The Prime Ministers: An Intimate Narrative of Israeli Leadership (20 page)

“Our friends observe kosher,” remarked the secretary of state good-naturedly. “Evidently, protocol forgot to tell you.”

“No, no, they did, they did,” said the troubled First Lady. “But they told me it was only meat they weren’t allowed to eat, but fowl they may. How stupid of me. Forgive me, please.” She was genuinely upset.

“There is nothing to forgive,” said Yaakov Herzog tactfully, and in hushed tones explained to her the rudiments of the kosher dietary laws.

“But I see your prime minister has no problem eating the bird,” said Lady Bird, her chin pointing in the direction of her guest of honor.

Dr. Herzog assumed an innocent expression, and said artlessly, “May I share with you a confidence, Mrs. Johnson?”

“Of course, of course.”

“The prime minister has one secret vice. He cannot resist fine gourmet. So you may take his lapse as a great compliment to your chef.”

“Oh, I shall, I shall,” said a charmed Mrs. Johnson, and off she went to greet her other guests. And thus ended my first tutorial as a novice diplomat on the niceties of kosher savoir faire in high places.

The next morning the talks began in the president’s den
–
a mixture of warm leathers, rust couches, and a low oak table. The president sat the prime minister down on a couch with plush cushions that sank him deep into the upholstery, while he perched himself on a wooden rocking chair towering high above him. This seemed a deliberate stratagem.

After an exchange of “good morning” pleasantries Mr. Eshkol adjusted his spectacles, cleared his throat, and bent his mind to the hub of his argument: “The heart of my mission,” he said, “is how to create peace in the Middle East at a time when the Syrian and Egyptian armies are being rebuilt at a menacing rate under Soviet guidance, so fast that the Arab leaders are contemplating renewed war.”

“How fast?” asked Johnson. He was sitting at the very edge of his chair, his demeanor intense, the munificence of yesterday tempered by the hardheaded negotiation of today. A white dog at his feet barked and sniffed the prime minister’s shoes, and the president snapped, “Quiet Yuki! Down!”

General Motti Hod, commander of the Israeli Air Force, who was present for his expertise, handed the prime minister a page from which he read:

“Egypt, Syria, and Iraq have already replenished their air forces to a combined strength of four hundred and sixty fighters and forty-seven bombers. Egypt is now almost back to its prewar air strength. From now on all further Russian supply will represent a net increase in their air power. Moreover, the quality of their aircraft is vastly improved.”

“And their ground forces, what of them?” asked the president.

“In tanks,” replied the prime minister, referring to another typed page, “the Egyptians are almost back to their prewar strength. The Egyptian Navy is stronger than before, with rocket-equipped vessels. The number of ground troops is rapidly rising beyond their June strength. We have evidence that Russia has provided Egypt with ground-to-ground missiles.”

“Do you see signs of an actual Russian physical presence there?” asked the president.

“Certainly. Our assessment is that there are at least two thousand five hundred Soviet military experts in Egypt today.”

“Okay, that’s the Arab side. Now what about your side? What do you have?” The president was eyeing the prime minister unblinkingly, as if trying to track what lay behind his thoughts. Eshkol’s response, when it came, was slow, soft, and disturbing:

“We have no more than one hundred and fifty aircraft, all French, sixty-six of them virtually obsolete. The French are contracted to send us fifty more, but we presume that because of their boycott we won’t get them. In a word, Mr. President”
–
their eyes met and caught
–
“we presently do not have the minimum means to defend ourselves.”

A flicker crossed Johnson’s brow and he exchanged glances with his advisers. “So what are you asking for exactly? Spell it out.” His voice was terse and tight.

Eshkol’s whole body tensed and he pondered for a second, knowing this was the decisive moment. He adjusted his spectacles, cleared his throat, and in a measured tone, said, “What I am asking, Mr. President, is for the one aircraft which has the necessary range and versatility to enable us to face down our enemies. I’m asking for your
F
-4 Phantom jets.”

Johnson’s eyes seemed strangely veiled. He said nothing.

“Mr. President,” continued Eshkol, a sudden edge of desperation in his voice, “please understand, my country is extremely vulnerable. One defeat in the field can be fatal to our survival. What I ask of you is the minimum for our self-defense. Without those Phantoms we will be deprived of our minimum security. We need fifty Phantoms as rapidly as possible.”

“Fifty!”

Johnson gave Eshkol an unreceptive look, and there was a momentary pall over the conversation until the prime minister, really charged up now, fired off yet another cannonade:

“Mr. President, last June our enemies tried to destroy us and we defeated them all. Had we waited one more day, even one more hour, before forestalling them, the outcome might have been very different. Yet I come here with no sense of boastful triumph, nor have I entered the struggle for peace in the role of victor. The only feeling I have is one of relief that we were saved from national disaster, and I thank God for that. All my thoughts now are turned toward winning the peace
–
peace with honor between equals.”

“That is a noble thought, Mr. Prime Minister,” said Johnson amenably. “It is important that you have your thoughts turned to peace with honor.”

“Thank you, but we need the tools to help bring that peace about. I regret that the United States is the only source we have for those tools. Within two years our Arab neighbors will have nine hundred to one thousand aircraft. So, it’s an either-or situation.” A sudden bitter irony crept into his voice. “Either the United States provides us with the arms we need, or you leave us to our fate. It’s as simple as that. If I leave here empty handed, the Arabs will know that it was not only the French who said ‘No’ to us, but the Americans, too. Mr. President, Israel is pleading for your help.”

Lyndon Baines Johnson put the back of one beefy hand against his mouth, chewed on his knuckles contemplatively, made a tent of his hairy fingers, and said, “I am impressed by your statement, Mr. Prime Minister. The United States is intensely concerned with conditions in the Middle East. However, as you know, we are facing a difficult situation in Vietnam, which is calling on our resources. At the same time we have made it clear to the world that we do not believe might makes right, nor that big nations be allowed to swallow up little nations. As for the weapons you seek, we suggest you look elsewhere to find them, and not only here in the United States.”

Levi Eshkol threw him a cynical smile. “Please tell me where, Mr. President. I would be delighted to look elsewhere if you can give me an address.”

“That’s as may be, but I regret that your visit here is so closely tied to this matter of the Phantoms. Planes won’t radically change your realities. The big problem is how two-and-a-half million Jews [Israel’s population at the time] can live in a sea of Arabs.”

Eshkol returned him a stony expression, as if to say, “You’ve not understood a word I’ve said,” and he, Johnson, noting it, instantly raised a hand in a gesture of reassurance: “Look, don’t get me wrong. I know what you’re after. And what I’m saying doesn’t mean I am unsympathetic to your military requirements. I follow your defense situation carefully and I certainly won’t sit idly by and watch Israel suffer.”

At which point, Secretary of State Dean Rusk, a solid sort of a fellow, with a fine intellect and a benevolent disposition, chimed in to say in a most reasonable and persuasive fashion, “Mr. Prime Minister, in all honesty, whatever efforts Israel makes in the field of military buildup, the Arabs are going to outdo you every time. If the Arabs see an Israel they cannot live with, one that is intolerable to them, they won’t back away from an arms race. On the contrary, they will turn increasingly to the Soviets, to the detriment of the American interest. So what we would like to hear from you today is, what kind of an Israel do you want the Arabs to live with? What kind of an Israel do you want the American people to support? Surely, the answer to those questions is not to be found in military hardware.”

The president leaned back, staring approvingly at the ceiling, and the prime minister sat forward, gazing squarely at Mr. Rusk.

“These are difficult remarks you are making, Mr. Secretary,” he said coldly. “All I can say to you now is that our victory in the Six-Day War blocked the Soviet Union from taking over the Middle East, and that, surely, is an American interest. As for the kind of Israel the Arabs can live with and which the American people can support, the only answer I can presently give you is an Israel whose map will be different from the one of the eve of the Six-Day War.”

“How different?” quizzed Rusk cagily.

The president hastily scribbled a note to his secretary of state: “Dean
–
go slow on this thing.”

Eshkol, his voice brimming with sincerity, replied, “Please understand, we did not want that June war. We could have lived indefinitely within the old armistice lines. But now that there has been a war we cannot return to those old, vulnerable armistice frontiers that virtually invited hostilities. We won that war at a terrible cost. It is inconceivable that we cannot win the peace. We want actual treaties of peace. After three wars
–
1948, 1956, 1967
–
Israel deserves peace. I will fight tooth and nail for peace. And in peace negotiations we will try to be as forthcoming as possible
–
but we must have the tools to deter another war.”

Clearly not wanting this high-stress exchange to escalate into an all-out dispute, the president intervened and suggested a break. All rose as the two principals departed, leaving their aides behind to mull things over. I repaired to the bathroom, only to find it locked. As I was about to turn away, the door swung open and out strode the towering figure of the president of the United States.

“It’s all yours, son,” he boomed. “Be my guest.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” I squeaked.

The seat was still warm.

When the talks resumed an hour later, the president said, “I have absolutely no argument with you, Mr. Prime Minister, as to your peace aims and the need to keep Israel secure. But there might be a difference of judgment as to how best to go about it. And it seems to me that the most useful thing that can be done in the first instance is for America to reach an agreement with the Soviets to avoid an arms race, while at the same time trying to get some kind of peace process going.”

Hastily scribbled note from President Johnson to Sec. of State Dean Rusk telling him to "go slow" on a sensitive issue during talks with Prime Minister Eshkol at the Texas ranch, 9 January 1968

“
Halaveye”
[Would that but be possible], muttered Eshkol to himself.

“What was that, Mr. Prime Minister?”

“Nothing! Just a sigh
–
if only we could get a peace process going.”

“The chances might be slight,” continued the president, “but time must be given to try before the United States embarks on an irrevocable course.”

“Mr. President, how much time?” interjected Eshkol with uncharacteristic adamancy. “I would love for somebody in the world
–
here in this room
–
to tell me when and where and how I can get a peace process going with the Arabs. I wouldn’t be here asking for Phantoms if somebody could tell me how to do that. But instead of peace we are faced with an unprecedented Arab rearmament that again threatens our very existence. The immediate issue is the means to defend ourselves against another attempted onslaught. Surely, you can understand that. Israel feels weaker now than before the Six-Day War. Why? Because, as you rightly said, Mr. President, we are a small country of two-and-a-half million Jews surrounded by a sea of Arabs. They outnumber us in every possible way. So what are we supposed to do
–
wait until Russia gives them so many planes that they can dictate their terms at will? People used to say that a one-to-three ratio in aircraft in favor of the Arabs was adequate for our defense. Granted, our pilots are good. But my God, there is a limit!”

His face had gone white. “Mr. President,” he galloped on, “the State of Israel is the last chance for the Jewish people. We Jews are in our land to rebuild a sovereign State which will, we hope, grow in population. I pray with all my heart to avoid another war. But I know of only one address to acquire the tools we need to defend ourselves
–
and that address is you. In a couple of years’ time the Arabs will have nine hundred to one thousand first-line aircraft. To deter them we have to have three hundred and fifty to four hundred. We’ll try to manage with that ratio. If I have to return home without a commitment from you on the Phantoms, our citizens will be demoralized and our Arab neighbors will rejoice, knowing that we have been abandoned. That will mean war. And I know of no other prescription for deterring it other than by you supplying us with the means to do so – the Phantoms.”