Erich Segal - The Class

“You’ve thought that far ahead?”

She nodded. “Every Israeli mother works that out the day her son is born. Ben has another fourteen years.”

They were both silent for a moment, trying to assimilate the awesome significance of knowing exactly when their little children would have to go to war.

Jason then rose and took her gently in his arms.

“Darling, when I finally go back to the Sayaret , remember this conversation. I want our boys to be able to play with tennis rackets, not rifles.”

“I’d like my husband to do that, too.”

Since Zvi had not given him a deadline, Jason planned on staying away from active duty for six months. But this halcyon period lasted less than ninety days.

On the morning of September 5, 1972, eight Black September terrorists broke into the quarters of the Israeli team in the Olympic village in Munich, killing two athletes and holding nine others hostage.

After the first sketchy announcement on the radio, Jason was already racing back to the unit. He knew it was a crisis that needed the Sayaret ’s expertise.

A group was gradually assembled and prepared to fly out. But Moshe Dayan’s request to allow the Israeli commandos to rescue their countrymen was refused by the German authorities. The Bereitschaftspolizei could — and would — handle this crisis themselves.

When the news came that the German rescue assault had failed and all Israeli hostages had been killed, the entire Sayaret was filled with despair and rage.

Only Zvi’s supreme self-control enabled him to speak calmly. “We will find out which terrorists planned this. And we will exact revenge on every last one of them.”

To which Jason responded simply, “I’m coming back to work.”

It did not take long for the Intelligence Service to discover the identities of those who had organized the Munich Massacre. One of the chief engineers had been Abu Youssef, El-Fatah’s chief intelligence officer and Yasser Arafat’s closest deputy. The Secret Service had even located the apartment in Beirut from which he was currently operating.

Zvi and his fellow officers began to map out a plan to get him. The unit would also take advantage of its brief presence in the Lebanese capital to settle some other scores against the terrorists who had killed so many Israeli citizens.

On the night of April 10, Jason was one of several dozen men who boarded a patrol boat that sped up the Mediterranean coast and dropped anchor off the shore of Beirut. They were dressed as typical tourists on a night out in the “Riviera” of the Middle East.

They climbed into rubber dinghies and headed quietly toward a darkened beach club where the Secret Service had left rented cars for them. Then they set off to their assigned destinations.

Jason began to drive toward Rue Khaled Ben Al Walid. He parked near the building which photographs had identified as Abu Youssefs residence.

Five of them got out of the car and walked inside. The apartment was on the third floor, defended by two armed men whom Jason and Uri, another commando, planned to dispatch before they could make any noise.

They weren’t fast enough. One of the guards managed to get off a shot before hitting the ground. By the time the commandos had smashed through the entrance, the terrorist leader had barricaded himself in the bedroom.

Jason and the others splintered the door with a hail of machine-gun fire. When they stepped inside, they found that their bullets had killed Abu Youssef — and fatally wounded his wife.

Jason had barely reacted to this sight when Uri called out, “Police cars coming.”

“All right,” he replied, quickly rifling the terrorist chiefs desk and grabbing what documents he could. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

As they sprinted down the stairs, an old woman stuck her head out of an apartment door. A startled commando fired and she crumpled to the ground.

Out in the street, they tossed hand grenades to distract the arriving gendarmes, leapt into their car, and sped toward the seafront.

The other men were already back at the beach. When they caught sight of Jason’s group they waved, ran toward the water’s edge, and clambered into the rubber boats. Jason and his men quickly followed and began rowing furiously out to sea.

A few hours later they were back at the Sayaret headquarters in the heart of Israel.

One of the other squad leaders was reporting that he had blown up part of the terrorists’ headquarters and shot several defenders in the process. A second unit had hit other PLO buildings, including a bomb-making workshop.

But it was the results of Jason’s assignment that most concerned Zvi.

“Well, saba ,” he asked anxiously, “how did you do?

Jason replied slowly and deliberately, “We killed the guy who planned the Munich Massacre.”

“Congratulations —”

“But we also killed a few innocent people.”

He then fell silent.

“ Saba , we are in a war. When the air force bombs a military target, even if they score a direct hit, it’s inevitable that civilians are affected.”

“Yeah, but the bombers are thousands of feet up in the clouds. They don’t have to see any faces.”

Zvi grabbed him by the shoulders and said firmly, “Listen to me. You’re a soldier defending your country. These men killed Israelis and were planning to kill more. You probably saved hundreds of lives. Maybe thousands. You should be proud.”

Jason merely shook his head, walked out of the building, climbed into his car, and drove north to the kibbutz.

It was early morning when he arrived, and the children were on their way to the schoolhouse. His young sons saw him and rushed to embrace him.

As he held them tightly and kissed them, he thought, You two are the only justification for going on in this killing business. Maybe when you grow up, the world will have finally come to its senses.

Two weeks later, Zvi called Jason into his office. He was relaxed and smiling.

“I’ve got an operation I think you’ll actually enjoy.”

“I doubt it,” Jason replied sarcastically.

“No, really. This should appeal to the Harvard man in you. It involves going to America. Our government is concerned with Israel’s deteriorating image, especially among the young people — the so-called New Left. We need a few eloquent spokesmen to tour campuses and maybe even speak to Jewish groups to bolster morale,”

“I’m not much of an orator,” Jason replied.

“But you still have a lovely American accent. That would help. Also, I remember when we first met you used to have a certain charm.”

“ ‘Used to’ is right.”

“Anyway, you can take Eva to Jerusalem with you for the week the Foreign Office needs to brief you. Look at it’s a holiday, saba . Maybe a little vacation with your wife will help you find some of that long-lost charm.”

As they walked the streets of Jerusalem, Eva recalled that when Jason had first come to Israel, they had been able to visit only half of it.

“That’s something you could mention in your talks,” she suggested. “When Jordan held the Old City, they not only kept the Jews from their holy places, they actually used our synagogues as stables. The world has got to give us credit for ensuring freedom of religion here.”

“Eva, the world doesn’t give us credit for anything.”

“Well, I feel proud anyway,” she insisted.

“Good.” He smiled. “Then maybe you can go and give my speeches for me.

Jason arrived in New York at the end of May. It was the first time in nearly ten years that he had set foot on American soil. And it felt good. At least some of it, anyway. He was in the land of his birth, a place he had missed desperately at times. But it was also the home of his parents, who were now a mere ten-cent phone call away.