Hesh Kestin - The Siege of Tel Aviv

WITH THE BEGINNING OF active campaigning only months away, the president is not about to spend his precious time where there are no speeches to make, hands to shake, or babies to kiss—yes, the president has revived that most dust-covered of American political clichés, though his tagline manages to bring it up to date for an economically battered electorate as short on optimism as it is on affordable gas: “Madam, the beautiful child in your arms is the future of America.”

Rather than be seen visiting world leaders like a traveling salesman or bringing them together for an emergency conference whose indeterminate results or outright failure might be attributed to the president himself, not a great idea just ahead of an election, the leader of the free world prefers to work behind the scenes. For this he employs the video conference call in dealing with the individuals he terms his “co-world leaders.” (Flo Spier has given up trying to get the man to say “world co-leaders”—the president would rather be taken for a smart hick than a dumb Harvard grad.) His security people assure him these calls are as private as if all the participants were locked into a lead-lined closet in the White House sub-basement. The stakes are too high to risk public failure. Few nations are just itching to welcome even a small fraction of an estimated six million penniless Jews.

“So what I got here so far, gentlemen—and ladies, of course, mustn’t forget the ladies—is a grand total of, let’s see now, give or take, carry the two, about a million five. Here’s the bottom line. I know the last thing you folks want is a flood of dyspeptic Hebrews in your country. But I got to say, I mean, a great nation like France, offering to take just two hundred thousand, that’s chicken feed. The UK, I see you’re down for half that. Italy and Holland, half that again. Folks, we got us six million starving refugees here, and believe me, these people, they get back on their feet and put their biblical heads together, they gonna spark your industries, your sciences, your technologies, your entire economies. Yeah, I know every one of y’all only wants the smarties, the doctors and researchers and so on, and there’s quite a few requests I got for air force pilots and top-drawer soldiers. But come on, the cream gets spread around with the milk.

“Anyhoo, first I got to get numbers I can live with. Even my good neighbor to the south, Mexico, not the richest country in the universe, is willing to take two hundred thousand. That’s not, you know, the kind of commitment comes easy because my amigos down there are still boot-strapping their nation into the ranks of developed countries. So why are they accepting so many Jews? Because they expect these Jews to help ’em do it. You Scandinavian guys, learn from this. You South American countries, learn from this. Even some of you Asian tigers, think about how a whole lot of Jews can turbo-charge your already impressive success. And my good Russian friend, we got over a million people in Israel just come from your great country twenty years ago. They speak the language, for Pete’s sake—it’s a natural fit. I got you down for fifty thousand? You gotta be yankin’ my chain.

“So looky here. I gonna make you a one-time only offer. Everyone doubles his quota and the US of A will match it, so that means we’ll have this problem settled in a New York minute. And, speaking of that city, if you agree right now, for a limited time only, I’ll throw in getting the NYPD to cancel every one of your people’s parking tickets, I don’t care going back how long. No more hassles. That’s by way of being a joke, guys, but I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do: if you don’t have it already, you get most favored nation status for five whole years. That means zero customs duty on most imports to the US of A, which ought to mean quite a lot if your economy is in the toilet, which most of y’all’s is. Also, any of you want to meet a special movie star on your next visit to our fine country, I can fix that—just so you keep my role in it on the QT. What do you say, guys? Let’s start from the top. Albania, a hundred people—you wanna go to two hundred? What’s two hundred people?”

Albania goes to two hundred, Argentina doubles to three thousand, Australia to a hundred thousand, and so on right down the line to Zambia, which agrees to fifty Jews. China and Russia are left for last. Because Taiwan has now agreed to accept four thousand, Beijing signs on for ten times that. Russia, however, isn’t budging. Never mind that so many Israelis were until recently Russian engineers, doctors, and scientists trained in Russian schools and familiar with Russian ways. “Russia,” its prime minister tells the president, “has too many Jews already. And always will.”

With the problem mostly solved, the president needs only to consult with Flo Spier on the best timing for the announcement. She believes it will very helpful to get the new Israeli PM to Washington for a joint statement. Trouble is, communication with what the press is calling the “interim” or “ad hoc” government of Israel is proving difficult.

Less so for an Israeli agent deep in the national security apparatus, who communicates the results of the teleconference—code, shmode—to Yigal Lev via a radio link with CV Star of Bethlehem .

“Well, that’s settled,” Yigal tells Misha. “Where do you prefer, Albania or Zambia?”

“I like it here,” Misha says.

“So do I,” Yigal says. “The State of Israel isn’t going anywhere, not in whole, not in parts.”

“Except forward.”

“Except forward,” Yigal says.

“And then I’ll have my favorite cigars again,” Misha says.

THE THREE IMPOSTERS ARE now close enough to Tel Aviv to imagine the sound of early morning traffic and the sight of exhaust smoke rising over the city. But the morning is silent and the air is clear.

Abed drives slowly; the last thing they need is to come upon an Israeli patrol at speed.

A shout in Arabic from somewhere ahead splits the predawn silence. “Hands in the air!”

Each of the three thinks the same thing at the same time: shit . There is no knowing the uniform of whoever is speaking.

“Slowly exit the vehicle, carefully put down your weapons, then move to the front of the vehicle, one man at a time.”

When they do, there is a further command.

“Place your hands on your heads.”

A half dozen soldiers appear before them out of the morning mists.

Cobi laughs. “Don’t shoot,” he says in Hebrew. “We’re playing for the same team.”

“Shut up—not a word!” An IDF captain comes up from behind them, his Tavor leveled at their heads. At this distance, a single burst will decapitate all of them in the time it takes to complete one word of explanation.

A sergeant motions to two soldiers behind him. “Check to the rear, a hundred meters.”

“There’s an Egyptian forward checkpoint about a kilom—”

The lieutenant swings his rifle butt. Abed goes down. “Your mother’s cunt! I said shut up.”

The sun is fully up now. One of the squad lights the butt of a cigarette. That is what it has come to: saving butts, relighting them for a last puff. Another squats in the dirt. Time passes with immeasurable slowness, like a clock whose hands have been weighted.

Abed’s head is bleeding, staining through the black-and-white-checked cotton of his kaffiyeh. But he stays down.

Cobi tries to read the captain’s insignia: Golani Infantry, but no other identifying marks. He wears brown parachutist boots. The two do not go together. Even Golani who graduate jump school do not wear brown boots. Golani troopers and paratroopers get into fist-fights over who is tougher. Or they did. Cobi busies himself with solving this puzzle, thinking maybe this is a borrowed uniform, or borrowed boots. Or maybe it is all simply a bad dream. He had enough of them in the cave waiting for Abed to return.