Orah Schechter opened the front door to her home on Etsyon Street. The wife of General David Schechter was eight years younger than her husband but now looked a little older. She was a full time housekeeper and mother, the role leaving too little time for exercise and too much time for eating. Like many married women in their forties, Orah’s weight swung in a range that reflected, on a good day, the success of recent dieting will power or, on a bad day, the frustration of having succumbed too easily to the temptations of a full refrigerator. Tonight, like most nights, her weight was somewhere in the middle. “Shalom. You must be Amit.” Her smile was still as beautiful as the day it caught the eye of a 31-year-old IAF fighter pilot.
Amit Margolis smiled as he shook Orah’s hand. “Shalom, Mrs. Schechter.”
“Please call me Orah.”
“Shalom, Orah. This is my girlfriend, Enya.”
Orah Schechter looked up to the stunning model, fighting to control her feminine instincts. She immediately noticed that Enya was wearing a pair of Gianni Bini brown wedge shoes paired with a Dolce & Gabanna peach colored mid length dress. Enya’s shoes added two inches to her already formidable five-foot-seven-inch frame. Orah smiled and extended her hand. She couldn’t help but think that she was welcoming her daughter to dinner. Enya smiled back, which did nothing to help the hostess feel more at ease. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“I’m going to have to hide you from my teenage son,” said Orah, not sure what possessed her to make the comment.
Enya laughed nervously. The young couple followed Orah into the home, walking down a hall and into the kitchen. The hostess offered wine. “My husband will be home soon. He took our two youngest kids to a friend’s home.” Amit Margolis smiled. He couldn’t come to grips with the air force general he had now been in meetings with twice also being a suburban father chauffeuring kids around town.
Thirty-five minutes later, all four adults were seated at a small rectangular table in the walled backyard of the Schechter home. The weather on this early spring day just north of Tel Aviv was perfect. The late afternoon temperature was now 76 degrees and the sky was cloudless. Everyone had finished a cucumber and tomato salad and Orah had just placed grilled lamb on the table to complement the vegetables and couscous. “Please help yourselves,” she added. She returned to the kitchen to open another bottle of wine.
As his wife walked away, Schechter added an instruction. “Open a bottle of the Joseph Phelps Insignia, honey. Make sure it’s 2007.” Orah did not respond as she headed inside, but she heard every word and would be sure to comply.
“I think we all share something in common. All of our parents immigrated here,” said Schechter, wanting to learn more about Amit.
Margolis spoke up first. “My father was American but his parents had immigrated from Russia. My mother came here from Russia after a brief time in the U.S.”
“That certainly explains why you speak Russian like a Russian,” observed the general.
“Da,” smiled the young Mossad katsa. “Same with Enya.”
Enya had been somewhat reticent. She was not at all sure if she was up to a dinner at the home of an Israeli general. Her Saturday nights were usually spent with friends at a party or a dance club. “Yes, my parents came here from the Soviet Union in 1983,” she said. “My mother was three months pregnant with me when she arrived. How about you, General?”
“Please call me David. You make me feel too old.” Schechter smiled at the beautiful woman seated to his left and took a sip of wine. “I… am not Russian. My parents came to Israel from France. They were fortunate enough to live in Aix-en-Provence. My grandfather owned a vineyard that had been in the family for generations and my father started running it just before the war. They somehow survived the Vichy period and the denaturalization laws. My mom always told me it was because my father was very popular in town. Of course she also told me that he was smart enough to give away cases of his vintage reserve wines to the right people, including the chief of police.” Schechter laughed at the thought, his outward expression masking the anger that he harbored inside. He had spent his youth daydreaming about being a vineyard owner in southern France. “Even after the Nazi occupation, they were able to survive for over a year. Finally the Germans started sending SS units across the countryside to round up remaining Jews. The property had a series of caves in the hillsides where wine was aged. My parents spent almost a year living in a hidden part of the caves with a small number of local Jews. They were supported by some of their workers who brought them food and never revealed the secret. But my grandfather, who was in his 70s, I think, stayed in the house and gave the SS a story about how his son and daughter-in-law had escaped to Spain by boat. He died on a train headed east towards a concentration camp.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Enya, unable to bring herself to call him David.
Schechter regretted going into that detail. He did not want to create a somber mood. Margolis could sense this. Amit spoke up to bail out his new partner. “I am guessing that French is your, eh, first language? ‘Ex’ — that’s how you pronounce that? It’s spelled a-i-x, right?”
“Oui. Ex-on-provence. That is how a Frenchman in the south of France says it.”
“I have always wondered about that.” Margolis looked at his girlfriend. “I always like to learn something new.”
The general smiled as his wife returned from the kitchen, an open bottle of one of the world’s best cabernet sauvignons in her hands. “Who would like some red wine with their lamb,” she said as she approached the table.
“Please,” came the response from Margolis.
The general liked that his new partner had recognized the situation and intentionally sought to lighten the mood. “You are right, Amit. French is what I grew up with at home.” As many men knew, the language of romance was one of the most powerful aphrodisiacs, especially when used by a fighter ace in Tel Aviv in the ‘80s. But with his wife back at the table, that was a memory that would not be shared at the moment.
Enya Govenin filled her plate with vegetables and couscous. She passed on the cabernet, instead continuing to enjoy her chardonnay. Orah was not as perceptive as her husband. “You should try the lamb. It’s delicious,” the lady of the house said.
Amit looked at his girlfriend. She was embarrassed and not sure how to respond. He interjected to help her out. “Thank you, Orah. The lamb is really delicious. But Enya is a vegetarian.”
“Oh,” responded Mrs. Schechter. “I’m so sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about,” said Enya. “I have not eaten meat in a long time now.” Enya ate a bite of food as the hostess sat down, having filled three of four wine glasses. “I wanted to thank you for having us over. Your home is beautiful.” Enya smiled at Orah and then turned to the general. She was curious and the time had come to quench that desire. “I’m sorry, how do you and Amit know each other again?”
“Ah, I can understand your curiosity.” Schechter put his fork down and reached for the wine glass. “Amit is helping the air force with our budgeting. It is the age old problem, you know. We have a lot we want to do and unfortunately limited funds to do it with. Amit helps us project out our expenses and look for savings.” He took a sip of wine and shrugged his shoulders. “Not very exciting, but a reality of life.” He smiled at his young guest. Across from him, Orah noted the flirtatious tone in her husband’s voice, something she had not heard in years.
“Didn’t I read that you were recently appointed as the special military advisor to Prime Minister Cohen?” Enya asked. Amit had pulled up the article from Haaretz on his computer earlier that day, asking her to learn a little about their host for the evening.