The Jerusalem Inception (39 page)
T
he Antique Authority resided in a drab office building near the west campus of the Hebrew University. The director, Professor Amos Gileadi, had the leathery skin of a farmer and the thick glasses of a habitual reader. His white hair was unruly, and the breast pockets of his shirt were stuffed with papers and pencils. Like Elie Weiss, he was a German Jew who had lost his entire family in the Holocaust. They met had years earlier, when Elie brought in a box filled with ancient Torah scrolls that a veteran SS officer had kept as souvenirs. Professor Gileadi had traced the scrolls to a synagogue in Berlin, and before that, to a congregation in Cordova whose members disappeared in the 1492 Spanish Expulsion. The restored scrolls were now displayed at the Museum of the Book in Jerusalem. Since that first encounter, Elie had continued to help Professor Gileadi with cash to purchase invaluable archeological pieces, mostly from the Bedouins who travelled freely across the borders to Sinai and the east bank of the Jordan River.
The professor examined the photos of Moshe Dayan’s backyard, filled with antiques. “These photos don’t do justice to his magnificent collection.”
“He showed it to you?”
“Of course. We’ve authenticated and dated all these pieces.”
“What’s Dayan’s collection worth?”
“It’s hard to set monetary value to any archeological items when so many of them are bought and sold by collectors in the black-market. But such a massive assemblage of precious pieces?” Professor Gileadi shrugged. “Millions of dollars.”
“Isn’t the law clear that the state owns everything?”
The professor sighed. “Shouldn’t you worry about more
contemporary
crimes?”
Elie pulled off his wool cap and rubbed his head. “I worry about the ascendance of a criminal to the defense ministry. Don’t you?”
He laughed. “General Moshe Dayan isn’t a criminal. He’s an idealist, a first-rate Zionist, who has risked his life many times for Israel.”
“Yes, yes, I know. But this,” Elie held up a photo, “is proof that he is enriching himself by stealing state property, correct?”
“For God’s sake, Weiss! Dayan grew up in a kibbutz. He cares nothing for money.” The professor pointed to the photo of the ceramic wine jar shaped like a cow. “A Bedouin trader bought it in Jordan and offered it to Dayan. I authenticated it. Second Temple era, two thousand years ago. The Hebrew letters indicate ritualistic usage by the Levites at the Temple. We couldn’t afford it, so Dayan took a personal loan and bought it himself. He garnished six months of paychecks as a Knesset member.”
“Why would he do that?”
“The sabra boys aren’t like us. They’re not Yids from the shtetl.
They’re
Israelis
.”
“What’s the difference?”
“I see it with my students. Judaism isn’t a religion for them. It’s an ideology, the foundation of their nationalism. They didn’t experience the Diaspora like us. In fact, they mock Diaspora Jews as servile, honorless wimps, who’d rather beg the Goyim for mercy than fight like men. Israelis don’t believe in God and the divine concept of the Promised Land. They believe we are an ancient nation that has returned to reclaim the homeland stolen from it by the Romans. That’s the reason they’re obsessed with archeology. Every piece adds additional proof that our nation is entitled to ownership of this land. This ancestral claim is the core of the Zionist ideology for which they fight and die.”
“They die for clay pieces?”
“For the land once inhabited by the ancient Israelites, whose descendants are back in
Eretz Israel
. That’s why I have two former IDF chiefs of staff—Yadin and Dayan—in addition to countless other Israeli-born war heroes, spending their free time and the money they don’t have on archeological evidence of Jewish life on this land.”
The mention of Yigael Yadin, who had spent years digging on Mount Masada, triggered Elie’s memory. Major General Yadin, by now an archeology professor in his own right, had been able to substantiate the myth of the last Jewish rebellion against the Romans with unearthed lodgings, a synagogue, a ritual bath, and even pieces of clay used in the last lottery among the zealots to select those who would help the rest die rather than fall into Roman hands—a story recorded by the original chronicler of the rebellion, Josephus Flavius. “But Yadin is different,” Elie argued. “He is a scholar, and he doesn’t keep the antiques.”
“They’re all the same. I call it:
Ideology by Archeology.
It’s got nothing to do with money.” Professor Gileadi pulled open a filing cabinet and took out a heavy binder. “Every piece Dayan finds, he brings here to authenticate and log.”
Elie examined the hand-written lists of ancient items and descriptions. “But who owns all these antiques?”
“Technically, the State of Israel.” The professor closed the binder and put it away. “But as director, I may permit a collector to keep items for private display.”
Rather than provide Elie with the substantiation he had hoped for, the meeting deflated his case against Moshe Dayan. “But what about the use of soldiers for private digs? And military equipment? And what about selling some items? I have proof that Dayan sold antiques to foreign collectors for large sums of money. Do you know that?”
Professor Gileadi nodded. “He occasionally sells a piece that’s not unique, such as coins or Byzantine household wares, things of which there are many examples.”
“To profit personally!”
“To have money to acquire other pieces from the Bedouins.”
“How do you know? Does he provide an accounting?”
“I trust him.” The professor stood. “Weiss, I do appreciate your help over the years, but General Moshe Dayan has been devoted to our archeological studies of ancient Israel, not to mention his service to our national defense. I can only guess who put you up to this destructive endeavor, but this department shall have no part in it.” He shook Elie’s hand. “
Auf Wiedersehen!
”
T
anya had spent most of the night on an urgent translation of documents stolen by a Mossad agent from the Moscow office of a German firm. The text included chemical formulas of poison gas, manufactured in liquid form, which the firm had supplied to Egypt at the behest of the Soviets in the past few years. The difficult translation to Hebrew was tiring, but the implications kept her awake. The quantities of poison gas Egypt had acquired would suffice to kill all the inhabitants of Israel several times over. She thought of the cemetery, Lemmy explaining the religious significance of the ritualistic expansion of the sacred burial grounds. Would anyone remain alive to bury the dead?
She cringed at the memory of his explosive anger, so uncharacteristic of him, yet so understandable for a son whose mother had hung herself and was buried outside the fence as a pariah. But was he right? Had their relationship been rooted in her unresolved feelings for Abraham? Or had she loved the boy for his own qualities? Would she ever know the answer? Probably not, but whatever subconscious motives had driven her, there was no question that by luring Lemmy away from Neturay Karta, she had set those tragic wheels in motion.
Forcing her mind to concentrate on her work, Tanya finished translating at sunrise. The eavesdropping equipment came to life, and she put on the headphones to listen. The exchange was initiated by General Rikhye, an Indian officer who commanded the forty-one observation posts along the Egyptian border with Israel. Four thousand five hundred UN observers served as a buffer that stretched from Gaza, across the Sinai Desert to Eilat and Aqaba, and down to Sharem Al-Sheikh and the Straits of Tiran. Rikhye insisted that General Bull be woken up and read to him verbatim a letter from General Fawzi of the Egyptian High Command. The Egyptians demanded the UN move out of Sharem Al Sheikh, warned that Egyptian forces were already on the way there, and that any attempt to stop them would cause “clashes.” General Bull asked how much time they had, and Tanya was shocked by General Rikhye’s response: “The Egyptians want us out immediately.” The Indian officer then launched into an angry monologue about UN Secretary General U Thant, who apparently had failed to respond to Rikhye’s repeated warnings about the risk of war and the need for an emergency mediation mission. Bull, whose voice betrayed something close to astonishment, asked if Rikhye had told the Egyptians that a UN departure could trigger war. Rikhye replied that he had said exactly that, and that the Egyptian general had declared:
We shall meet next in Tel Aviv!
Tanya reported by phone to headquarters. She knew others would be listening in on the UN international phone lines and would soon be able to hear General Bull’s discussions with the UN headquarters in New York. If the UN agreed to evacuate its posts, Nasser would be emboldened to act on his threat to blockade the Straits of Tiran. The worst-case scenario was unfolding into reality!
Elie arrived shortly afterward to collect his car. Tanya told him about Lemmy’s accusations.
“It sounds like the normal process of grief,” Elie said. “Shock, pain, anger, guilt, and finally, acceptance. You shouldn’t blame yourself. If anyone is responsible, it’s Abraham. She was his wife. How could he miss the signs of her desperation?”
Surprised by Elie’s criticism of Abraham, Tanya said, “I’m only telling you all this because I’m worried about Lemmy. He hates his father, and now he hates me too. With no one in the world, if war breaks out, he might feel that he has nothing to lose.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Elie said. “He’s still in training, right?”
Tanya nodded.
“The IDF will use trainees for support services, not front-line fighting. They’re only kids, after all.”
“You think?”
“I’m sure of it,” Elie said. “And in a few weeks, he’ll probably come back to you with an apology.”
“I don’t need his apology. I just want him to be safe and happy.”
“I see no reason to worry.”
“Maybe it’s for the best,” she said. “Like Cortez, who burned down his ships upon reaching the New World, Lemmy can now start a new life on a clean slate. He’s finally free from our sins—mine, Abraham’s, and yours.”
T
he graduation ceremony began late in the afternoon on May 18, 1967. The field was divided into squares for each company of graduating trainees from various divisions of the IDF. Lemmy’s company was assigned to the front. They lined up, their olive-green uniforms neatly pressed and their red berets tilted to the right. Zigelnick assumed position a few feet ahead of his soldiers, facing them, his hands behind his back. A three-man military band tuned its instruments, and a senior officer approached the lectern, looking through his notes.
“Gerster,” Sanani whispered without moving his lips, “do you know why Zigelnick wears a mustache?”
“No.”
“Because he wants to look like his mother.”
The word
mother
jolted Lemmy, but he chuckled, struggling to keep a straight face.
Zigelnick must have heard them. “Sanani, I heard your mother ran into the rabbi who circumcised you at birth, and he yelled at her for raising the wrong piece!”
Some of the soldiers began repeating the joke to the others, and soon dozens were laughing openly.
The officer cleared his throat at the microphone. “Soldiers! The chief of staff!”
Everyone stood to attention as General Yitzhak Rabin’s helicopter descended behind the stage. It was a great surprise. No one had expected him to attend the ceremony. Only a few hours earlier the Voice of Israel had reported that UN Secretary General U Thant had not only caved in to the Egyptian demand without bringing the issue to the General Assembly in New York, but had gone even further by ordering
all
UN observers to leave the Sinai Peninsula. Egyptian forces had already taken control of Sharem al Sheik, poised to blockade the Straits of Tiran.
Rabin climbed the stage and jogged to the podium. “Soldiers! Several months of training might not be enough. But time is a luxury we don’t have. Therefore, on behalf of the Israeli Defense Force, I welcome you. Our enemies have an ambition. To destroy our Zionist dream. And to throw us into the sea. They think they can succeed.”
Standing so close to the stage, Lemmy was surprised at how young Rabin looked—and how tired.
“If we must, we
will
fight,” he continued. “For our families. For the land of our ancestors. And for Israel’s future.”
There was an audible exhalation of pride among the troops.
“Last but not least,” he continued, “for the graduates who earned the highest grades in each unit.” He held up a pocket-size copy of the Bible. “We are the People of the Book. This is our history and the story of our homeland.”
The officer next to Rabin looked at a list and announced, “Private Jerusalem Gerster!”
Everybody applauded while Lemmy ran forward. He accepted the military-issued, plastic-bound copy of the Bible from the chief of staff, who returned his salute and said, “Good luck!”