Avraham Azrieli - The Jerusalem inception

“Sometime in 1910. April, I think.”

“You didn’t celebrate it?”

“Not really.” Tanya recalled Klaus returning from a field inspection, aching from endless hours in the car. When he saw the cake she had baked for him, he kissed her and asked her to give it to his driver, Felix. Instead of blowing out candles, they soaked in a hot bath. At first they listened to Wagner, but as Klaus’s mood improved, they piled more embers under the bath and started reciting lines from a play he had taken her to see in Berlin a month earlier. They ended up laughing so hard that the bathwater splashed all over the room.

“Tanya?”

“Yes.” She shook her head to drive away the sadness. “Klaus didn’t like to celebrate his birthday. But he was important enough that the date should be on record somewhere.” Before Elie could ask another question, she headed to the other room. “I must return to my work. Please let yourself out.”

Elie put down his cup of coffee. “Have you heard from Abraham?”

Something in his voice made Tanya pause. “Why should I hear from him?”

“Well, that’s interesting.”

“Why?”

He pulled the wool cap down over his ears and opened the front door. “It’s just that I assumed he would run straight to you with the bad news.”

“Bad news?” Her chest constricted with dread. “What bad news?”

T he drive from the Negev Desert to Jerusalem took over three hours, providing time for much-needed sleep. They woke up in the city, which was crowded despite the government’s call to stay home. Lemmy sat in the back of the truck and took in the incredible sight of thousands of Israelis in white shirts and blue pants, the children waving little flags, the windows and balconies along the road packed with cheerful spectators.

The soldiers jumped off the truck and assumed formation for the parade. Lemmy adjusted the flagpole against his hip and glanced at Sanani, who struggled to do the same. Just ahead, two half-tracks rolled into position. On a stage farther down, a band played a fast-paced tune while dignitaries took their seats.

His eyes searched the crowds. He knew his parents would never attend an event celebrating the Zionist state, and neither would Benjamin. But could Tanya be among the revelers, unaware that he was marching with his unit? He sought her pale, delicate face, framed by black hair, even though he knew how unlikely it was for her to leave her post. No. She was sitting dutifully inside that half-ruined house, wearing the bulky headphones, eavesdropping on secret communications across the nearby border.

The music stopped, and the thousands of spectators gradually quieted down. On the stage, the loudspeakers crackled, and a woman’s voice announced, “Prime Minister Levi Eshkol!”

Lemmy saw a stout man stand up and wave, earning isolated applause.

The announcer said, “The Chief of Staff, General Yitzhak Rabin.”

A man of average height and build, dressed in khaki uniform and an officer’s cap, stood up and saluted. Cheering swelled up and down the boulevard, and many launched into spontaneous singing, “ Nasser sits and waits for Rabin, ai, yai, yai… ”

Barely heard over the singing, the announcer kept listing the names of civilian and military leaders on the stage. But the singing persisted, “ And he should wait ’cause Rabin’s coming, ai, yai, yai… ”

There were no speeches, which was a good thing as the sun was beating down on them with full force. But before the marching commenced, the announcer invited the chief rabbi of the IDF to recite a blessing. Lemmy stood on his toes to get a better look at the contradiction-a rabbi in uniform. At Neturay Karta, Zionism was equated with blasphemy, and those who called themselves rabbis while supporting the state were mocked. But Rabbi Shlomo Goren, now a full general, had transformed the IDF into a Jewish army, with kosher kitchens and observance of Sabbath, enabling religious soldiers to serve without compromising their faith.

The rabbi recited a prayer for the soldiers of Israel in battle and victory. Then he chanted, “ If I forget thee, Jerusalem, my right hand shall wither. ” Many voices joined him. “ My tongue shall stick to my palate, if I don’t remember thee, if I do not put Jerusalem ahead of my own happiness. ”

Lemmy recalled his father atop the squat boulder in view of the Old City, chanting the same mournful song, defying the Jordanian sniper, whose bullet perforated the black hat. He remembered his father’s arm, resting on his shoulders as they descended the hill. Had that gesture reflected love? No, Lemmy thought, a loving father wouldn’t rip the lapel of his coat and declare his son dead while that son was standing, very much alive, in the back of the synagogue.

A whistle sounded. An officer took the microphone and called the units to attention. The civilian crowds swelled as more people arrived. The police barricades threatened to topple over under the pressure. Lemmy kept his face forward, the flagpole at the correct angle. But his eyes moved left and right, stubbornly searching for Tanya among the sea of faces.

The band played the tune for Jerusalem of Gold, and of bronze, and of light, and the crowd sang, arms interlocked, thousands of Israelis swaying from side to side, until the last line.

Breaking into a fast military march, the band caused a dramatic change of mood. The spectators started clapping and waving flags. Zigelnick barked an order, Lemmy and Sanani raised the flags, and the company marched forward. Passing by the stage, they half-turned and saluted.

E lie Weiss heard the cheering from a distance. He didn’t like crowds. Instead of attending the parade, he borrowed a vehicle from the IDF car pool and drove along the border section of West Jerusalem to inspect the progress of trench-digging. Tanya had borrowed his Citroen for the drive to the base in the Negev where Abraham’s son was apparently stationed. She insisted on telling him face to face, rather than allow the army to deliver the news.

The ultra-Orthodox volunteers surpassed Elie’s expectations. Men who spent their lives as sedentary Talmudic scholars instead worked around the clock to create a system of deep trenches and walls of sandbags along the border. Beside the military benefit, Elie was pleased to see them out of their synagogues and yeshiva halls, where anti-Zionist fever would have peaked during such perilous times, when even secular Zionists doubted the Jewish state’s chances of survival. And for good reason. Jordan’s cannons could easily decimate the civilian Jewish population of West Jerusalem. Transportation of Israeli ground forces from the south or the north, even if some units could be spared, would take too long to reach the city in time.

The trenches would save some lives, but the only way to effectively defend the Jews of West Jerusalem would be a massive attack by Israeli jets on Jordanian artillery positions in East Jerusalem-a suicidal mission because of the UN radar at Government House, connected to the Jordanian anti-aircraft guns. Brigadier General Tappuzi and his team desperately needed a solution, and Elie believed he might have it.

He parked by an abandoned building and climbed to the roof, which offered unobstructed views eastward. The Old City’s ancient walls surrounded the densely populated quarters, and the two mosques on Temple Mount resembled domes of nuclear reactors. He focused his binoculars on Government House, high on the southern ridge. Two UN sentries in khaki uniform and blue caps lounged on a bench. The guard towers at opposite ends of the compound were not manned. The massive building was made of local stone. On the roof was a storage room, which served as a base for the steel mast carrying the giant UN flag. In the rear of the compound, Antenna Hill swelled up, topped by a wall of sandbags around a concrete structure, half-sunk in the ground. A huge reflector antenna rotated on top. Behind the radar station he could see gasoline tanks-a useful feature for faking an accidental explosion.