Mistakes are made, perhaps personal scores settled, and when the area is gray, even the most motivated of the Motivation Squad find themselves wishing to pause. But any pause, any deviation from orders, anything other than drumhead justice administered quickly and on the spot, would have sunk the ghetto into pathetic and fatal dissolution.
Yigal’s greatest challenge in re-establishing civil order in Tel Aviv and creating hope among its forlorn residents is logistical. Without printing presses, without radio, without loudspeakers, there is no effective way to bring word of what is to be expected from the population to the population. His cabinet has no idea. The army’s best minds come up with nothing. Professors of communication from Israel’s top universities never faced such a problem.
At the end of the day, and it was indeed at the end of the day, in bed, like every Jew from Abraham forward, Yigal asks his wife.
“Town criers,” Judy says.
“There’s already enough crying,” he tells her, confused by the term.
“Silly,” she tells him. “Get a lot of guys out there hollering out whatever message you want.”
He considers. “The ghetto is too big. Too much territory to cover.”
“Pony Express.”
“Horses? There’s not one in the city that hasn’t been eaten.”
“No, no. It’s a chain. One messenger brings the message to—I don’t know—five others, then they spread out and contact five more, and so on until—”
“On foot? Baby, I don’t have enough people strong enough to walk the city, much less run.”
“Kids on bicycles,” she whispers, then turns over and falls asleep.
In the three days that follow, Tel Aviv does not become paradise, but it is no longer hell. Its population continues to starve, but with dignity.
67
A SYRIAN LIEUTENANT WATCHES as his men frisk two Bedouin for arms. He is in charge of a reconnaissance patrol belonging to the Syrian Army’s Security Corps—an especially feared group built on the lines of the Nazi SS, even down to its uniform. They wear the same double lightning bolt shoulder patches.
“What is your name, filth?” the lieutenant asks almost conversationally.
“Abed Abu-Kassem of the Ghawarna, your lordship.”
“And you, piece of shit?”
Cobi offers only a weak smile.
“My mother’s brother’s son’s cousin, sire. He speaks not.”
“Shy?”
“Your lordship,” Abed says. “He is unable.”
“And neither of you with papers?”
“No, my lord. As I explained, we were robbed of them. We journey to Ramle, there to sell the dates in our bags. That we may purchase papers. That we may have them, because we were robbed of them. Thus we journey to Ramle, to sell dates.”
The Syrian officer comes so close Cobi can smell the stink of his uniform. “And why is this unable to speak? Does it not hear?” The lieutenant moves behind Cobi and cocks his pistol just behind his head. “It hears. It heard that.”
“Sire, he hears certainly. But something is wrong in his brain. He hears, but understands little, like a child. By Allah, I have taken him under my protection.”
The lieutenant now stands before Abed. “Have you money, filth?”
“No, lordship. Only dates.”
“How then do you live?”
“Upon dates, sire.”
“Tell me, then, camel shit. What should I do if my men open your bags and among the dates is found money, or gold, or weaponry?”
“You should kill me, excellency. My lord, you should kill us both.” The Syrian lieutenant spits. “Go. When you sell your dates, return by this route and pay a toll in gratitude that I have spared your miserable lives.”
Abed falls to the ground and kisses the lieutenant’s boots. “So we shall, nobility. Thank you. Thank you eternally in the name of Allah. In the name of the prophet may your—”
The lieutenant kicks him away. It is not a symbolic kick.
In a moment, the two Bedouin lead their donkeys onward, mounting only when they turn out of sight.
“Abed, how could you debase yourself like that?”
“How would you have wished me to debase myself?”
“There were only six. We could have reached into our packs and killed them all.”
“And the sharpshooters above would have cut us down on the spot.”
“What sharpshooters?”
“The ones you did not see, Cobi. The ones you are not supposed to see. For a month I have been watching such bastards as these, all the same, trained alike. They never operate without cover.” He raises his index finger. “Pay attention: brain, not strain, brings gain.”
“Old Bedouin proverb?”
“No,” Abed says. “But it sounds good.”
68
ABOVE THE SIX SHIPS on a collision course with an Egyptian frigate and two trailing corvettes, a helicopter marked PRESS in Arabic and English hovers like a buzzing witness, a video camera pointed out one window to record what is expected to be a major news event.
On the bridge of the frigate, an Egyptian admiral—the English word is itself derived from the Arabic amir al-bahr, ruler of the sea—lowers his binoculars from the press helicopter to focus on the line of six freighters. His executive officer stands by his side and just sufficiently behind, also with binoculars.
“Firing short, excellency?”
“Firing straight on,” the admiral says.
“Civilian vessels, excellency.”
“My orders are clear. Firing straight on.”
The exec speaks into the squawk box. “Bridge to Fire Control. Closing on target. Establish range.”
The admiral places one hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Yussef, do this once and done. Then no others will come.”
As he speaks, the ship’s five-inch 54 cal. guns swing slowly around.
69
ON THE DECK OF CV Star of Bethlehem, the hymn singing reaches a fever pitch as the members of its motley crew stare straight ahead at the approaching Egyptian warships.
From the bridge, Captain Frank depresses a button on the loud hailer that is his only means of communication with the ship—the waa-waa-waa of the amplified device stops the singing in mid-note. “Yo! Below! This is the captain speaking. Will one of you sopranos hoist the flag per instruction, or do I have to go below and do it myself? For fuck’s sake, the Lord seems to be occupied elsewhere. Raise that goddamned flag!”
70
ON THE BRIDGE OF the Egyptian frigate, a white flag can be seen rising to the top of the communications mast of the first freighter. One by one, the next five ships follow suit.
The executive officer lets hang his binoculars. From this distance, they are no longer necessary. “Begging your pardon, excellency.”
“Don’t even say it, Yussef.”
“But excellency, Law of the Sea—”
“Yussef, who will know?”
The exec points above, where the press helicopter has dropped to hover above the fast-closing Egyptian warships, video camera pointed out its window.
“Take it out,” the admiral orders.
“Excellency, I protest. The helicopter is clearly marked. It is a noncombatant. As are the six vessels. These are civilian vessels flying the white flag of surrender.”
“Yussef,” the admiral says with a mixture of kindness and authority. “Do you wish to spend your naval career scrubbing toilets in a brig in Alexandria harbor?”