nakhama opens the door in a plain pink housedress and a white apron. “Hello, welcome.”

In all that thick black hair Emily sees not one silver thread. She has hundreds. Thousands. “Nakhama, this is my husband,
Bradford Halliday.”

Zev’s wife gives Halliday a warm smile and a firm handshake. “Well, Zev’s told me a lot about you, General.”

“How are your girls?” Emily asks when they are at table, and Nakhama is serving a spicy-smelling soup. “They must be young
women, both of them.”

“Ruti is still in high school. Galia’s engaged, but her fiance’s missing in action, Phantom pilot.”

Halliday perks up. “F-4? He must be good. Was he hit by a missile? Was he seen to eject?”

Barak tells him what he knows of Dov’s disappearance. Halliday soberly nods. “I was in the F-4 for years. It’s a tough workhorse,
it can take a lot and keep going. In Vietnam we rescued many a Phantom pilot who crash-landed and was missing for a while.
Tell your daughter not to lose hope.”

“I will,” says Nakhama. “Coming from you, it’ll mean a lot.”

The men talk about the war, and Barak almost ignores Emily — which is all right with her — describing how the navy’s electronic
countermeasures outclassed the opposing Soviet equipment. “We take some pride in that,” he says. “Product of Israel, all of
it.”

“You should. We were disappointed that the stuff we sent to shield your Phantoms didn’t do the job.”

“So were we. It took combat testing to find that out, and some losses.”

Halliday looks rueful. “We sent the best we had.”

“I’m sure of that. We’re still analyzing the data from two aircraft that went down, and one that got through. It’s voluminous.”

“We’ll be grateful to see that material.”

“Of course you’ll sec it all.”

The telephone rings. Barak talks Hebrew in low tones, then inquires, holding the phone, “General, are you very tired?”

“Not in the least. Why?”

“General Elazar can meet you this evening, after all. Change of plans. He’s here in Jerusalem, and he’s free right now. Otherwise
day after tomorrow as scheduled, in Tel Aviv.”

“Let’s go now, by all means.”

“Very good. The army is sending a car, and the driver will take Emily back to the hotel.”

Nakhama interjects, “Why? I can do that.”

“Or I’ll walk. It’s not far,” says Emily. Here is a chance to have it out with Zev’s wife.

When the men have left, Nakhama asks, pouring tea, “So, how long will you be in Israel?”

“Not as long as Bud. I’ll be off to Paris day after tomorrow.”

“Paris. I’ve yet to see Paris,” Nakhama sighs. “Can you imagine? We’ve been to Athens, Rome, even London. He’s been to Paris,
but I haven’t.”

Remembering well her Paris times with Wolf, Emily holds her tongue and drinks tea. Nakhama rambles on. “Well, I can’t blame
you for cutting short your visit here. Israel’s a sad place these days. We’re still very shaken up by the war. Zev was surprised
to hear that General Halliday was bringing you.”

“I asked to come, and Bud was nice about it. Sort of a going-away present.”

“Going away? I don’t understand.”

“We’re getting divorced.”

Nakhama opens great eyes. “You’re serious?”

“Oh, quite. I’ll be looking for a flat in Paris. Let me help you clear those dishes.”

“Sit where you are, it won’t take a minute and we’ll go.”

“If you’re like me,” Emily says, getting up and collecting plates, “you can’t walk out the door leaving dishes unwashed.”

Nakhama laughs. “Well, you’re very nice. Don’t stain that lovely suit.”

In the breakfast alcove near the sink, Emily sits down, saying, “I don’t find Israel a sad place. Lively traffic, people going
about their business. Things seem back to normal here, pretty much.”

Nakhama shakes her head as she rinses dishes. “Not so. Not at the borders, and certainly not in our spirits. Listen, you amaze
me. Why the divorce? Or would you rather not talk about it?”

“I don’t mind. It’s simple enough. Bud found himself a great love, which I never was, truth to tell. He’s been open and honest
about it, and he’s made very decent arrangements for me and the children. I don’t complain.”

“A great love, you say?”

“Secretary of a friend. A beautiful Norwegian. At least he finds her beautiful.”

“You don’t?”

“Far from it. But you know how that is.”

Nakhama dries her hands. “I suppose I’m lucky.”

“How so?”

“Well, Zev found a great love, but he stuck to me.”

The two women’s eyes meet. “Good God, Nakhama,” Emily chokes out.

Nakhama shrugs. “It’s true, isn’t it?”

“Christ almighty! Are all Israeli women like you? You’re the damnedest woman I’ve ever known.” Unable to help it, Emily wipes
her eyes.

“Why do you say that? Look, how about a glass of wine before we go?”

“If you have whiskey, better yet.”

Nakhama goes out and comes back with a dusty brown bottle. “Canadian Club, is that whiskey?”

“That’s fine, thanks.”

“We have no soda. Will it go with Pepsi-Cola?”

“Nakhama, just pour it in a glass, will you? No ice, no water, nothing.”

“Right. I’ll keep you company with a little wine.”

Emily gulps the whiskey. “Ahhh. Best medicine for jet lag. Or for practically anything.”

“Have more.”

“Yes, please.”

“Let me tell you something,” says Nakhama, pouring red wine for herself. “I’ve been jealous of you for years. Any Israeli
woman would be. Sometimes so jealous it made me nasty and sick, not a good wife. But lately I had a real deep change of heart,
when Zev went off to Washington to try to get an airlift. The war was so terrible, and my son was fighting out at sea, and
Dov — that’s Galia’s intended — was flying against those missiles, and there went my husband on such a vital mission, and
I thought, so what if he sees Emily Halliday? So
what
? For
what,
all these years, have I been eating out my kishkas? Kishkas are intestines.”

“I gather that.” Emily holds out her glass.

Nakhama fills it again. “The truth is, we married too young. I was a very, very pretty girl, Emily, but I never was a book
reader, I’m not an intellectual, not really a match for Zev —”

“Balderdash, he adores you.”

“I said I’m lucky, and I know it. But your letters mean the world to him, and so do you, and I can understand why. But it
hasn’t been easy for me, and —”

“He’s stopped writing.”

Nakhama blinks. “I didn’t know that.”

“He thinks it annoys or upsets you.”

“Should I talk to him about that? I’ll be glad to. What’s wrong with letters?”

Emily is speechless. All the way to Israel she has been marshalling arguments to convince the wife that the correspondence
is innocuous. The wind is knocked out of her.

“You know,” Nakhama goes on, pouring still more Canadian Club for her, “we’ve had this old bottle here for years. I forget
who gave it to us. I’ve never tasted the stuff. Is it good?”

“It’s strong.”

“I’ll try it.” She puts some into her empty wineglass. “Oo-ah. Burns going down, doesn’t it? Where was I? Well, what’s more,
Zev is an Ashkenazi, you see, and I’m a Sephardi. Both my parents were Moroccan immigrants. He’s from an old Zionist family,
originally Polish, later Viennese. We’re the black Jews, the
‘second Israel,’
they’re the whites, and believe me, his mother let me know it. To her dying day she didn’t let me forget it, and —”

“Truly? Among Jews, race distinctions?”

“Oh, yes, yes. Now remember that time in that cottage of yours in Middleburg, when you were so embarrassed about the pistachio
nuts?”

Emily feels a flush from her toes to her scalp. It remains a horrible if buried memory, when Nakhama came to the Growlery
and caught sight of the pistachios she kept set out for Zev.

“I remember,” she manages to say.

Nakhama says matter-of-factly, “It almost killed me.”

“You never turned a hair.”

“What was I to do? Remember I said then that it was all right? It cost me blood but I said it. You gave him something I couldn’t,
and I realized that. I still do, and I say it again, it’s all right.”

“Nakhama, for God’s sake, let’s go.”

“B’seder. Oo-ah, that Canadian Club. I’ll talk to Zev about the letters. Really, it’s all right.”

As they come outside Nakhama is weaving along the sidewalk, and Emily is not too steady herself. Muttering in Hebrew, Nakhama
has trouble fitting the key into the Peugeot’s ignition.

“Nakhama, are you up to driving?”

“Well, we’ll soon know, won’t we?” She runs Emily to the King David in minutes, stopping for red lights and doing nothing
bizarre, except turning too wide on one curve and mounting a sidewalk, causing pedestrians to dodge and yell in Hebrew. “Oo-ah,
that’s hard on the tires,” she remarks. She sweeps up the driveway of the hotel and squeals to a stop. “Here we are.”

“Thank you for everything.”

“For what? Listen, Emily, if I were you I wouldn’t give up on a man like General Halliday. He’s very impressive. I’d fight
that Swede.”

“She’s Norwegian.”

“Sorry, Norwegian. Here we get these blond women coming down after our men, and mostly they’re Swedes. Give her a battle.”

“Good night, Nakhama.”

“Well, I know I should mind my own business. Good night, then. I’ll talk to Zevvy about the letters.”

Sandbagged, thinks Emily, walking back into the memory-haunted lobby. Sandbagged again by Nakhama, the nonintellectual. Gone,
the comforting fantasy of eventual romantic interludes in Paris with the White Wolf, once she is free. It’s all right with
Nakhama, so it’s impossible.

Zevvy!

“C
ome on up, Barak,” says Halliday on the house phone, two days later. The clock over the King David reception desk reads 8
A.M
. “Suite 708.”

“Hi.” Emily opens the door in the dark gray pantsuit she wore to the Israel Philharmonic concert, where as usual Nakhama fell
asleep.

“Hi, still here? I thought you’d be off at the crack of dawn.” Beige leather suitcases and a hatbox are stacked near the door.

“My doing,” says Halliday. In a golf sweater and an open shirt, he is rapidly writing on a yellow legal pad. “She’s taking
a later plane. Look, can you and I put off leaving for Haifa till about ten?”

“No problem.”

Emily asks, “Is the Wailing Wall far from here? I seem to have a couple of hours to kill.”

“Twenty minutes or so by foot. Five minutes by car. I’ll take you there.”

“Lovely. I’ll put on walking shoes.”

Halliday says as she goes out, “Thanks, Barak. She’s a mite annoyed.”

“My pleasure.”

Left alone, General Halliday writes busily for half an hour, then stretches, and rereads:

King David Hotel

Jerusalem, Israel

2 November 1973

Personal and Secret

Dear Mr. Secretary:

My mission in Israel is to report to you on one question:
what will be the effect here if the United States relieves the Third Army with an airlift?
Herewith I offer my best judgment, responding to your urgent telephone call at three o’clock this morning, local time. I
met with the Chief of Staff, Lieutenant General David Elazar, the first night I got here, for a long frank talk. When I mentioned
the possibility of an American airlift for those besieged Egyptians, his answer was a poker-faced shrug. Elazar is a hardbitten
man who fought a tough war and wants a viable end to hostilities, so his reaction was predictable.

The Prime Minister’s military secretary, Major General Barak (the white-haired gent who recently came to Washington), suggested
a helicopter tour of the combat theater, and I accepted. From the air, the Jews and Arabs at first seem to have fought a Disneyland
war in a tiny mock-up of a war zone. But by the figures Barak provided, the tank battles rivaled Kursk and El Alamein in real
numbers of tanks involved, and total war deaths were comparable to World War II, in percentage of population. The Israelis
are consequently in a state of shocked gloom. There is a general sense here that they lost the war, whereas they won a most
remarkable comeback victory, or we wouldn’t be planning an airlift to save an entire Egyptian army from destruction.

Flying over the Golan Heights and the Suez Canal, one sees two extensive blasted battlefields where the Jews took the worst
the Syrians and Egyptians could throw at them. They won both battles by a whisker. These two Middle East Verduns, which they
call the Valley of Tears and the Valley of Death, saved them from losing the war; and then they forced President Sadat to
cry uncle with the audacious crossing of the Canal by General Sharon, and the cutting off of the Third Army by the lesser-known
but very able General Adan. We flew over the Second Army’s lodgment north of the Great Bitter Lake, which the Israelis did
not quite succeed in cutting off, so its supply lines seem to be functioning, though it’s immobilized. But looking down on
the Third Army lodgment, I could understand Mrs. Meir’s intransigence. Over many square miles of barren wasteland, thousands
of machines and tens of thousands of soldiers are languishing in a sunbaked death trap. That’s her ace in the hole in negotiating
a disengagement.