The Jerusalem Inception (31 page)
Once on top of the boulder, he cupped his flashlight with his hand and turned it on. The series of letters and numbers had been painted on the boulder in black, and he copied them down on a piece of paper. He shoved everything back into his pouch, leaped off the boulder, and ran.
By the third target, Lemmy’s feet ached, his leg muscles burned, and his shoulders grew sore from the heavy backpack. The landscape had flattened, the skyline harder to decipher. He looked at his watch. He was making good time, but one erroneous turn and his advantage would disappear. He closed his eyes and concentrated, imagining the path ahead: Down a moderate slope at exactly thirty-seven degrees from the north, turn right and head east into a wide valley. He adjusted the strap of the Uzi and shifted the backpack slightly higher.
At the bottom of the hill he turned right. His throat was dry and his shirt was wet with sweat. But he kept going, determined to reach the final destination before anyone else. The army had become his new home, his new family. He hoped to be chosen for officers’ training and pursue a military career like Captain Zigelnick.
A wide valley should open before him any minute now. He had not been able to tell from the map whether the valley would be bare or cultivated. Such valleys had rich alluvial soil, and farmers from the kibbutzim traveled hours on their tractors to farm every piece of fertile land.
Lemmy sprinted across the field, happy to gain some distance at high speed, but his boot hit a hard object, and he fell. The packed parachute landed on his head, pushing his face into the dirt. He cursed, rolled over, and spat out the sand.
When he realized what had tripped him, his anger turned to joy. He lifted the watermelon with both hands and let go. It dropped and split open. A second later, his teeth sunk deep into the juicy, sweet flesh. It filled his mouth, dripping on his chin and onto his shirt.
Earlier that year, Israel had opened the largest manmade waterway in the Middle East, connecting Lake Kinneret in the Galilee to the Negev Desert through open canals and underground pipes. The immense project had been the brainchild of Prime Minister Levi Eshkol, whose dedication speech predicted:
This waterway will transform our barren land into fertile soil, like blood flowing in countless arteries to every part of the human body.
The Syrians responded with efforts to divert the Yarmuch River, intending to dry up Lake Kinneret. When diplomatic mediation proved futile, Israeli fighter jets destroyed the Syrian dams. Lemmy thanked the anonymous IDF pilots whose attack had kept the water flowing south to nourish this watermelon field.
He was chewing on the last piece when rocks tumbled from a nearby hillside. He placed the watermelon on the ground, rubbed his sticky hands against his pants, and reached for the Uzi.
A man’s silhouette appeared against the starry sky.
Lemmy pressed the Uzi to the inside of his forearm, aimed at the figure, and threaded his forefinger into the trigger slot.
A watermelon burst open.
Lemmy’s forefinger eased out of the trigger slot. He picked up a piece of watermelon skin and tossed it.
A cry came in response, and an Uzi was cocked.
“Don’t shoot,” Lemmy yelled, laughing.
“Gerster! I’ll kill you!” It was Ronen, who had jumped from the plane right after Lemmy.
“Chill out. And let me help you with this watermelon.”
“Steal your own watermelon!”
“I already did. They’re so good.” Lemmy strapped on his backpack and shouldered the Uzi. “How many targets have you found?”
“Only two. The first was real close, but I got lost, had to go back and start over.”
“Don’t shoot anyone unless they speak Arabic.” Lemmy started running, and a piece of watermelon chased him.
T
he IDF lent Elie Weiss four reservist officers to assist him in setting up the Civic Defense operation. They put up a tent near the entrance to the IDF command center and posted signs in Hebrew and Yiddish. It was Passover Eve, and large numbers of Orthodox men showed up to volunteer. He watched with satisfaction as they arrived by foot or by bus, chattering in Yiddish as they queued up to register. The stories of Arab atrocities in the Old City in 1948 had been told and retold over the intervening two decades, and now the Jews of Jerusalem seemed determined to prevent a repeat.
Per Elie’s instructions, each volunteer had to present a form of identification and provide the names of their community, yeshiva, and rabbi. For Elie’s Special Operations Department, this was a treasure trove of new information, to be added to the existing files. He estimated that the next few days would double his already vast database of potential religious agitators who were hostile to secular Zionism.
Many of the black hats mentioned Rabbi Abraham Gerster’s proclamation, which had been printed and plastered on walls all over West Jerusalem:
The duty to guard Jerusalem supersedes the duty to study Talmud until the evil forces of the Muhammadians have been repelled from our sacred city.
Such words from the leader of Neturay Karta—the most virulent anti-Zionist sect in Jerusalem—left all the other rabbis no choice but to permit their followers to volunteer for the trench-digging effort.
The reservists at the makeshift desk took down the information, handed out the shovels, and sent the volunteers to dig trenches near their homes, not only for their convenience, but to create a closer association between the physical work, which they were unaccustomed to, and their own families’ safety.
Shortly before noon, Elie noticed Tanya Galinski arrive at the building. She wore a light-blue dress, and her hair was gathered under a khaki cap. Elie followed her inside.
The office of Brigadier General Tappuzi was filled with officers, who congregated around a map of the city. Elie poured himself lukewarm coffee in a paper cup and stood in the back, listening.
“I have some bad news,” Tanya said. “General Bull has allowed the Jordanians to run cables from their anti-aircraft batteries to the UN radar station. There was some talk about safe passage for UN personnel to the airport in Amman, where General Bull’s private plane is kept.”
“There you have it,” Tappuzi said. “If we don’t disable that radar, Jerusalem is lost!”
“Not if the front remains quiet,” Tanya said. “We’re still hoping to avoid war or at least keep Jordan out of it.”
While they argued, Elie elbowed his way between the uniformed men and looked closely at the map. He found Government House on a ridge south of the city, controlling both parts of Jerusalem while guarding the roads to the southern half of the West Bank and east to Jericho and the Jordan River.
Tappuzi fingered the point on the map. “I’d like to get over there and blow up the radar, but there’s the Armistice Line, the Jordanian bunkers and patrols, the UN observers, the fences and landmines around Government House—”
“Getting caught by the UN,” Tanya said, “will make Israel look like the aggressor and destroy any chance of obtaining American and French support..”
“And in the hands of the Jordanians?” Tappuzi passed a finger under his throat. “Immediate execution!”
One of the officers said, “How about destroying the radar with artillery shells in the first moments of the war? We could later claim it was a mistake, a misfire, or something.”
A major in olive drabs and a large mustache said, “I don’t have precision artillery for something like this. The radar operates on Antenna Hill in the rear of the compound, protected by sandbags and concrete. It would take a lengthy barrage to do real damage, and I’ll probably hit the main building multiple times, kill a couple of hundred UN observers, and so on.”
“Forget it,” Brigadier General Tappuzi said. “The only option would be an attack from the air, which can’t be done until the radar is disabled, It’s the chicken and egg thing.”
“Same with the Jordanian anti-aircraft batteries,” the artillery major said. “Their bunkers are vulnerable only to surprise attack from the air, but our planes would be detected by the radar and shot down.”
Elie had heard enough to outline an operation in his mind that would save Jerusalem from Jordanian bombing
and
allow him to pluck Abraham’s son from the paratroopers’ corps. But a room full of loudmouthed sabra officers wasn’t the right forum. He would approach Tappuzi in private.
L
emmy reached the final destination in the early morning, finding Captain Zigelnick and a driver roasting potatoes by a campfire. He showed Zigelnick the codes he had jotted down at each of his destination points, which the captain compared to a list. They were correct.
Sanani showed up almost an hour later and cursed at the sight of Lemmy chewing on a piece of potato skin. His dark face shone with sweat as he dropped to the ground, panting. “I’m going to beat you next time, Gerster!”
“Good luck,” Lemmy said.
The rest of the soldiers trickled in, handed in their lists of scribbled codes, and unloaded their gear while sharing experiences with the others. Meanwhile, the surrounding yellow dunes began to heat up under the morning sun.
Captain Zigelnick beckoned Lemmy. He was only a couple of years older than his trainees, but his rank and seniority made him seem like an adult. “Training is almost over. You feel ready for battle?”
Lemmy realized his commander wasn’t joking. He was talking of a real battle, with Arabs shooting to kill, with blood and death all around, like the war stories Lemmy had read in Tanya’s books. “I’m ready,” he said. “We’ll beat them back and then some.”
Zigelnick smiled. “That’s the spirit. Just remember, you don’t have to prove anything to anybody.”
“Prove?”
“Your father is a famous man.”
Lemmy felt his face blush. How did Zigelnick find out? Pretending to watch the other soldiers load the gear into the canvas-covered back of the truck, he regained his composure. “He’s not my father anymore.”
Captain Zigelnick’s forehead creased.
“I’m dead to him.”
“Then you don’t have a reason to die again.” Zigelnick patted his shoulder. “I don’t care about your father. He can go on preaching nonsense. But I don’t want to see you showing off when bullets start flying. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Once the truck was loaded, Zigelnick jumped in the cabin next to the driver, and they began the long drive back to the camp in the hills south of Beersheba. Lemmy sat with the rest of the soldiers in the back of the truck, surrounded by piles of gear and backpacks.
As always, Sanani was the center of attention, drawing on his endless fountain of jokes. “Do you know why the black hats grow long payos?” Sanani paused for a moment then answered his own query. “So that when they walk down the street and see a sexy woman, they can cover their eyes with the payos but still see her tits through the hairs.”
The roaring laughter was louder than the constant humming of the truck.
“And why do they wear black hats and black coats?” Sanani looked around. “Because it makes them invisible when they prowl the parks at night to find a whore.”
Lemmy said, “Sanani could just go naked,” which caused even more laughter.
“And do you know why the Orthodox don’t turn on the lights on Friday nights?”
“Because they’re cheap,” suggested someone, to the cheers of the others.
“Also,” Sanani declared, “because they rather not see their ugly wives coming to bed!”
The soldiers booed. They despised the Orthodox for refusing to serve in the IDF and defend Israel like everybody else.
“And why don’t they take off the black coats even during the hot summer?”
Someone shouted from the other end, “Because they like to stink!”
“Because they can’t take it off. It’s stuck!”
The soldiers mimicked vomiting.
Sanani’s teeth showed against his dark skin. “And why do they pile shit in the corners of a black hat wedding-hall?”
No one had an answer to that.
“To keep the flies away from the bride!”
When the laughter calmed down, Lemmy said, “You’re wrong. That smelly brown stuff in the corner isn’t shit. It’s a bunch of Yemenite relatives!”
Sanani laughed with everybody else, taking no offense.
The soldiers were chronically sleep-deprived, and soon everyone was out. But Lemmy couldn’t sleep. This Passover would be the first holiday away from his parents. He thought of the intense preparations in Neturay Karta, the cleaning of apartments and scrubbing of pots and pans. Under his father’s supervision, every dish and tableware was dipped in the water of the mikvah to cleanse them of all remnants of bread or other leavened food. Bottles of wine and boxes of matzo were distributed to needy Neturay Karta families, and the women spent three days cooking for the Seder dinner. Lemmy thought of last year’s Passover, the room full of guests, singing praiseful melodies from the
Hagadah
of the Israelites’ exodus from Egyptian slavery. Would they miss him this year? Or next year? Would his parents ever forgive him, or agree to see him again? He imagined walking into Meah Shearim one day, many years ahead, dressed in his IDF general’s uniform, an Uzi slung from his shoulder. He would enter the synagogue, wearing a military cap rather than a black hat, and face Father, whose beard would be white, his back bent with years. And then what? A handshake? A hug? Or a cold shoulder?
