The Glory (78 page)

Rattling along in an accent half Aussie and half Yiddish, he said this country was a good place for Jews, and many South Africans
who could get their money out were coming here, also some Russians, and a surprising lot of Israelis. His late father had
made a big mistake, going into kangaroo leather. That business was all dog-eat-dog. He now owned a fine piece of riverfront
land in a Melbourne suburb, and he meant to develop it when he could find a partner with capital, probably a South African.
He ran on at some length about how well off Jews were in Australia, no Ku Klux Klan as in America, no wars as in Israel, and
the weather was much better than Canada’s, and the Canadian dollar was too wobbly.

Under Shayna’s coaxing Reuven ate a plateful of chicken and dumplings, and when dinner was over the boy implored Kishote to
stay. “I wish I could go home with you,” he said, stumping outside with him and Shayna. “I don’t like it in Australia, except
I like my mother.”

“I’ll be here a few days, Reuven, but then I’m just going to California.”

“Will you ever come again?”

Yossi hesitated, and looked at Shayna. “If I have to, I will.”

“Back into the house, Reuven,” said Shayna, and he obeyed. “There’s a nice park near here, Yossi. A lake, swans. Are you tired?”

“Not a bit.”

As they walked in the cool moonlit night he got her to talk about herself and her plans. The university was starting a nuclear
institute, and an appointment was open for her. Also, at Reuven’s Hebrew day school, where she had taught for a while, they
wanted her as assistant principal, for better money. The trouble was that the principal, a widower, had proposed to her and
she had turned him down. “Makes it awkward,” she said with a small laugh. “Actually, I’ve had one other proposal here. Orthodox
ladies are in short supply, down under.”

His arm went around her waist. “Yes, I’m sure that’s the attraction, the orthodoxy,” he said.

“Easy now, Kishote.” But she did not pull away. “It’s no trouble to chill them. I just say my husband must plan to go back
to Israel with me one day. That does it. These Australian Jews think Israel’s as dangerous as Chicago in the gangster days.”

“You’d go back without Reuven?”

No immediate answer. “Here’s the park. Nice in the moonlight, isn’t it? The lake’s down this path. Yes, Reuven’s the problem.
Lena has every right to him, but he’s not happy. He misses his friends, but mainly it’s the religion. A lot of the Australian
Jews are religious, but not Mendel, and Lena never has been, of course. She tries to feed him kosher food, she truly does
in her fashion, but he sits there apart with his different dishes — and Passover’s coming, and all they do about that is put
a box of matzoh on the table. They don’t prepare, and he can’t eat there all week, he’ll have to live with me. It’s all so
unsatisfactory …” She took his arm and hugged it. “Oh, let’s talk about something else. You know, I’ve been sitting in my
flat, Kishote, playing tapes of Israeli songs — ‘Shoshana,’ ‘Finjan,’ ‘Sycamore Garden,’ the old ones — it’s my one pleasure
besides being with Reuven, reliving my childhood. Remember when you dumped my pail of water over your head during the siege?
All the water for my whole family for the day? It’s a wonder I ever talked to you again.”

Kishote had spent the night before that carrying sacks of flour on his back to besieged Jerusalem, marching with other volunteers
on the secret bypass road through the wilds, used mainly by supply mules and piled with their dung.

“You complained I smelled of mule shit, and I did.”

“Yossi, you didn’t mind what Mendel said about the war, did you? He has kangaroo leather for brains.”

“I’ve heard worse things said about Israel at home, by smarter people.”

“Look, look, Yossi, the swans, little white gliding ghosts on the black water.”

He took her in his arms.

“No, no, none of this, by your life, no.” She permitted a reluctant few kisses, then spoke in muffled tones. “Be honest, I
beseech you. The divorce isn’t for real, is it?”

“Shayna, it’s been filed in the rabbinic court in Israel, uncontested. It’s taken forever, but it’ll soon be final.”

“Amazing. I swear I never believed she’d give you up.”

“She didn’t have me to give up. Moreover Professor Roweh is quite somebody. That’s for real too.”

“I don’t want to go home without Reuven, no. The truth is, I’ve talked to Mendel about adopting him, and he was noncommittal,
but I suspect he wouldn’t mind too much, now that a child of his own is coming along. Reuven’s a burden to Mendel. No snorkers,
and so on. But I can’t approach Lena, I just can’t.”

“Let me think about it.”

He pulled her down on a bench. She held him off at first, then they were kissing with the passionate abandon of twenty years
ago, in the week before their breakup, when she had been sure she was about to become a bride.

A call from Mendel woke Kishote next morning in his hotel room. Distances weren’t great in Melbourne, Mendel said, and the
office of the bauxite firm was on the way to his land property. He would be glad to show Yossi the acreage, then take him
to his appointment. Too sleepy to argue, Yossi agreed. In that case, Mendel went on, he would join him for breakfast at the
hotel, so he could have snorkers and eggs. “Can’t beat snorkers and eggs,” he said. “I do like a decent breakfast when I can
get it.”

The land was pleasantly situated on high ground overlooking a river. Mendel broadly hinted that it was a marvellous investment
for a forward-looking party like Mr. Leavis, and Yossi let it go at that. His meeting at the bauxite firm was short because
the Jewish executive was on holiday, expected back in a day or two. Mendel waited for him and drove him to the university
campus, where he was meeting Shayna for lunch. “Shayna’s a fine woman, but difficult,” Mendel said. “She could make herself
a nice life here, and I’ll tell you something, adopting Reuven might not be so impossible then, sooner or later.” With a wink
he added, “Think about Australia yourself, General, one day. Lots of opportunities for a Jew with some get-up-and-go.”

On the long, long flight back to Los Angeles, since he was not flying with Sheva Leavis, Kishote returned to the narrow seats
and cramped legroom of tourist class, more his own style. When he was not thinking joyfully of his time with Shayna, or puzzling
over the problem of recovering Reuven for her — which seemed to be the key to marrying her, anytime soon — he slept away the
hours. After the clear air and antipodal peace of Melbourne, the Los Angeles airport was a vast foggy tumultuous letdown.
Mendel might have something at that, Kishote thought, if a Jew wanted to settle outside Israel.

When he carried his luggage into Yael’s apartment, he came on her sitting in a blue suede travelling suit with two bags packed.
“Yossi, do you know that Dado is dead?” He stared at her, dumbfounded. “That’s right. Died while you were flying here. Sudden
heart attack.”

He murmured the blessing on evil tidings,
“Blessed be the True Judge
. When’s the funeral, Yael?”

“Sunday.”

“Sunday. Then I can still make it.”

“Barely. I’ve been checking passenger lists on the flights from Australia, so I knew you were due. I’ve made TWA reservations
for both of us. You have time to clean up and repack, but not much —”

“You’re coming?”

“I may as well. We can wrap up the divorce papers, also I want to check on Max’s house in Yemin Moshe. And there’s some hotel
business I can do for Sheva —”

“I should call Sheva.”

“Not necessary, he assumes you’re going straight on to Israel. How did you make out with the bauxite people?”

“All right. If the Korean government bid comes through, Sheva will make a lot of money.”

In an altered tone, elaborately casual, she asked, “And how did you find Shayna?”

“That’s a very long story.”

“No doubt.”

G
olda Meir’s car was stalled in the dense traffic and the pedestrian mob outside the cemetery. Zev Barak, sent by Prime Minister
Rabin to escort her, jumped out to clear a way through the honking pileup, and at the wheel of a Hertz car he spotted Don
Kishote. “Yossi!” he shouted. “Back at last? I thought you were in California!”

“I got here an hour ago,” Yossi yelled back.

“Kol ha’kavod. Pull in behind us.”

Prime Minister Rabin brought the tottery Golda to the section of seats near the grave site reserved for cabinet ministers,
Supreme Court justices, and former Ramatkhals. In full uniform, six generals of the Yom Kippur War were carrying the big coffin
on their shoulders through a tearful throng, a chaplain in the lead reciting psalms, more generals trudging before and behind
the coffin. Don Kishote knew every one of these generals well. Whatever their jealousies, jostlings for power, and unseemly
finger-pointing after the war, he was one of them, a brotherhood of death and fire. It was right that he had come so far and
so fast to be here.

Rabin spoke over the open grave in his clear slow Hebrew. The eulogy was in part a comment on the Agranat Report, with all
the commission members sitting there listening.
“Dado did not deny his responsibility, but he found himself singled out to shoulder the burden. … He resigned, and bore his
great pain in silence, and with rare nobility of spirit … but his heart was not up to it, and it faltered and gave out …”

Watching Golda, Kishote could see her put a handkerchief now and again to a rigid face. As he started to walk away in the
crush of departing mourners, he felt a tug at his elbow. “Yossi, the Ramatkhal is astonished to see you here,” said Barak.
“He wants to talk to you.”

“What about? He’s extended my leave through September.”

“Never mind. Call him. Are you really getting rich in Los Angeles?”

“Absolutely. Streets paved with gold.”

“So I’ve heard. Don Kishote stooping to pick up California gold! Sad, sad.” Barak gave him a rough embrace. “I’ve got to take
care of Golda, she’s a wreck. Don’t fail to call Motta.”

Back in the Tel Aviv flat, Kishote found Yael sorting the apparel in her closet. “Hi. I didn’t remember I had so much stuff
here. The moths have been at it, but I’ll be all right. It’s not for long. How did the funeral go?”

“A great tribute.”

“You missed Aryeh. He waited here until noon for you, then he had to return to his base.”

“I’ll drive up to see him.”

“He left you this note.” She handed him a folded slip. “You won’t recognize him. He has a fierce black mustache, like an Arab.
He’s terribly lean. I hugged him and he’s all bones.”

“That happens the first year, and the Sayeret Matkhal course is tougher than most. I have to shower and go see the Ramatkhal.”

“Aren’t you jet-lagged? I’m staggering around in a daze.”

“I’m okay.”

“Don’t let him cut short your leave, no matter what, understand? Sheva’s counting on you for the July trip. It’s his main
swing.”

“I know that very well.”

Seeing Motta Gur behind Dado’s desk jarred Don Kishote. Once Chiefs of Staff had seemed superbeings to him, but as the years
passed and Ramatkhals came and went they had been shrinking to human dimensions. Dado had retained a trace of heroic stature,
but Motta Gur was just Motta, with that same round open face, thick hair, and clever eyes, a high flyer one career step above
Yossi’s own stratum. “Poor Dado,” were the Ramatkhal’s first words as they shook hands. “A fitting funeral. Honored him as
he deserved. Sit down. So, Yossi. You’re doing well in Los Angeles, are you?”

“No complaints, Motta.”

“Dado meant to make you deputy chief of operations, you know.”

“Yes, then the Agranat axe fell on him.”

The Ramatkhal gave him a long calculating look. “You’re not due back until September, are you? It happens — in confidence
— that the slot’s opening up right now.”

Yossi was taken aback. The present deputy chief was an old friend, and he had no idea what the problem might be. But asking
questions was inadmissible. “Sir, several brigade generals are ahead of me for such a post.”

“Not if I decide otherwise.” The Ramatkhal laughed. “I still remember you coming up through the trapdoor of the Rockefeller
Museum roof, all bandaged and bloody, in ’67. And I know how you performed in Sinai.”

“I’m so out of touch, sir —”

“You’d be back in touch in a week. Your fresh outlook might be a plus. It’s a different army now, Yossi, a huge machine. We’re
still digesting the war, still reorganizing. But for this job you must come back now. I can’t wait until October. It’s what
Dado wanted for you, remember. Talk to Yael, and let me know this week. She’s in Los Angeles?”

“No, she came with me.”

“Give her my warm regards.”

Driving to Aryeh’s camp in the north, Yossi mulled over the proposal, much less dazzled than he had been by Dado’s original
offer. It meant a sudden return to the small space of Israel, and the smaller space of Zahal. He was planning to come back,
he coveted the vine leaf of an
aluf
, a major general, and Dado’s death had put period to the sordid aftermath of the war. But with the commission Leavis was
paying him, a small percentage of each deal they made on the trips, he was accumulating a surprising amount of money, and
he had gotten used to the pleasures of what Israelis wistfully called “the big world”; not excluding, as Shayna had surmised,
the ladies in far-off places. An abrupt cutoff of all that?

The paratroopers’ camp where Yossi had once been based had a new concrete command building, a new mess hall; and the area
of barracks, formerly a small clearing in the woods, now stretched out of sight. But all army camps, small or big, looked
much the same: boyish and girlish soldiers hurrying about the paths, signs hopelessly urging smartness of uniform, unit banners
and Israeli flags flapping in the dusty wind. The base commander greeted him with a glad hail. “Yossi, you’ll have dinner
with me.”

“Depends, Yigal. Where’s Aryeh’s outfit?”

“Up on the Golan. Big combined armor and air exercise starts before dawn.”