Avraham Azrieli - The Jerusalem inception

“If. If. If.” The prime minister took off his eyeglasses and made like he was throwing them away. “If we had enough locusts! Or frogs! Or if we could turn their rivers to blood, or kill their firstborn, ah?”

“Those would work too.” Rabin drew from his cigarette. “But whether or not we can fend off Egypt and Syria, Jordan is the wildcard. If the king orders an attack, fifty thousand Jews will die in West Jerusalem, and Jordanian forces in the West Bank will roll across the coastal strip and slash Israel in half.”

Elie was impressed with Rabin’s ability to offer a clear analysis that solidified a consensus in the room. The soft-spoken Chief of Staff was cleverer than his boyish appearance implied-no less a politician than a soldier. He raised his hand. “The Armistice Agreements forbid military activity in West Jerusalem, but we can mobilize civilians to dig trenches as shelters.”

General Rabin nodded. “Trenches are defensive in nature. Very clever. But who’s going to dig?”

“The ultra-Orthodox.”

Everyone burst out laughing.

Elie lit a Lucky Strike and took a deep draw, waiting for the laughter to die down.

“Do you really think,” Rabin asked, “that the black hats would come out of their synagogues and yeshivas to dig trenches?”

“They avoid military service because they object to Zionism, but they’ll pick up a shovel to keep the Arabs out of West Jerusalem.”

“Why?”

“Because they remember ’forty-eight. Many of them saw with their own eyes what happened when the Jordanians captured the Jewish Quarter of the Old City-the burning of Torah scrolls, the raping of girls, the indiscriminate killing of defenseless Jews.” Elie drew from the cigarette again, letting them digest what he’d said.

“Okay,” Rabin finally said. “There’s no harm in trying.”

Abba Eban returned, carrying a cup of tea. The discussion turned to diplomatic efforts to obtain a U.S. promise to honor its 1956 guarantee to punish Egypt if it attacked Israel. Eban explained that President Johnson was already overwhelmed by losses in Vietnam. Prime Minister Eshkol was unmoved, insisting that only an American declaration would prevent war-and Israel’s demise.

As everyone was leaving, an aide asked Elie to join the prime minister in his car for a moment.

Elie sat on the jump seat, facing him.

“Excellent meeting, right?”

“Yes,” he said, though he didn’t think so.

“My job is to prevent war. But these sabra hotheads want to use their toys, conquer and pillage like King David. They’re children who dream childish dreams!”

“They beat the Arabs before.”

“But not the Soviet Union. What chance do we have?” Eshkol formed a circle with his finger and thumb.

“Soviet weapons and a few thousand advisors, but the commanders and soldiers are Arabs, and Rabin seems confident-”

“Yitzhak Rabin is a nice boy.” Eshkol made a dismissive gesture. “A schmendrik, that’s what he is. I’m not worried about him. He’ll follow my orders. My problem is Moshe Dayan. He’s a warmonger, strutting around with the fancy eye patch. Who’s ever heard of a Jewish pirate?”

Elie touched the scabs over his burns. “My agents are combing his past. I’ll let you know as soon as we find something useful.”

For several weeks, Tanya seldom left her house. She spent day and night listening to UN communications. The European and Indian officers spoke primarily English in varying accents. She was especially attuned to any mention of the UN radar at Government House. Formerly the seat of the British High Commissionaire, in 1948 Government House had become the UN Middle East headquarters. It occupied a high ridge that controlled the southern approaches to Jerusalem as well as the road to Bethlehem and Hebron. It was the highest vantage point in the region, and her equipment tapped into its wireless radio channels and its physical phone lines. Finally, on a morning that brought blooming scents of early spring through her window, Tanya heard a revealing conversation. She wrote down the exchange, switched the equipment to automatic recording, and left the house.

At the IDF command in West Jerusalem, she was taken straight into the office of Brigadier General Tappuzi, military commander of the city.

He looked up. “Good or bad?”

“They’ll open the gates to Jordanian troops as soon as war begins, no matter who started it.”

“And the radar?”

“Goes with the territory.”

“ Damn! ”

“There’s more,” she said. “Bull allowed them to bring anti-aircraft batteries up to the ridge, just outside the UN compound.”

Tappuzi called a group of officers into the room. They congregated around a map. It quickly became clear that only a massive Israeli air strike at the outset of war could prevent the Jordanian artillery from turning Jewish West Jerusalem into a deathtrap. But with the UN radar and Jordanian anti-aircraft guns working in sync, IDF aerial activities anywhere near Jerusalem would be suicidal.

Tappuzi accompanied Tanya outside. “We have to destroy that radar.”

“You want to attack the UN Mideast Headquarter?”

“What choice do we have?”

“The diplomatic consequences would be catastrophic.”

“Not as catastrophic as Jordanian carpet bombing of West Jerusalem!”

“A lot worse,” Tanya said. “Attacking the UN will make us an international pariah. We’ll lose any support, any chance for armaments or parts for our jets and tanks. The world will install a complete embargo on Israel-no flights, no shipping, no imports of food and oil-”

“Okay. Okay.” He raised his hands. “I got it. No attack on Government House. Fine. But you must find another solution for that radar. I won’t sit still and wait for Jordan to massacre our people!”

T he unusually hot spring day made Elie sweat under the beggar’s cloak. The burns on his cheek and neck had almost healed, the scabs dry and peeling off. But the new skin was still red and tender against the rough cloth.

A book landed in his lap. He glanced up and saw Abraham enter the public urinal. The door let out a whiff of stench.

Elie opened The Zohar and leaned over it so that his cloak sheltered it from the eyes of men entering and leaving the foul place. There was no note inside the book. He stuck an envelope between the pages. It contained cash and a note describing the planned recruitment of ultra-Orthodox residents of Jerusalem, including Neturay Karta, to dig trenches in the streets. Abraham was to enlist his own men, as well as convince other rabbis to have their followers join the life-saving effort. The new Office of Civil Defense, which Elie had set up at the IDF command in West Jerusalem, would hand out shovels and city maps showing them where to dig.

Abraham exited the restroom, but rather than pick up the book from Elie’s lap, he walked away. Elie got up and followed him at a distance. Exiting through the long passage onto King George Street, they merged with the midday pedestrian traffic. Farther down the street, Abraham entered an old building. Elie did the same.

The unlit landing was barely enough for them to stand, facing one another beside a rusted stairway railing, which served as an anchor for a dusty bicycle, chained together.

“I decided to quit,” Abraham said. “Immediately. I’m done!”

Elie pulled out a pack of Lucky Strike and tore off the cellophane wrapping. This development was not completely unexpected. Abraham’s rebelliousness had occasionally reared its head over the years, requiring careful manipulation by pressing the correct buttons of grief and guilt, grandiosity and gullibility, which still dominated this powerful-yet-vulnerable man. “What about your fiery disciples?”