Avraham Azrieli - The Jerusalem inception

“Thank you.”

“I have another thorn in my side, and I decided you’re the man to pull it out.”

“I’m better at sticking thorns in than at pulling them out.”

The prime minister laughed. “Pull this one out of my side and stick it in someone else’s side, if you know what I mean.”

“Moshe Dayan?”

“Exactly.”

Elie felt in his pocket for a cigarette. He had already guessed what Eshkol wanted. Now it was time for bargaining. “You want me to meddle in politics?”

The prime minister pulled off his spectacles. “Politics schmolitics! It’s about our survival! That pirate will launch a war we can’t win!” He wiped sweat from his head with a handkerchief. “The public is fooled by his cheap charisma. But Israel needs mature leaders, not a young sabra who shoots from the hip.”

Elie nodded. Did Eshkol know that Rabin wanted Dayan? The situation was becoming more and more interesting. “From what I hear, the generals are anxious for a preemptive strike on Egypt, and they feel Dayan is more likely to authorize it.”

“Because he’s reckless. We have two hundred jets, and Weitzman wants to launch all of them at first light, fly across the desert, and bomb Nasser’s airfields-a suicidal mission if there ever was one.”

“Why?”

“They’ll know we’re coming as soon as the first plane takes off. The UN radar in Jerusalem will pick it up in a second. General Bull will tip the Jordanians, and they’ll bombard West Jerusalem to death while alerting the Egyptians to scramble their planes into the air before we’ve even crossed the Suez Canal!”

Elie was impressed. The prime minister had outlined a viable doomsday scenario. “Do we know the UN radar’s capabilities yet? Perhaps it’s not powerful enough to see planes take off in the Negev or Galilee?”

“We must assume the worst. With our luck, it can track every gefilteh fish in the Mediterranean Sea and all the way to the Cyprus!”

“What exactly do you want me to do about Dayan?”

“You’re creative. Bring him down, and I’ll appoint you.”

“Chief of Mossad?”

“I promise!”

The deal done, Elie got up to leave. “You can rely on me.”

Sunday morning arrived with a bright sun shining through the window over Lemmy’s bed. He sat up and realized he had slept in. His parents must have decided to let him enjoy a bit of leisure ahead of tonight’s engagement to Sorkeh. He thought of Benjamin, already studying with someone else. Sweet, wise Benjamin. One day he would make a great leader for Neturay Karta.

Denunciation and Faith was the title of the book that rested on the floor by Lemmy’s bed. It was a thin volume. He had read it twice since returning from Tanya’s house last night. He smiled at the memory of her delicate hands on his face, on his lips, his own hands giving her pleasure the way she had taught him, making her twist and moan and cling to him breathlessly.

When he had left near midnight, Tanya put Denunciation and Faith in his coat pocket. Now he knew why. This book spoke simultaneously of fantasy and reality- his reality. It had been written a generation earlier by the poet Uri Zvi Greenberg. In verse and metaphors, it blasted the Socialist-Zionist camp of David Ben Gurion, who had betrayed to the British authorities Jews from the right-wing guerillas of Menachem Begin’s EZL and Yitzhak Shamir’s LHI. The beauty in Uri Zvi’s verses did not diminish the violence of his prophecy, which reminded Lemmy of the way Neturay Karta’s charitable communal life did not diminish the fervor of its religious ideology. The battles were different-internal Zionist divisions compared with the ultra-Orthodox against the whole Zionist camp. But the similarity was striking-a readiness to stone, to set on fire, to spill Jewish blood, to hate fellow Jews who held conflicting beliefs.

Lemmy had made his choice. His doubts were gone. He would follow his conscience.

He dressed quickly. The thought of washing his hands and reciting the morning blessings passed through his mind, but he dismissed it. He pulled the Mauser from under the mattress and shoved it in his belt.

In the kitchen, refreshments and wine bottles awaited tonight’s engagement celebration. Cakes were baking in the oven. His mother stood at the sink, scraping glassy scales off a large carp. Another fish stared at him from the counter by her elbow. She worked with a serrated knife, which she applied to the fish in quick, sharp movements.

He was already in the foyer when his mother caught up with him. “Good morning, my son.” She handed him a mug and watched him bring it to his lips.

Turning away from the fish odor that came from her, he took a sip. The hot chocolate soothed his mouth with warm sweetness. He embraced the mug, his hands warmed by it. He tilted the mug higher and higher with each gulp, the aroma of hot chocolate comforting, until the rim of the mug reached his nose. Another, more potent scent came from his fingers, forcing its way through the smell of hot chocolate, filling his nostrils with sweetness that was not sugary but flowery. It was the scent of Tanya’s passion.

A wave of heat went through him, and he choked on the last gulp. Coughing hard, he handed back the mug.

“What’s wrong?” Temimah patted his back. “Are you okay?”

He pushed his hands deep in the coat pockets. “I’m fine.”

She fixed the hat on his head, tilting it slightly to the right. “Study well. It’s a big day.”

“It’s a great day!”

Passing by the synagogue, he headed for the gate and turned left toward Jaffa Street. From there he followed King George Street to Rehavia, a tree-lined neighborhood of stone houses inhabited by intellectual Zionists and government officials. Young women pushed strollers, taking advantage of the unseasonably warm sun. His black coat and hat drew curious glances.

He entered a barber shop, and a bell tolled above the door. Two teenage boys about his age sat in the waiting chairs. The barber held a blade over the lathered face of an elderly man. Everyone stared at Lemmy while a ceiling fan creaked above. He sat down, picked up a magazine and pretended to read. The Mauser pushed against his spine.

The barber resumed his conversation with the customer. A few moments later he let the man out of the chair, collected a few bills, and turned to the two teenagers. “Who’s first?”

The one with dark curls pushed his friend to go first, laughing in a way that resembled Benjamin.

The teenager said, “I’m joining the army tomorrow.”

“A soldier already?” The barber put a white cape around his neck. “Only yesterday your mother pushed your stroller. How come you grew up, and I never got older?”

“My father says that a true Zionist remains young forever.”

“Your father should be in politics.” The barber’s hand messed up the boy’s honey-colored hair. “Let’s clean you up for the army!”

A few minutes later, the two shorn teenagers paid the barber and left, teasing each other. The barber showed Lemmy into the chair and swept the piles of hair to the corner of the shop. Lemmy removed his hat and looked at his reflection in the mirror. His blond hair covered his forehead, the spiraling payos came down to his shoulders. His heart raced.

The barber propped the straw broom against the wall and tied a cape around Lemmy’s neck. “What will it be, son?”

He tilted his head in the direction of the door. “Like them.

The barber touched Lemmy’s payos. “These too?”

Swallowing hard, Lemmy nodded.

A pair of scissors appeared in the barber’s hand. A single snip, and the spiral chunk of hair, which had never been touched by scissors, dropped to his right shoulder, rolled down his chest, and rested in his lap.