Hesh Kestin - The Siege of Tel Aviv

“The Knesset, Mr. President.”

“The Key-Ness-Et. Been dissolved.”

“Mr. President,” the B’nai B’rith chairman blurts out. “By assassination!”

The leader of the free world checks his watch. “Gentlemen, let me be frank.” One of the visitors will later suggest to his wife that this is pretty much an admission that otherwise the president has been less than that. “I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for the Jewish people. My Harvard roomie was half-Hebrew, Benny Berman—everybody used to call him Berman the Vermin. All in fun, of course. I do admire you folks, no question, always have, always will. But there’s more at stake here than what I call matters of the heart. My heart is with you, one hundred percent. But the national temper, that’s a whole ’nother ballgame. Poll after poll, including our own unpublicized research, shows pretty damn clearly—excuse me, gentlemen, for my language, but I’m leveling with y’all—shows conclusively that if our Jewish citizens try to distort the national agenda to get us involved in another Middle East war to support Israel, what’s left of it, then mark my words the American people will react on the parallel matter of immigration, a prospect I deplore, but won’t be able to do much to prevent. We got us millions of refugees with no place to go but the bottom of the sea. That’s the A-one, double-distilled, gold-plated problem before us, and it requires the acquiescence of the American people. Flo, what’s that phrase these folks use?”

“Shalom bayit , sir. Peace at home.”

“Exactly. Peace at home, my friends. We need things to work out here at home before we can go ahead and take care of your co-religionists over there in Tel Aviv. I don’t have to tell you the first step in that process. It’s solving the worst energy crisis this country has every faced. We got to get people filling their tanks with gas at prices they can live with. End of the day, those are the kind of tanks that are going to save your people, not the kind with guns attached. Shalom bayeet . I love the sound of that. It means with goodwill and a flexible foreign policy we can get the job done. Now let me thank each and every one of you folks for visiting with us. I’m advised you can pick up your autographed photographic records of this historic visit on your way out. I’ve always maintained an open door policy for the American Jewish community, and as Christ is my witness this President of the United States of America ain’t going to let that change. Thank you for y’all’s support.”

YIGAL AND MISHA FIND Major General Ido Baram sleeping on a camp cot in the shade of a eucalyptus outside the headquarters tent. It is clear this is headquarters because a small hand-lettered cardboard sign so designates it. Otherwise, zip: there is no sentry outside, no adjutant hovering just within to make sure military procedure is followed to the letter. It appears military procedure has ceased to exist. Aside from the fact that the men and women sitting around in the shade as though on vacation are in uniform, or some parts of uniform, Camp Yarkon, as it is called, could be any low-rent holiday retreat in any park on the bank of any polluted river in any starving city anywhere.

“Ido,” Yigal says quietly. “What the fuck?”

The general opens an eye. “Yigal?”

“Get up, man. We have to talk.”

“Talk, then. Me, I haven’t eaten since yesterday morning. I couldn’t tell you what it was but I ate it.” He struggles to sit up. Once an icon of physical fitness in the Armored Corps, said to go to war with a set of barbells in his tank, Ido Baram is now little more than a bag of bones covered in loose skin, his uniform flapping around his torso like so much torn wrapping paper. When he lifts his head, it can be seen that his holstered pistol acted as a pillow. He straps it on. Even this, a compact Beretta 9 mm, seems far too big for him. Once ruddy, his face is pale with a curious yellow underlay that is reflected in the whites of his eyes, whose ochre cast is unmistakable, a sure sign of jaundice. Slowly, he stands.

“See that? On my feet like a proper general officer.” He peers past Yigal to Misha and the troop of big men in too-gaudy civilian clothes who keep looking around as if they expect to be arrested at any moment. “I can offer you water,” he says. “Just you, unfortunately. We rigged a solar still. Not Niagara Falls, but we get by.” He looks again at Misha’s crew. “Friends of yours?”

“I didn’t come for water,” Yigal says. “Can we come inside?”

“Sure,” Ido says, lifting a flap for them to enter. “But we’ll have to speak quietly so as not to disturb headquarters staff, who are diligently planning the counterattack. To your left is operations, field intelligence to the right, over there manpower, logistics, and supply, engineering at the rear. Liaison is in the far corner and of course next to that communications.”

The tent is empty.

“Oh, I forgot to mention medical. Just outside.” Ido laughs, a kind of burp of self-derision. “We’re not exactly staffed to the max, of course, because we have no tanks, no equipment, no ammunition, no planning, no personnel capable of fighting, much less walking around, no food and little water. Did I mention no air force or navy? Also no medical supplies, in case you’re here in search of an aspirin.” He pauses, as though unable to continue. Even to Ido, the joke becomes less funny the longer it continues. “Yigal, you haven’t introduced your friend.”

Misha offers his hand.

Ido pointedly ignores it, replying with a mock salute. “Misha Shulman, staff sergeant. I know you well. In fact, I tried to have you removed from the Armored Corps.”

“I knew someone did. I didn’t know it was you. What, afraid I’d steal a tank?”

“More like introducing hard drugs, selling military secrets, that kind of thing. Yigal, this is your friend?”

“You’re both my friends.”

“Yigal Lev,” Ido says, “As always, a man of many parts. Can we get to the point? I find standing for more than a minute wastes too much energy.”

Yigal squats on the ground. “Gentlemen, please be seated.”

The two look at each other, then squat as well.

“Actually,” Ido says, turning to Yigal. “You shouldn’t even be here. Him even less. This is a closed military area. You’re neither in uniform nor called up. In fact, if I remember properly, Yigal, I personally dissolved your brigade. In consonance with the rest of the IDF, it no longer exists. Also, if I recall correctly, Pinky wanted you court-martialed for disobeying a direct order on the battlefield. But as it happens he’s been busy.”

“Busy ordering a retreat,” Misha says.

“Does he have to be here?”

Yigal nods. “Yes, Reserve Staff Sgt. Misha Shulman does have to be here. And I suggest you treat Misha with a modicum of respect, not only because he is my friend but because if you keep at him he is likely to shoot you in the head.”

“I was thinking of the balls.”

“Yeah, well, stop thinking of fighting amongst ourselves. I’m here because I prefer fighting the enemy.”

“Over there,” Ido says, waving airily to the east. “About six kilometers. You can’t miss them. Arabs mostly, with a nice overlay of Iranians. Intelligence, when we had intelligence, also noted a Pakistani unit—imagine that, Pakistan—and a nasty group of rapists from Chechnya, of all places. What do you want me to do, Yigal, conjure up an army? You were sent home. Stay there.”

“Ido,” Yigal says. “I’m taking back my tanks.”

“What?”

“I’m taking back my tanks. That’s why we’re here.”