The Glory (79 page)

“Lend me a jeep, then. My time’s short, and my Hertz car is too dainty for the Golan.”

“No problem.”

It was a rough long climb from the Daughters of Jacob bridge up the escarpment, and night was falling when he saw a line of
Centurions silhouetted on a ridge. Taking a jolting shortcut over stony fields, he passed a crowd of soldiers sitting on a
hillside in the cold starry night. Inside the operations tent, the battalion commander and his staff were conning a map under
one glaring lamp. The commander jumped up and saluted. “This is very fortunate, General Nitzan. We’re having a bonfire ceremony
in memory of Dado, with army singers. I was going to speak, but you served with him. Will you talk, sir? Just a few words,
whatever comes to mind? Will you honor us?”

Yossi was tempted, his heart and mind were full of Dado thoughts, but he recalled old times when big brass had visited sons
in the field; so he declined, knowing Aryeh would much prefer a low-profile visit. He returned to the soldiers, hundreds of
them, ranged on the hill that sloped down to an unlit pile of wood. A soldier heaping on more wood called to him, “Abba! Abba,
don’t you recognize me?”

A torch was thrown just then, and the pile flared up in a cloud of red fire and black smoke. The bespectacled mustached soldier,
taller than himself, came loping to him and hugged him. “How are you, Abba?”

“I’m fine. Why are you croaking like a frog?”

“Caught a cold, running fifteen kilometers in the rain.”

As the bonfire blazed high the troops started to sing, and Don Kishote felt a tug back to his soldiering days. The rough male
voices, the firelit young faces, the fragrance of Golan herbage, the myriad stars one never saw over Los Angeles, or for that
matter over Tel Aviv, the heat of the bonfire on his face, his son beside him in uniform, a hard-bodied recruit of Sayeret
Matkhal: all this rekindled in Don Kishote’s spirit a spark dimmed by time and circumstance — love for Zahal, love for the
Jewish people, love for the freckle on the globe called Israel.

The troupe of singers, two girls and two boys, mounted a low platform near the roaring bonfire, and performed old army songs
to the wail of an accordion — “The Unknown Platoon,” “The Paratrooper Song,” “To the North with Love” — all with the recurring
sad undertone about the fallen. The soldiers joined in the refrains, Aryeh too in a hoarse baritone. They had not yet had
the experiences, thought Kishote, but at least they knew the songs. The performers began an air force song that tore at him,
with words too poignant to give pleasure; “We Must Play On,” likening the air force to a harp of many strings which kept breaking.

And we play on with one string less

And again one string less

And some strings that break will not be mended

And some are mended and again they sound

And this song can never stop

And we’re forced to play on, play on —

Aryeh looked at his father, who had a hand over his eyes. “Abba? You okay?”

“Dov Luria,” muttered Don Kishote. “Dado.”

“I know,” said his son, and Kishote felt a muscular arm tighten around his shoulders.

Y
ael was awakened by Kishote, talking on the telephone in the hallway. Where was she? What day was it? Memory returned of the
impulsive air trip and her jet-lag collapse into bed. Pulling aside heavy drapes, she winced at the blinding morning sun,
and looked at her watch.

“Sheva Leavis sends you his love,” said Kishote as she came into the kitchen.

“I swear, Yossi, I must have slept twelve hours. Is that who you were on the phone with?”

“Yes. I told him I wasn’t coming back to Los Angeles.”

“You
didn’t
!”

“He was decent about it. Said he half expected it, and we’d stay in touch.”

Yael rubbed her eyes. “I need coffee and a bath. Have you been up long, or what? You look bleary.”

“I went to see Aryeh on the Golan. We talked into the small hours. I just got back.”

“Yossi, you must sleep, or you’ll be sick.”

“You’re right.”

When she came out of the bath in the best silk robe she could find, he was on the bed in pajamas. “I’ll sleep two hours,”
he said, setting the alarm, “then I have to see Motta again.”

She sat down at the foot of the bed. “Are you being fair to Sheva Leavis?”

“He assured me he understood.”

“He did? How did you explain yourself?”

Kishote said he told Leavis of his feelings at seeing the generals carry Dado’s casket, his sense of being back home again,
the challenge of the post he was offered. She fixed him with a knowing eye. “All right, that’s what you told Sheva. Now, what
happened on the Golan? What went on with you and Aryeh?”

That his mind had been made up by some old army songs, the warmth of a bonfire in the cold Golan night, and an embrace by
his son in uniform, was incommunicable, though it was more or less the truth. He recounted Aryeh’s tales of hardships and
triumphs in the Sayeret training. “I want to be here with him while he goes through all that. A lone soldier has a hard time
of it.”

“Yossi, he’s gotten very close to Dzecki Barkowe. Every weekend that he’s off, he stays with the Barkowes in Haifa. He even
has his own room. Galia Barak comes and visits Dzecki, and they have a nice young group. He’s quite happy there.”

“So he told me, but I’m staying.”

Her skeptical look softened. “You’ll stay because you’ll stay, right?”

“More or less. I have one real regret, Yael, I’ll say that.”

“Which is what?” Her tone became dulcet. An affectionate word for her at last? Regret that she had to travel back alone, or
even that this might be the real parting?

“The money. Leavis has been generous, but —”

“Stop right there,” she broke in briskly. “Half a percent wasn’t generous. Either you were worthless, or you were worth much
more. He was trying you out. If you come into the business after the army, he’ll give you two percent, I know that.” Kishote
only shrugged. “Anyway, since when is money so very important to you?”

“I’m interested in a land deal.”

“Land deal? You? Where?”

“Suburbs of Melbourne.”

“Australia?”
He mutely nodded. A thought struck her. “Ooah, has Shayna Berkowitz gone into real estate?”

“Don’t be silly. Shayna? She’s a brilliant mathematician, but in business hopeless. She’s already lost what little her husband
left her.”

He described the man in the kangaroo leather business, who required a partner with capital for land development. He had given
Mendel to understand, before he left Melbourne, that if the Australian could induce his wife to let Shayna adopt the unhappy
Reuven and bring him back to Israel, he, Kishote, would be inclined to invest with a man of such good heart.

“Why, Yossi,” Yael said, amused despite her sore spirit, “that’s a real business maneuver. Something I might do myself. Did
he bite?”

“I’m not sure, but he wasn’t outraged.”

“Look, get a bank loan for the rest, that’s all. Sheva will go on the note, and you can carry the interest.”

Kishote shook his head. “Sheva doesn’t go on notes.”

“Right, right, it’s an absolute rule of his. Well, then I’ll lend you the money.”

“What’s this, Yael? I’m not taking money from you, of all people! Why should you lend me money?”

“Because I have it.”

“That’s no reason.”

“All right, because I love you.”

That silenced him. After a while he spoke low. “Hamoodah, look here —”

She overrode him. “You don’t believe me? How many years were we together? Didn’t I have Aryeh? And Eva? Listen, no use talking,
it’s all past and dead, and you’re just being proud and stupid about a loan from me. That I do understand.” She stood up.
“Get some sleep, Kishote.”

He caught her swinging hand. “That kangaroo guy would just piss away all your money, Yael.”

“So what? You’d be buying Reuven for Shayna, wouldn’t you? Isn’t that what you want? Besides, who can tell about land deals?
Even in Australia, land is good.”

“So are you.”

He pulled her down for a kiss. They were both in nightclothes; and Yael, returning the kiss, rather wondered what might happen
next. Another kiss, and another. He let her go, wryly smiling. “Well, if that’s what you call love, I love you, too. But when
you and Max Roweh are kissing, don’t go thinking so hard. He can think for both of you.”

She punched him. “Never you mind about Max Roweh.”

“Yael, thanks.”

“Thank me by never telling Shayna about my money. I’ll pull the drapes. Sleep.”

T
wo months later Yossi and Shayna were married by the Ezrakh in the courtyard of his little Jerusalem yeshiva, under a drooping
velvet canopy lifted on rods by four skullcapped yeshiva boys. Her face heavily veiled in white, her dress a plain dark blue
frock, Shayna held Reuven by a hand. Yossi wore only a sport shirt and slacks, for the June night was very warm, the moonless
sky ablaze with stars. There were no guests but the few yeshiva students who made up the minyan and — very strangely — air
force major general Benny Luria, dressed like Kishote, with a scraggly new blond beard.

This very quiet wedding was not Kishote’s idea, he had planned an exuberant celebration with all their friends at a modest
hotel. But Shayna was self-conscious about marrying a man fresh out of divorce court, and she felt that a quick remarriage
upon setting foot in Israel somehow affronted the memory of Michael, to whose grave she had brought Reuven the day they arrived.
Yossi had talked her into the immediate wedding, but the compromise was this very private ceremony.

The Ezrakh was addressing the couple in Yiddish when into the courtyard bounded a tall dusty black-mustached soldier, causing
a buzz among the yeshiva boys. He strode to the canopy and grasped Kishote’s hand. “
Slikha
, Rebi Mori [Pardon, Master and Teacher],” he said to the Ezrakh, who with a gentle smile switched smoothly in his weak but
clear voice to Aryeh’s colloquial Hebrew, for few in the younger generation understood Yiddish. Yossi could not imagine how
Aryeh had managed this. Last he knew the Sayeret Matkhal was out on a supersecret mission, which probably meant in enemy territory,
and release from such an exercise was unthinkable. By way of thanking his son he squeezed the callused hand, and got a powerful
squeeze in return.

With his hand in his son’s heartwarming grip, Yossi’s mind wandered from the Ezrakh’s words. He was getting into something,
with this strong-willed little woman beside him! She had already given away all the dishes in his flat, made the silver kosher
by boiling it, and brought from Haifa her bedroom furniture to replace Yael’s. She had informed him, moreover, of some surprising
marriage-bed rules they would be living by. All in all, when the moment came to slip the ring on her finger, it felt a bit
like a parachute jump.
Kfotze, Kishote!
But the look she gave him, lifting the veil to take a sip of wine from the Ezrakh’s old goblet, shook him with its deep sweetness
and answered all qualms.

He stamped the glass to bits, the yeshiva boys broke into dance and song in a ring around them, and Aryeh snatched Reuven
up in his arms and also cavorted, a big incongruous figure in green uniform amid the yarmulkes and the flying small prayer
shawls. Benny Luria too held hands with the students and danced. Yossi had heard rumors that he was on medical leave with
psychological problems, and he gathered that the aviator was studying the Talmud here, but why? A puzzle.

When the dance thed down Aryeh told his father that the Sayeret commander, Lieutenant Colonel Netanyahu, had released him
when one phase of the exercise ended, but only for twenty-four hours. “I have to start back right away, and don’t ask me where,
but I wasn’t going to miss Abba marrying Aunt Shayna.”

“I’m told you’re doing well in the Sayeret.”

“I’m in the junior group, Abba. Still learning. Since I came in there’s been no big challenge.”

The rumors Yossi had heard about Benny Luria were not wrong. Some weeks before the wedding the aviator had been diagnosed
by an air force psychiatrist as close to a breakdown, what with insomnia, inability to concentrate, fitful disorientation,
and an unshakable sense of worthlessness and of oncoming doom. Before accepting the recommendation that he take medical leave,
Luria had gone to see the Ezrakh.

“General, what is troubling you?” the ancient asked, stroking his thin beard and fixing him with sunken but bright blue eyes,
as they sat together in his book-crammed study.

“My son’s death.”

“But there are so many fathers like you in Israel. When the time to mourn has passed, they take heart and return to their
work.”

“I’ve tried.”

“It’s a sin, General, to mourn beyond the appointed time. The Holy One says, as it were,
‘You don’t accept my decree? Cease the prolonged mourning, lest I give you something really to mourn about.’ ”

“Rabbi, I don’t know why Dov died.”

“You say that?
You?
An air force general? To guard the rebuilt Holy Land, and to sanctify the Name.”

“I know those words, Rabbi. I’ve spoken them, all too often, to pilots’ parents myself. They don’t stick to my son Dov. I
can’t put it any other way. They aren’t an answer, not for me. What shall I do? I’m not well.”

“Can you make time to study? Three months?”

“I can get three months’ medical leave, yes.”

“Study the Talmud for three months, then we’ll talk again.”

“Talmud? I’m not capable, and what has that got to do with Dov?”

“The Hebrew you know. The head you’ve got. For the Aramaic I’ll assign you a
haver
. Do as I say, General.”

“All right, rabbi.”

The psychiatrist, strongly doubting that Talmud study was what Major General Luria needed, recommended a tour of the Orient
with Irit, and then a month in Switzerland. Luria followed the Ezrakh’s advice instead, immersing himself in the Talmud day
and night at the yeshiva. His haver (study companion) was a youngster of fourteen from a pious Lithuanian family, who read
difficult Aramaic passages twenty centuries old as though they were frontpage news stories. Although it was all absolutely
novel to him, Benny Luria quickly picked up a taste for the Talmud’s recondite logic and hard sense, and by whatever obscure
workings of his psyche, he began to feel better. For one thing, he was treated by the other students as just one of them.
The Ezrakh’s little yeshiva was a noisy untidy place where, past ninety but unchanged in frailty of body and vigor of mind,
he presided over a student body decidedly heterogeneous; for he delighted to take in at any age Jews who wanted to learn,
and to get them started. Though most were young, some were married and bearded, some bald as well as bearded, and even an
air force general did not stand out as peculiar.