home.”
“You’re a fool. There won’t be war, the Egyptians are still helpless.”
“They are? How did the
Eilat
sink? Some sailor pull the plug by mistake?”
“If you’re interested in your army career, stay at Stanford.”
“My career will be fine.” And here he was.
After a deafening artillery salvo close by, the father said, “All right, military genius, why a mistake?”
“Such a public event!” Amos gestured at the reporters. “On American TV, how will it look? Absolutely terrible. They won’t
show the
Eilat
going down, just the Jews bombarding peaceful industries. Only pictures count over there. Pictures!”
“Well, too bad there was no TV crew on the
Eilat
. The Americans know our ship was sunk, with big loss of life.”
“They’ve forgotten already. Anyway, what kind of surprise attack is this? Major oil refineries within artillery range, civilians
already evacuated? Zero shock. Nothing. Only shock can keep the Arabs off balance, Abba, and if Nasser calculated reprisal
targets before he sank the
Eilat
, this had to be number one.”
A white command car, with the blue letters UN painted on each side, was coming down the dirt road from the canal, raising
a long dust plume. “Well, well,” said Sam Pasternak, “the umpires are arriving to stop the fun and try to fix blame for who
started it. Ha! There are no umpires at sea.” He glanced at his wristwatch, and waved to his driver in a jeep nearby. “Let’s
get back to Refidim. A helicopter will be meeting me at twelve o’clock, I have to report to the Prime Minister.”
“Great. I’m dying to surprise my girlfriend.”
“Dvora? Is she still modelling for Yael Nitzan?”
“I assume so. I haven’t heard from her. We had a tiff before I left.”
“What about?”
“She wanted to come with me to Stanford.”
His father grunted and was silent. After some minutes of bumping along the unpaved track in a whirl of dust, Sam Pasternak
said, “For three reasons, Amos, that bombardment is no mistake. First of all, the Egyptians surprised us, we didn’t estimate
they’d dare such escalation, and politically something had to be done fast to shut off the Arab rejoicing. Not the Egyptians,
they were pretty quiet, but the other countries were calling the
Eilat
sinking ‘Israel’s Pearl Harbor.’ Second, our press and people were yelling for action. Third, our intelligence was that Nasser
expected a reprisal in the Port Said area up north, so this was in fact a tactical surprise.”
“Maybe, maybe. You know something?” Amos said. “California is the Garden of Eden, and this Sinai dust has the smell of Hell,
and I’m glad I’m back.”
Y AEL LURIA , read the sign over the Tel Aviv shop in stark block letters, gold on white, for in business Don Kishote’s wife used her
maiden name. In the window were two ultrafashionable dummies, skinny and faceless, one displaying a blue leather coat, the
other a miniskirted green suit. Inside, noisy American shoppers wore first names pinned to their dresses —
Marilyn, Connie, Isobel
— on small wooden Hadassah medallions shaped like Tablets of the Law.
“Good God,” Yael greeted Amos, stepping away from customers. “You! You went to Stanford, I heard.”
Amos had not seen Colonel Nitzan’s wife in a long time. She looked as American as her customers, lean, well-coiffed, dressed
in beige leather. Amos did not know exactly what had gone on between Yael and his father long ago. It wasn’t talked about
in the family, and he had heard only gossip, but whatever it was, he could understand it. “Well, I’m back. Dvora’s here?”
“Dvora? Yes, she’s with some rich Brit ladies in a private room” — Yael dropped her voice and looked oddly uncomfortable —
“modelling lingerie. Will you wait in my office?”
“Why not? Congratulations on Kishote’s Medal of Valor. How is he?”
“From the little I see of him, fine. He’s up north now, he’s
“You’re a fool. There won’t be war, the Egyptians are still helpless.”
“They are? How did the
Eilat
sink? Some sailor pull the plug by mistake?”
“If you’re interested in your army career, stay at Stanford.”
“My career will be fine.” And here he was.
After a deafening artillery salvo close by, the father said, “All right, military genius, why a mistake?”
“Such a public event!” Amos gestured at the reporters. “On American TV, how will it look? Absolutely terrible. They won’t
show the
Eilat
going down, just the Jews bombarding peaceful industries. Only pictures count over there. Pictures!”
“Well, too bad there was no TV crew on the
Eilat
. The Americans know our ship was sunk, with big loss of life.”
“They’ve forgotten already. Anyway, what kind of surprise attack is this? Major oil refineries within artillery range, civilians
already evacuated? Zero shock. Nothing. Only shock can keep the Arabs off balance, Abba, and if Nasser calculated reprisal
targets before he sank the
Eilat
, this had to be number one.”
A white command car, with the blue letters UN painted on each side, was coming down the dirt road from the canal, raising
a long dust plume. “Well, well,” said Sam Pasternak, “the umpires are arriving to stop the fun and try to fix blame for who
started it. Ha! There are no umpires at sea.” He glanced at his wristwatch, and waved to his driver in a jeep nearby. “Let’s
get back to Refidim. A helicopter will be meeting me at twelve o’clock, I have to report to the Prime Minister.”
“Great. I’m dying to surprise my girlfriend.”
“Dvora? Is she still modelling for Yael Nitzan?”
“I assume so. I haven’t heard from her. We had a tiff before I left.”
“What about?”
“She wanted to come with me to Stanford.”
His father grunted and was silent. After some minutes of bumping along the unpaved track in a whirl of dust, Sam Pasternak
said, “For three reasons, Amos, that bombardment is no mistake. First of all, the Egyptians surprised us, we didn’t estimate
they’d dare such escalation, and politically something had to be done fast to shut off the Arab rejoicing. Not the Egyptians,
they were pretty quiet, but the other countries were calling the
Eilat
sinking ‘Israel’s Pearl Harbor.’ Second, our press and people were yelling for action. Third, our intelligence was that Nasser
expected a reprisal in the Port Said area up north, so this was in fact a tactical surprise.”
“Maybe, maybe. You know something?” Amos said. “California is the Garden of Eden, and this Sinai dust has the smell of Hell,
and I’m glad I’m back.”
Y AEL LURIA , read the sign over the Tel Aviv shop in stark block letters, gold on white, for in business Don Kishote’s wife used her
maiden name. In the window were two ultrafashionable dummies, skinny and faceless, one displaying a blue leather coat, the
other a miniskirted green suit. Inside, noisy American shoppers wore first names pinned to their dresses —
Marilyn, Connie, Isobel
— on small wooden Hadassah medallions shaped like Tablets of the Law.
“Good God,” Yael greeted Amos, stepping away from customers. “You! You went to Stanford, I heard.”
Amos had not seen Colonel Nitzan’s wife in a long time. She looked as American as her customers, lean, well-coiffed, dressed
in beige leather. Amos did not know exactly what had gone on between Yael and his father long ago. It wasn’t talked about
in the family, and he had heard only gossip, but whatever it was, he could understand it. “Well, I’m back. Dvora’s here?”
“Dvora? Yes, she’s with some rich Brit ladies in a private room” — Yael dropped her voice and looked oddly uncomfortable —
“modelling lingerie. Will you wait in my office?”
“Why not? Congratulations on Kishote’s Medal of Valor. How is he?”
“From the little I see of him, fine. He’s up north now, he’s
Similar Books
