The Glory Read online

  What now? He decided to telephone Sue Weinberg, a divorcée in Kfar Shmaryahu, who was sure to welcome him with joyous warmth, a superb meal, and a familiar bedroom. Three kids, no future there, but somehow he got along best with older women. Girls made problems.

  MAIMONIDES HOSPITAL

  HAIFA

  November 10th, 1967

  Dear Abba:

  You keep asking about Daphna Luria in your letters. Actually, she’s been here several times. She couldn’t be sweeter, and I could become serious about Daphna, but I doubt she’s in that frame of mind. Not yet, anyhow. That dizzy relative of ours Jack Barkowe usually brings her here in his damned Porsche. She says he’s just a pleasant kid, but she sure loves that Porsche. He let her drive it and the Mekhess nabbed it, but with protectsia he got it back. Was that your doing? As for the physical therapy, it’s starting to work at last. My back pain is almost gone, except when I make sudden movements. I’ll be out of here in a week, the doctor says. But then what?

  Abba, I’ve spent a lot of time on my back, thinking about my future. If I do go on with a military career, I doubt it’ll be in the navy. I’m disillusioned and disgusted. Yesterday we had a reunion of Eilat survivors in the hospital dining room, and the guys who weren’t injured came and joined us. Strangely, it was uproarious. Everybody making jokes, insulting each other, even horseplay. Sheer joy of being alive and together again, we all felt it. Also shutting out our sadness about all the guys we lost. Anyway, it was something. The captain wasn’t there. He’s out of the hospital, but in terrible mental shape. So am I, Abba.

  Do we even need a navy? It’s a marginal branch at best, isn’t it? That sense of being inferior, not crucial to Israel’s survival like the tanks and the air, pervades the service. Slack, slack, slack! Slackness caused the sinking of my ship. Where we were steaming, the attack was no surprise. We should have been ready with countermeasures, but that’s not the worst of it. In the Beersheba hospital ward where they first took us, General Gavish, Commander South, came and asked the captain why he was sailing within missile range, when Southern Command had hard intelligence that the Egyptians were preparing to fire missiles.

  The captain got so agitated they had to move him to a private room. Abba, that intelligence never reached the Eilat! My God, if we’d been warned, we could have been patrolling thirty miles out, far beyond missile range, and still performed our mission. The captain was always uneasy about our patrol sector so close in, but those were our orders. The other day at a promotion party for some officer the captain had a few glasses of wine, and he started yelling at the top brass, calling them idiots and murderers. He had to be restrained and taken home. I don’t blame him one bit. My blood still boils when I think about all this. Whichever shlepper received the intelligence at headquarters probably tossed the despatch in his routine out-basket. Missiles, shmissiles! The inquiry is still going on, but they’ll never pin down the guy who should hang. Not in this navy.

  What’s an Israeli navy for, anyway, Abba? We fight short land wars. All we really need is a coast guard to nab smugglers and sink terrorist craft. This shlepper navy is never going to match the Soviet Union in missile warfare, and no matter what Arab presses the buttons, the Russians are our enemy at sea. I’m ready to go into tanks, paratroops, even special services if my back will hold up. Amos Pasternak came in today, and we talked a lot about this. Amos says the tanks are Israel’s backbone. They’re your branch, and I’m just fed up with the navy. It’s a blind alley. Maybe the white dress uniform got to me. Maybe you shouldn’t have named me Noah! Anyway, I’ll welcome your advice about what to do and where to turn. I’m at a dead end, and very depressed, as you may gather.

  Love to all,

  Noah

  Rock-and-roll music bedevilled Zev Barak as he was trying to reply to this letter, for Nakhama allowed the girls to play records “low” while doing homework. A vague term, that “low,” subject to very different constructions by the opposing parties, thought Barak — much like the words in the new UN peace resolution, under urgent grinding debate ever since the Eilat incident and the fiery artillery reprisal.

  … no argument, Noah, about your bitterness over the intelligence failure. It happens in the army too, God knows. You’ve learned in a tragic way that sea warfare has evolved to a new form. For Israel, no more large targets: destroyers, frigates, they’re finished. But those Styxes were launched by boats tied up in port. Stable platforms. If fired from a tossing deck, who knows? Still, we must assume the worst. Russian-made boats of Arab navies, probably partly manned by Soviet technicians, will either dominate our coasts, or we must have a navy that can outfight them —

  Barak’s pen halted, and he ate pistachio nuts from a bowl by his armchair. Was he taking the right tone now, after crumpling into the wastebasket two starts which had tried paternal comfort and reassurance? But his son had not fallen off a bike, he had been blooded in a combat disaster. He resumed writing, as though advising any promising junior officer:

  — and remember, our longest border is not with Jordan or Egypt, it’s our coastline. Interdiction of hostile sea forces has to be a seaborne mission. The air force has its own mission, Clear skies over Israel. It can’t be diverted from that. Even if our navy is not a decisive arm, the lack of a navy is not an option for us. Granted, the navy is at a low point now, but don’t for a minute assume that we’ll never be able to contend with Russian missile boats. Jewish heads are hard at work, including Uncle Michael. Need I say more? I strongly recommend that you stick it out. Of course the tanks are vital, but you’ve made your mark in the navy, and your leaving now would hurt an already wounded service …

  Barak broke off writing, wondering whether the reference to his brother was a security breach. The missile program was ultra-secret, and Michael Berkowitz as a Technion physicist was much involved. But it was only a letter to a very prudent young naval officer, so he let it stand.

  “They’re here.” Nakhama poked her head into his small den, a converted maid’s room. In came a skinny youngster with flaming red hair, followed by Colonel Benny Luria in blue dress uniform. At Halliday’s request, Barak had arranged for Benny to lecture at the Air Force Academy. Maybe there would be a return favor somewhere down the line.

  “Elohim, is this Danny?” Barak laid aside the writing pad and jumped up. “Benny, by my life he’s grown a foot.”

  The boy barely smiled. Luria embraced Barak, saying, “I couldn’t resist bringing him along. It’s important for him to see that Air Force Academy. He’ll be the envy of every boy on the base, and I’d have brought Dov too, if he weren’t tied up in the pilot course.”

  “So, Danny,” said Barak, “you want to be a fighter pilot, like Abba and Dov?”

  “That’s what I will be,” returned Danny in a new deep voice.

  Barak’s two daughters came gambolling in, crying, “Danny, Danny,” and the boy’s serious mien melted in laughter, kisses, and hugs. Galia, the twelve-year old, now hardly came up to his shoulder, though they had been wrestling and chasing each other as equals since childhood. She too was altered, by the beginnings of a bosom, and after the first rejoicing she withdrew from Danny, leaving Ruti to do the romping around him.

  “He’ll be taller than you, Benny,” said Nakhama, smiling in the doorway. “He’s shooting up. How come? Irit’s not tall, neither is Dov.”

  The thickset aviator grinned and nodded, as the girls dragged Danny off to their room. “Genes, Nakhama, genes. Irit’s father was a redheaded six-footer. Danny looks me straight in the eye right now. He’ll have trouble folding himself into a cockpit.”

  “Let that be your biggest worry.” Nakhama scooped up pistachio shells scattered on the desk. “Dinner in half an hour.”

  “Zev, what’s really happening at the UN?” Luria dropped on the convertible couch. “A real katzenjammer, no, since we blasted the refineries?”

  “More than a katzenjammer. The superpowers are pushing hard for a deal now, Benny. The Russians don’t
want the Arabs to take another trouncing, and the Americans have their hands full in Vietnam, and desire no more trouble in the Middle East. So they’re negotiating a quick wrap-up resolution between themselves, behind the scenes, and we don’t know what the devil they’re cooking up. Gideon Rafael’s very concerned.”

  “He should be.”

  “Well, meantime on the good side, the Americans are releasing those forty-eight Skyhawks, but —”

  “Fantastic.” Luria sat up. “They are? Two more squadrons!”

  “— But, I say, also pledging fighter aircraft to five Arab countries.”

  “Ah. Evenhandedness.”

  “Exactly. Not to Nasser or Syria, since Russia’s already supplying them in a flood, but to others.”

  “Pity the Russians aren’t evenhanded too, I’d love to test-fly that new MiG of theirs.” Luria took pistachio nuts from the bowl Barak offered. “You know, my Daphna’s been visiting Noah.”

  Barak gestured at Noah’s letter on his desk. “He writes me about Daphna. He likes her.”

  “Do you know she’s acquired an American chauffeur with a Porsche, some relative of yours?”

  “Yes, Jack Barkowe. What’s he like? You’ve met him?”

  “Yes. A youngster, maybe twenty-two or -three. Looks like Noah. Smart, but awfully immature. Says he’s making aliya, and wants to be called Yaakov, like a real Israeli.”

  The telephone had been ringing and ringing in the foyer. Nakhama called, “It’s Gideon Rafael, Zev.”

  The UN representative sounded hoarse and weary. “Zev, things are very bad here. How about that CIA contact you’ve dealt with, you and Sam Pasternak? Are you still in touch with him?” Barak had not disclosed Christian Cunningham’s name to him, and Rafael had not asked.

  “Not since the war ended. Why?”

  “Because we’ve got a crisis on our hands, no mistake, and tomorrow comes the crunch. Maybe you can help —”

  “Gideon, tomorrow Benny Luria lectures at the Air Force Academy, and I’m flying out there with him.”

  A pause. Voices off, in rapid Hebrew. Then Rafael: “All right. A courier will come to Washington on the next shuttle to bring you some papers. Meantime for God’s sake, talk to your CIA guy.”

  “But about what, Gideon?”

  “Just open the lines for fast action. Zev, a scratch of a pen at this stage, here in New York, can cost us our victory in the war.” Rafael’s voice shook. “Understand? The Russians are sticking on words fatal to us, they’re being tougher than the Arabs, and the Americans are wobbling. After you read those papers, call me.”

  4

  Two Little Words

  Now that he had a reason to telephone the Cunninghams, Barak felt awkward. He tried the CIA man’s office first. Not in, so he dialled the home in McLean.

  “Hello?” Her voice, brisk and cool.

  “Emily, it’s Zev. Is your father there?”

  “Zev! Oh, Zev, you!” She burst into warm jubilant laughter. “Golly, no, but he’ll be here for dinner. My God, how are you? Where are you? Still in Washington?”

  “Still here. I’m fine. Ask Chris to call me at home when he gets in, will you?”

  “Sure thing. Say, know what? Bud and I are winging off tomorrow to Colorado Springs to hear your Colonel Luria lecture. They say it’ll be standing room only at the academy. We’ll be the guests of the superintendent.”

  “Luria’s here in my flat. I’m coming with him.”

  “Honestly? Well then we’ll see each other, won’t we? High time! Bud told me you met at the Pentagon. My God, it’s bodacious to talk to you.”

  The word was unknown to Barak, but hearing Emily’s quick breathless voice was decidedly “bodacious,” whatever that might mean. As a yeshiva boy he had joked with the others about a cautionary rabbinic saying, “Woman’s voice is naked sex.” Nothing truer, at least for him when the woman was Emily Cunningham. She went on in a more sober tone. “Zev, you told me your son’s a destroyer officer. It wasn’t his ship that was sunk?”

  “It was, but he’s all right. In the hospital, soon to be discharged. He was fortunate.”

  “Praise God. I had my hand on the phone ten times to call you. Then I didn’t.” Another pause. “Well, I’ll tell Chris to ring you.”

  “Emily, maybe we’ll have a moment to talk out there.”

  “Why, we’ll make a moment. More than a moment. I’ve heaps and heaps to tell you, old Wolf Lightning.” This was Zev Barak in English, her nickname for him. “Bye, dear.”

  The girls were setting the table and chattering with Danny. Nakhama brought out a soup tureen. “Dinner’s about ready, Abba. Get Benny. Anything serious with Gideon?”

  “I’ll know more later.”

  With an odd look she went back to the kitchen, and he felt Nakhama knew he had been talking to Emily Cunningham. She had perfect pitch for variations in his telephone voice. But she didn’t say anything, and neither did he.

  At dinner Galia and Ruti plied Colonel Luria with questions about the air victory, and he responded in vivid detail while his son sat silent, a picture of filial worship. Zev thought Benny was testing his lecture on them. The battle incidents were especially exciting, and he would make a hit in Colorado, if only he could tone down his warrior pride. These were not Homeric times.

  “Zev? Chris Cunningham. You called?”

  Barak was still studying the papers Gideon Rafael’s courier had delivered. “Yes. Chris, can I drop over and talk to you now?”

  “Why not? I’m just watching a great Hopalong Cassidy. I guess I’ve seen it seventeen times. Come along. Em’s still here.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  The autumn leaves glowed yellow and red in the highway lights, and an autumn chill was in Barak’s blood as he drove along the Potomac. Would it never end, this Sisyphean task of rolling the stone uphill to military victory, only to have it roll back down the slope of superpower politics to diplomatic defeat? Gideon Rafael was dead right, the papers showed the crisis was at hand. At the UN the battle over the words in peace resolutions had been going on draggily since the end of the war, but now the pace had turned feverish, with the Americans anxious for a deal and the Russians unyielding. A hairy time for Israel.

  He was in turmoil, too, at the sudden prospect of confronting Emily again. He yearned for it, he dreaded it, and he was baffled by their brief phone talk. The vibrant voice had been as loving as before, quite as though their breakup had never occurred. And yet, “Bud and I are flying to Colorado Springs,” so that relationship apparently was very far along, if not settled. What was going on?

  She opened the door to his ring, a cloth coat over her arm. “Hi there. Chris is in the library with Hopalong Cassidy.” Same naked voice, same twining of her fingers in his, same press of his hand against her soft side. Same affectionate look in those big nearsighted eyes, too, same careless cloud of brown hair. The purple jersey dress clinging to her slender figure showed no ounce gained in her globe-trotting. “Let me look at you, old Wolf. Well! God’s gift to womankind, yummy as ever. How are you, dear, truly? And Nakhama and the girls?”

  “All well. You’re leaving now?”

  “Got to, dammit.” He helped her pull on the coat. “Thanks, sweetie. Twenty-odd French exams piled up in the Growlery, to correct and hand out in a nine o’clock class.”

  “The Growlery,” he said, with a note of rue. This was the gatehouse of the Foxdale School, where she lived and where at snatched times they had made fierce hopeless love.

  “Ah me, yes,” she said. “The Growlery. ‘Mais où sont les neiges d’antan,’ hey, old Wolf? The world wags on. Bud doesn’t like the Growlery. Before Marilyn died they had a place like it on the Blue Ridge for years, so it brings back sad memories.” She buttoned up her coat. “Well, then we meet again tomorrow in Colorado Springs! Is your air hero all set with his lecture? They’ll eat it up, I’m sure, the Israeli air force is aces now in our military. In fact, Israel is.”

  “Benny usually
does all right.”

  In a sudden movement she put her cheek to his and hugged him. “Ah, Wolf Lightning, seeing you is heaven, that doesn’t change. Bye.”

  Glass in hand, Christian Cunningham was turning off the TV as Barak came into the library. “Hi, class-A fight at the end of that Hopalong. How about some bourbon?”

  “Sure, Chris, thanks.” Usually Barak declined, but this was an occasion when conviviality might help. “Emily looks grand.”

  “A little silly, Emily, like most of her sex, but good-hearted.” The maroon wool dressing gown hung loose on the gaunt figure stooped over the bar. “Splash of water, you take, right? They’re giving you a hard time at the UN, I gather. Cheers.”

  “Cheers. That’s what I came to talk about, Chris.”

  “I’m listening.” They sat down on a brown leather couch. Cunningham’s wrinkled wise eyes, set deep in skull-like sockets and peering through thick horn-rimmed glasses, never left the military attaché’s face as he summarized Gideon Rafael’s handwritten memo which had come with the courier’s pages.

  “Your Mr. Rafael sounds a mite shook up,” observed Cunningham. “All that checks out with what we know. The Arabs are on a roll, Zev, about to get an American-Soviet resolution calling for your withdrawal behind the previous lines.”

  “In return for what?”

  “Some general language about all parties committing themselves to peace in the region, sometime in the future —”

  “Okay, that’s the Goldberg-Gromyko compromise,” Barak struck in, “but the Arabs turned that down back in July.”

  “Well, this is November,” said Cunningham. “The Arabs have thought it over, and now they’ll take Goldberg-Gromyko.”

  “Israel can’t go along, Chris.”