The Prime Ministers: An Intimate Narrative of Israeli Leadership (15 page)

I thought this a propitious moment to take my leave, but Harry Truman insisted I remain. So I followed him into his front parlor where the maid, whom he called Vietta, told him his wife had just left for her church rummage sale. Vietta helped him take off his double-breasted jacket, bringing bright red suspenders into full view, and eased him into an armchair. Then she left, and came straight back with bourbon, coffee, and two thick volumes which President Truman explained were his memoirs, intended for me as a memento.

Taking a sip of his bourbon and pointing to the mantelpiece above the marble fireplace, he exclaimed, “You see that statue of Andrew Jackson?”

He was marking the miniature bronze of the seventh president of the United States, on horseback.

“I had that in my Oval Office. Jackson is my lifelong hero. So when Eddie confronted me that day in the White House, insisting I see Chaim Weizmann, he waved to that statue and reminded me that when we had the haberdashery store together I was forever reading books about Andrew Jackson. He also reminded me that I had put up a Jackson statue in a Kansas City square. Then, Eddie said, and I remember his exact words
–
he said, ‘Your hero is Andrew Jackson. I have a hero, too. He’s the greatest Jew alive. I’m talking about Chaim Weizmann. He’s an old man and very sick, and he has traveled thousands of miles to see you. And now you’re putting him off. This isn’t like you, Harry.’ That’s what he said. And I remember looking hard out of the window, and looking hard back at Eddie standing there, and my saying to him, “You baldheaded son-of-a-bitch. You win. I’ll see him.”

Wistfully, Truman went on, “Dr. Weizmann and I talked for almost an hour. He was a man of remarkable achievements and personality, who had known many disappointments and had grown patient and wise in them. He put it to me that the choice for his people was between
statehood
and extermination. It was then that I assured him that I would support Jewish statehood.”

Leaning back then, right foot on left knee, Harry Truman began to speak about his own State Department as if it was the enemy.

“I knew then what I had to do,” he said. “I had to handle those stripe-pants boys, the boys with the Harvard [he pronounced it ‘Ha-vud’] accents. Those State Department fellows were always trying to put it over on me about Palestine, telling me that I really didn’t understand what was going on there, and that I ought to leave it to the experts. Some were anti-Semitic, I’m sorry to say. Dealing with them was as rough as a cob. The last thing they wanted was instant American recognition of Jewish statehood. I had my own second thoughts and doubts, too. But I’d made my commitment to Dr. Weizmann. And my attitude was that as long as I was president, I’d see to it that I was the one who made policy, not the second or third echelons at the State Department. So, on the day the Jewish State was declared, I gave those officials about thirty minutes notice what I intended to do, no more, so that they couldn’t throw a spanner into the works. And then, exactly eleven minutes after the proclamation of independence, I had my press secretary, Charlie Ross, issue the announcement that the United States recognized Israel de facto. And that was that.”

A grin of self-satisfaction crept across his bony face as he took out his pen and dashed off an inscription to me on the title page of his memoirs. When I told him my son Danny was about to celebrate his bar mitzvah, he gladly inscribed the second volume to him.

Handing me the books, Harry Truman said, “Now, remind me, how did old Eddie use to say ‘congratulations’ in Hebrew
–
mozol
something?”

“
Tov
,” I proffered.

“Yeah,
‘
tov
,’ that’s right.
Mozol to
v
.” And he shook me warmly by the hand, with the command that I tender his personal best wishes to Prime Minister Eshkol, and thank him warmly for his letter.

Photograph credit: David Eldan & Israel Government Press Office

Prime Minister Levi Eshkol with British Prime Minister Harold Wilson at 10 Downing Street

Shortly after my return from the States, Eshkol summoned me to his office, listened to my brief report, and then, in a businesslike fashion, handed me a memo detailing a trip he was planning to London to confer with his fellow socialist, British prime minister Harold Wilson. He wanted Wilson to understand firsthand the implications of the perfidious Syrian design to divert the headwaters of the Jordan River, and to initiate negotiations for the acquisition of British weaponry in an effort to deter future escalation. Most particularly, he wanted the new British tank, the Chieftain.

Nurturing lsrael’s sparse water resources had always been Eshkol’s abiding passion, and it was common knowledge that he was familiar with every stretch of every irrigation pipeline in the country. Hence the Syrian stratagem, backed by other Arab states led by Egypt, was to him not only an abominable act of belligerency, but an outrageous personal affront as well.

“Prepare me an airport arrival statement,” he instructed. “Just a few lines. Try and say something without saying anything. And draft me a major speech for a dinner with the Joint Israel Appeal [now the United Jewish Israel Appeal]. It’s a black-tie affair. Every
macher
in Anglo-Jewry will be there.”

Panic-stricken at this sudden responsibility of drafting my first full-length speech, I croaked, “But what do you want to say?”

“Something inspirational. I’ll talk about our refugee immigrants, the ingathering of the exiles, their human needs, and our longing for peace. But for God’s sake, I don’t want to talk about Israel being a light unto the nations. I’ve heard enough about that. Let’s be a light unto ourselves first. And, oh yes, say a sentence or two about our National Water Carrier and Syria, but nothing too threatening. I don’t want to declare war in London.”

Came the day and Eshkol flew to Britain attired in a perfectly fitting dark suit and somber homburg, looking very much like a seasoned statesman. This being my first diplomatic trip I, too, tried to look the part when we disembarked from the El Al plane at Heathrow Airport, where the prime minister was greeted by children on the tarmac waving tiny blue and white flags and excitedly singing at the tops of their voices “Heveinu shalom Aleichem” [We welcome you in peace]. They cheered wildly when he approached them, grinning and waving his hat like a pennant, and when he posed among them, tenderly stroking their heads and muttering over and over again, “Sheina Yiddisher kinderlach ” [beautiful Jewish children] their faces were radiant while cameras rolled, clicked, and flashed.

Inside the
VIP
lounge we were all greeted with gusto. A tall, handsome gentleman of elegant grooming, whose resolute air was enhanced by a bristling ginger mustache, a tightly rolled umbrella and a bowler hat, introduced himself as Colonel So-and-So from the Protocol Office, and officially welcomed Prime Minister Eshkol in the name of Prime Minister Harold Wilson. Lots of Israeli officials, in addition to leaders of the Anglo-Jewish community, squeezed, hugged, and lauded Eshkol endlessly. And when these welcoming rites were done, the prime minister, surrounded by guards of different sorts
–
Scotland Yard, Metropolitan Police, Diplomatic Protection Squad, and the Israeli Security Service
–
strode outside to the bouquet of microphones at the edge of the press pen. With immense gravitas, he read his arrival statement which, mercifully, he had found the time to check and correct before landing. In his characteristic gravelly voice he said:

Israel and Great Britain have a long association. We share a history that was at times conflicted in the shadow of the greatest of tragedies that befell our people in World War Two. However, it is not the strife of the past that shapes our relationship, but the friendship of the present. This friendship binds our two democracies in an unbreakable alliance at a time when communist Russia is encouraging Syria and other regional dictatorships to engage in belligerent acts that demand our constant vigilance. I look forward to fruitful discussions with Prime Minister Wilson on this and on other topics of mutual interest, and am delighted at the opportunity to meet my fellow Jews, good citizens of this great land. Thank you.”
9

Reporters barked a few predictable questions which the prime minister answered good-naturedly and unsubstantially, whereupon he clambered into a glistening Rolls Royce that was adorned with the Israeli flag, and set off along the highway to London followed by a fleet of limousines bearing his entourage, escorted by police cars and outriders in cavalry formation. Entering the West End, he was driven along prestigious streets, through beautiful parks, and around elegant squares into the heart of London’s classiest acre – Mayfair – and to its most exclusive hotel – Claridge’s.

It was there, as the evening drew nigh, that the prime minister called me to his suite to rehearse his speech for the Joint Israel Appeal dinner, soon to begin in the banqueting hall downstairs. Given his partiality for lengthy consultations back home, he had found little time to go over my copy, so he was seeing much of it now for the first time.

I had, in its preparation, torn up a dozen or more drafts, leaving tooth marks on my pen as I wrote and rewrote page after page, scribbling deranged doodles while mentally struggling for concise, rhythmic and alliterative descriptions in my amateur effort to give the prime minister a defining oratory. Thus, in describing Israel’s heterogeneous immigrant society I had written:

Those of you who know our Jewish State know that there is much about Israeli life that is at once grotesque and heroic. We have a penchant for hyperbole and wild passions
–
visionary firebrands, biblical diehards, Tel Aviv high jinks, secular zealots and, of course, party dogmatists. It is hard to find a footing in the soft moss of composure in our land.

“
Stam narishkeiten
”
–
utter nonsense
–
growled the prime minister as he struck out the paragraph with his heavy fountain pen. “Can’t you write plain English?”

Untutored as I still was in the craft and in his style, I realized I had blundered badly. Nevertheless, even as I acknowledged the extravagance of my language, I urged him to stick with the theme
–
that as a democracy of migrants we were a noisy and fractious lot, every citizen a prime minister unto himself. To reinforce my point I argued that the Zionist founding fathers had pledged that national freedom would rid us of the “ghetto mentality,” exorcise the ghost of the “Wandering Jew,” cure us of the “eternal victim” syndrome, and transform us into normal citizens of a normal country. Yet here we were, still strapped with a natural tendency to approach even minor matters with an air of suspicion and embattlement.

Levi Eshkol peered at me over the top of his spectacles, his face a severe frown.
“
Boychik
,” he said, “what’s got into you? Don’t you understand we are still at war? We are still beleaguered. We still face terrorism. We still live with menace. We are still absorbing hundreds of thousands of refugee immigrants. So how on earth can you expect us to be normal? We are a motley bunch of tribes trekking home, each with its own pekelech [packages] of neuroses.”

He fell silent after that, presumably mulling over the enormity of it all, until, with a deep sigh, he stretched his shoulders as if to ease the burden, laid himself down on the couch, and, seeking sanctuary in his famed Yiddish wit, added,
“
Mein teirer yunger man
, can’t you understand disputation is in our blood? We’re a stiff-necked people. Shouting at each other keeps us together. Argument is our nationality.”

He then went back to the text, reading it out loud and scribbling numerous corrections as he went, while I naively tried to persuade him to liven up his delivery and put more pep into it. But he fobbed me off, admonishing, “At my age I’m not about to pretend to be what I am not
–
a performer.”

Clearly exhausted, he leaned his head heavily against the back of the couch, and legs outstretched, closed his eyes and dozed off. After a few minutes his mouth fell open and he began to snore so loudly he woke himself up with a start. He looked uncertainly around the hotel suite, blinking, and then focused on the pages still in his hand.

“I dozed off,” he said superfluously, rising from the couch. He peered at himself in the mirror, combed his fingers through his hair, centered his bow tie, pulled the sleeves of his jacket to restore its fit, and said, “Let’s finish going over the speech.”

“There’s no time for that. All the guests are seated and waiting for you downstairs.” It was Adi Yaffe in the doorway, come to collect his charge.

The prime minister handed me the pages: “Give me these when I go to the podium. I hope for your sake the rest of it makes sense.”

People rose and applauded elatedly as Levi Eshkol entered the banqueting hall. Every seat was taken. So many black-ties and extravagant dresses! So many excited and grinning faces! So many cries of euphoria!

I took my seat at a reserved table up front while the prime minister was escorted to a dais, flanked left and right by big donors. After a long and flowery introduction by the banquet chairman, and upon the cue of a tailcoated master of ceremonies bearing a golden chain of office, I quickly handed over the speech and, gnawed by hang-wringing anxiety, watched the prime minister peer at it as if examining some piece of mumbo-jumbo.

In his rumbling accent, he began reading the text in fits and starts, his tongue twisting around wily consonants and tricky vowels in a hapless bid to anglicize his Yiddish diction, pausing frequently to double-check what he was saying. Soon enough he came to the paragraphs he had not yet had time to review, which spoke of the heavy drain on Israel’s national economy caused by the mass inflow of penniless and unskilled refugee immigrants.

After all, this was a fund-raising occasion.

Incredulity crept into the prime minister’s eyes and his voice trailed off in disbelief. Leaning across the podium, his eyes boring into mine, he called out in Hebrew, “What’s this supposed to mean?”

I cringed in mortification as audible rustlings, murmurings, titters, nods, and nudges spread from table to table.

“What I just said is not true,” declared Levi Eshkol to his baffled audience, without a trace of awkwardness. “The very opposite is the case.” And then, syntax be damned, he proceeded to elaborate how each new immigrant was not a burden but an indispensable asset to the future growth of Israel’s economy.

When he sat down he was greeted with a sprinkling of clapping that swelled incrementally into a crescendo. They gave him a standing ovation. They loved him. They loved his honesty, his authenticity, and his refreshing spontaneity. Face aglow, Levi Eshkol watched as they extracted their checkbooks, unscrewed their fountain pens, and upped their generosity abundantly.

The adoration done, Mr. Eshkol beckoned me over, and in a thin whisper, his nose almost touching mine, rasped,
“
Boychik
, if you don’t stop writing your fancy-schmancy nonsense and start writing what I want to say in the way I want to say it, I’ll find somebody else who will.”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” I mumbled, eating a piece of humble pie I would spend a lifetime digesting.

During the days that followed, Eshkol made appearances on television, spoke to parliamentarians, visited a Jewish day school, briefed editors, academics, business barons, and Jewish leaders, and, at the very hub of it all, spent close to an hour and a half closeted with Prime Minister Harold Wilson behind the classic facade of the world’s most famous black door, in Whitehall’s most renowned cul-de-sac, Number 10 Downing Street.

Number 10 appears deceptively small from the outside, but behind its famous door there are more than sixty rooms
–
offices mainly
–
above which the prime minister and his family live in a self-contained apartment converted out of the attics by Mrs. Neville Chamberlain. And it was there, outside Number 10, that I once again got egg on my face.

Nowadays, for reasons of security, iron gates at the entrance to Downing Street obstruct public access, but not then. In those days, demonstrators were allowed to assemble on the sidewalk at the corner of Downing Street and Whitehall, and some twenty such demonstrators, Arabs carrying crude placards, were assembled when Eshkol’s limousine swept into the street. The car in which I was traveling was the last in the motorcade, and by the time we turned to enter the street, the demonstration had become unruly, interfering with the traffic flow. So, inexperienced as I was in the logistics of prime ministerial motorcades, I decided to proceed on foot. It requires tremendous agility to sprint from a rear car to catch up with the one up front, which meant that by the time I reached Number 10, the door was closed.

“Move on,” said the sergeant in charge.

“I’m with the Israeli party,” I explained.

“Are you now?” He looked me up and down, peered at my lapel, and asked sanctimoniously, “So where’s your security pin?”

Damn! Stupidly, I had left it attached to the dinner jacket I had worn the evening before.

“Shove off,” he spat, and then, arms akimbo, planted himself in front of the Arab demonstrators who had meanwhile surged forward, shouting profanities.

“No you don’t. Back you go,” he hollered at them. “Nobody’s going to demonstrate in this ’ere bloody street. You there, you in the black ’at”
–
he was looking at me
–
“move away from that door NOW, or I’ll ’ave you arrested.” He approached me menacingly, loosening the truncheon at his belt.

As I fell back into the crowd of Arabs, the policeman faced us squarely, fanning the air with his truncheon like a pendulum. One of the demonstrators tilted his placard as though to charge, and the sergeant instantly whacked his shoulder, causing him to yelp and his placard to clatter to the ground.

“Right! That’s it,” he bawled at us. “Off you go the lot of you, or I’ll have you all in the clink. SCRAM!” He watched in contempt as the protestors slinked away, mumbling curses in a language neither he nor I understood.

“You too!” he hollered at me.

In desperation, I fumbled for my diplomatic passport. He glanced at it, consulted another constable, leafed through its pages and, satisfied I was who I claimed to be, said, “Sorry for the misunderstanding, sir. Please follow me.”