The Prime Ministers: An Intimate Narrative of Israeli Leadership (21 page)

Robert McNamara, the Secretary of Defense, rigid and erect, raised a finger. He was a handsome man in his early fifties, with a square chin, a fine mop of hair parted down the middle, and rimless glasses that gave him a distinguished and intellectual look. There was nothing about him to suggest he was in the midst of a Vietnam War that would prove one of the bloodiest America had ever fought.

“Having studied the evidence,” he began with cool dispassion, “it seems clear to me that two-and-a-half million Jews truly cannot withstand the whole of the Arab world, particularly if the Arabs are assisted by the Russians. Therefore, action along the lines requested, namely the supply of a substantial number of the most sophisticated aircraft, could only increase Russian support for the Arabs. At the same time, there is no reason for Israel to say it has been abandoned. This will not occur while President Johnson is president. However, for the United States to supply you with planes might greatly increase the supply of Russian aircraft to the Arabs. So, given these unknowns, we have to proceed with great caution.”

This obscure and contradictory comment aroused the ire of General Motti Hod who, with undisguised cynicism, countered, “The arms race, Mr. McNamara, has never been influenced by what we have in our hangers. Russian aircraft of all types are given to the Egyptians irrespective of the planes we fly. The only limiting factor is the Egyptian capacity to absorb them.” And then, to the president, with all the chutzpa of a daredevil pilot: “Your Secretary of Defense says that as long as you, Mr. President, are president, Israel will never be abandoned. Might I suggest that the one way of guaranteeing that, and of assuring that United States forces will never have to come to our rescue, is by keeping Israel’s Air Force strong.”

The president took that well. He suggested another brief break for consultations, after which he said in summation:

“In the spirit of our talks I think we can agree on three objectives. First, there is the need to do what can be done to bring about a stable peace. Second, we are all anxious to deter, if possible, an arms race. Third, the United States has a hope and a purpose of assuring, if necessary, adequate equipment to the Israeli Air Force to defend itself. And in connection with this goal I suggest that the following sentence be written into our joint communiqué at the conclusion of this session.” He picked up a paper and read: “The president agreed to keep Israel’s defense capability under active and sympathetic review in light of all the relevant factors, including the shipment of military equipment by others into the area.”

By way of explanation, he added, “This statement will be helpful in deterring the Arabs and might even push them toward restraint. It also says to the Soviets, ‘Stop, look, and listen.’ And it gives you something concrete to stand on.”

In diplomatic-speak that translated into “Yes, you’ll have your Phantoms,” and a deeply relieved prime minister responded, “Thank you, Mr. President. I thank you from the heart.”
16

Back in Jerusalem, Eshkol informed Chief of Staff Yitzhak Rabin of his Texas talks, and observed that if Lyndon Johnson remained true to his word
–
as he would
–
this could lead to a profound change in the future relationship between Jerusalem and Washington. “It might even be the makings one day of a de facto strategic alliance,” he said.

“This is why,” said Rabin, “that when I quit the army, my ambition is to be appointed Israel’s ambassador to Washington.”

Eshkol stifled a laugh. Genuinely astonished, he gasped, “You’d better grab a hold of me before I fall off my chair. You
–
ambassador? That’s the last thing I would have expected.”

“Why?”

“Are you telling me you’re ready to stand around at tedious cocktail parties, sit though boring banquets, and play all those dreary diplomatic games diplomats have to play? Believe me, Yitzhak, you’re no diplomat.”

On the surface, Eshkol was right. This handsome, middle-aged, about-to-be-retired general appeared to possess few of the attributes commonly associated with diplomatic niceties. He was a no-nonsense and sometimes gruff sort of a fellow, shy to a fault, and bereft of any charismatic pretensions. Not one to suffer fools gladly, he was so
uncomfortable
with small talk that a stranger’s innocuous “How are you?” could make him cringe as if his privacy had somehow been inexcusably invaded.

“Let me think about it,” said Eshkol without bias. “And, of course, I’ll have to talk to Abba Eban. After all, he is our foreign minister.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll have reservations,” said Rabin brusquely. “He’s not one of my greatest fans, and the feeling is mutual.” But then, with the utmost earnestness, he went on to say, “The reason I want Washington is because strengthening our links with the United States is going to be our greatest political challenge in the years ahead, not to mention a vital condition for maintaining the power of the IDF. Here is a sphere in which I can make a contribution, and I would appreciate your support.”

Eshkol ultimately gave it to him. He gave it to Rabin because, having worked closely with him since his appointment as chief of staff three years before, he knew the potency of the man’s incisive mind and his diagnostic brain. Even Abba Eban, after a long interview, gave his approval. Of that interview Rabin would later scathingly write, “As is well known, dialogues with Eban have a way of turning into soliloquies, and it was very difficult for me to sound him out on ideas of my own.”
17

Yitzhak Rabin arrived in Washington on 17 February, 1969. Less than ten days later, on 26 February, 1969, he ordered that the Israeli flag that flew above the embassy’s front door be lowered to half-mast, and a condolence book be opened for dignitaries to sign. Propped up in front of the condolence book stood an official portrait of Prime Minister Levi Eshkol draped with a black ribbon, flickeringly illuminated by a
yahrzeit
[memorial] candle. After a year of periodic ill health he had succumbed that day to a heart attack, at the age of seventy-four.

Very many mourned Levi Eshkol with the deepest of reverence; for all of his apparent prevarication, equivocation and convoluted diplomacy on the eve of the Six-Day War, it was beginning to dawn on more and more people that his gritty patience, nimble instincts and piercing shrewdness had ultimately convinced the world that Israel’s very survival had been at stake, and that the Jewish State had done all it could to avoid that war. Hence the widespread moral backing Israel enjoyed, not least from the president of the United States. Moreover, there was widening appreciation that it had been his prudent prewar vision as prime minister and defense minister that had prepared the
idf
for the fight of its life, just as it was his undaunted will that helped see the nation through. So yes, verily, the Six-Day War was Levi Eshkol’s triumph.

Menachem Begin put it best at the cabinet meeting of 4 August, 1970, the day he resigned from the national unity government, chaired by Golda Meir who had replaced Eshkol as prime minister:

At the end of May 1967, I came to Prime Minister Levi Eshkol with what was surely for him a painful proposition
–
that he invite David Ben-Gurion to serve as prime minister of a national unity government, and that he, Eshkol, step aside and serve as his deputy. After I explained to him my considerations I said that if the proposal was objectionable to him he should stop me there and then, and I would have no recriminations. Not only did he not stop me, he suggested we talk the matter through, and we spoke for almost an hour. Indeed, I can verily say that from that day forth we not only established a relationship of understanding, but one of intimacy, too.

Nothing came of my proposal, and a few days later a national unity government came into being under Prime Minister Eshkol. All of us here recall those days leading up to the Six-Day War. We recall the anxiety, the alarm, and the decisive and historic decisions that were taken.

Prime Minister Levi Eshkol proved the spuriousness of the epithets hurled at him at the time
–
that he was irresolute and indecisive. The very opposite was the case: He took upon himself vital decisions, initiated measures and lent support to fateful judgments of historic consequence. It was Levi Eshkol who stood at the helm of the nation during the Six-Day War. Without his leadership, whatever was accomplished could never have come about. Thus it was that on the evening of Monday the fifth of June, nineteen sixty-seven, in a small Knesset air-raid shelter, we took the decision to liberate Jerusalem. Without Levi Eshkol, that decision would not have been taken. We decided in the final phase of the Six-Day War to ascend and occupy the Golan Heights. Without Levi Eshkol, that decision would not have been made. At the conclusion of the Six-Day War, the government, under Levi Eshkol, authorized the legislation to extend Israel’s jurisdiction and administration over all of Jerusalem. Without him that law would not have come into being. It was on the basis of that law that we united Jerusalem, and I can verily say that without Levi Eshkol’s backing, Jerusalem’s reunification would not have been possible. And there is more, much more, that I can say of the accomplishments of the national unity government under the premiership of the late Levi Eshkol. Indeed, I believe his government was a unique phenomenon in Israel’s history.

I was subsequently to learn from Abba Eban that when he had interviewed Rabin for the Washington posting he had expressed concern about his imperfect command of English. Rabin asked Eban if he could recommend somebody of experience who knew the language to work closely with him, and my name was mentioned. This resulted in my receiving a telephone call from the new ambassador requesting I consider a transfer from the New York Consulate to his Washington Embassy, with the rank of Counselor. I grabbed at the opportunity, and spent the next four intense and highly rewarding years working at his side, in the course of which he was so parsimonious in his distribution of praise that the most gushing compliment he ever paid me was “B’seder ” – That’s okay.

At our first meeting he told me what he expected me to do, and I asked him what he expected of himself as ambassador. He stood up, thrust his hands into his pockets, walked to the window, stared out of it, features growing progressively more pensive, and then turned, and said, “My objectives in Washington are: One
–
to ensure that Israel is provided with her defense requirements. Two
–
coordinate the policies of the United States and of Israel in preparation for possible peace moves, or, alternatively, talks on a political settlement, or, at the very least, preventing a wide discrepancy in the policies between our two countries. Three
–
securing American financial support to cover our arms purchases and buttress our economy. And four
–
ensuring that America employs its deterrent strength to prevent direct Soviet military intervention against Israel in the event of war.”

This, I soon learned, was classic Rabin: a conceptualizer with a highly structured and analytical mind. Whenever he had to grapple with an intricate issue he habitually did what I observed him doing on that first day: thrust his hands into his pockets, stare out of the window, mentally analyze the matter in hand, neaten it into an abstract model, and then typically say, “The whole thing boils down to four salient points. They are…” and he would tick them off one by one with unmistakable clarity.

On that particular afternoon, he was preparing himself for a meeting on the morrow with Dr. Henry Kissinger, then President Richard Nixon’s national security adviser. Kissinger wanted Rabin’s ideas on how to advance the implementation of the famous post–Six-Day War Security Council Resolution 242, which Abba Eban had so meticulously worked on. Most particularly he wanted Rabin’s interpretation of the clause which spoke of withdrawal: “Withdrawal of Israeli armed forces from territories occupied in the recent conflict,” and the establishment of “secure and recognized boundaries.”

While Rabin gazed long and hard out of the window, hands deep in his pockets, I sat there waiting for what seemed an eternity until, finally, he said, “I’m going to deal with the matter in principle, not in detail,” and on he went to dictate in a staccato Hebrew what I was expected to render into plain English. It said:

“On the meaning of withdrawal to secure and recognized boundaries: One
–
the Jewish people have an inalienable historic right to the whole of its biblical homeland. Two
–
since our objective is a Jewish and democratic state and not a binational state, the boundaries we seek are those which will give Israel a maximum area of the biblical homeland with a maximum number of Jews whom we can maximally defend. Israel, in peace, aspires to be a state that is Jewish by demography, society, and values, not just borders.” And then: “On the measures to achieve such boundaries, peace cannot be accomplished through a single act such as a peace conference. Progress toward peace is a gradual, step-by-step process that will require much time to accomplish. It is dependent on four major steps: One
–
disengagement between the parties. This will eventually lead to Two
–
diffusion of the conflict between the parties. This will eventually lead to Three
–
trust between the parties. And this will eventually lead to Four
–
negotiation between the parties.”

And that was that
–
no frills, no superfluities, no flourishes.

Measure these sentences against Yitzhak Rabin’s strategic record and you will find that he held to these guiding principles with absolute consistency for the rest of his life. They informed his doctrine of peace diplomacy as a step-by-step process, evinced in his 1975 Sinai interim agreement with Egypt, his peace treaty with Jordan, his formula for a future peace with Syria, and his vision of peace with the Palestinians in his highly controversial 1993 Oslo Accords. All were based on the notion that Israel’s integrity as a Jewish and democratic state could be assured only by dividing the land between its two peoples
–
Jew and Arab
–
embodying as they did two separate faiths, two separate languages, two separate nationalities, two separate narratives, and two separate destinies.

Long and hard did I work on that first talking paper on that first day. It was tricky precisely because Rabin’s mind was so diagnostic and his Hebrew so laconic. By the time I had it polished and typed he had gone home for dinner, leaving instructions that I was to deliver it to his residence for a going-over preparatory to his meeting with Kissinger.

The maid who answered the door escorted me into a spacious L-shaped lounge where I caught sight of the Rabins supping with a couple of guests in shirt sleeves, one a short and lively man with leathery skin like a well polished boot, and the other tall and powerful with a fluff of silvery hair and a scar on his left cheek. I could see them clearly in an angled wall mirror which reflected the dining area where Leah Rabin, a striking, dark-eyed woman, was dishing out fruit salad while telling some tale that had them all rollicking with laughter.

Soon they sauntered into the lounge, where Yitzhak Rabin introduced me to his wife and guests
–
old army pals it transpired
–
and invited me to join them for coffee before going over the talking paper.

With his tie loosened, jacket off, drinking and chain smoking,
Yitzhak –
that’s what everybody called him
–
listened rapturously to the army gossip his old mates were telling him in colorful detail. These were men on whom he had staked his life since the days of his youth as a fighter in the Palmach. The short man
–
I didn’t catch their names
–
was drinking uninhibitedly, and began to hum an old Palmach ditty with dewy-eyed sentimentality. The rest hummed along, and all picked up the refrain, chanting in throaty harmony
–
all but Rabin, that is, who, incapable of holding a tune, sang along off beat in a grating, earnest bass.

As they chanted, the thought occurred to me that I was in the presence of a special breed: the Palmach generation
–
patriotic, agnostic, deeply anchored in the turf of their Hebrew culture, and consecrated wholly to the defense of their country. Whatever their diverse backgrounds they all seemed to share the same sort of crusty personality, speaking an often-ungrammatical Hebrew, expressing themselves in the most inexplicable slang, and sharing a strong aversion to suits and ties.

When Leah Rabin rose to leave them to get on with their masculine tittle-tattle, the warmth of her husband’s smile echoed in his voice when he lovingly said to her, “Thanks for feeding us at such short notice. You know how the
chevra
–
the pals
–
are, popping in at the drop of a hat.” Everybody laughed, and I sat wondering at the warm and affectionate resonance of his words which were at such odds with the gruff and reserved individual I had encountered earlier in the day behind his desk at the embassy.

For this I was to learn about Yitzhak Rabin: put him in the bosom of his family, or among his old army buddies, and his warm passions instinctively flowed. He was relaxed, spontaneous, loving, even doting. But put him elsewhere and he invariably clammed up, and became introverted and shy. Such was his nature, and there was nothing he could do about it. He was not one to kindle a flame in public. His delivery of the English speeches I drafted for him was wooden. His words failed to resonate. Emotional language was foreign to his terse style. When he tried to put on a pose he looked ridiculous. He could be no one but himself, and because he spoke his mind with unembroidered frankness and didn’t much care what anyone else thought, he could often infuriate his ideological detractors, while his supporters showered him with an innate trust. Certainly, neither side had any doubts as to who he was. At rock bottom Yitzhak Rabin had that most elusive yet indispensable attribute of leadership – authenticity. He never wore a mask.