The Prime Ministers: An Intimate Narrative of Israeli Leadership (75 page)

Photograph credit: Israel Government Press Office

Prime Minister Begin testifying before the Kahan Commission on the Sabra and Shatila massacre, 8 November 1982

I did not condemn Israel’s initial move into Lebanon for the avowed purpose of protecting Israel’s citizens against repeated
PLO
attacks launched from that country. And I refrained, despite deep misgivings, from commenting publicly on your siege of Beirut and your entry into its western section. I am reluctant to criticize a treasured friend and ally in the midst of a military struggle. But the massacre of hundreds of men, women and children is another matter. It will be some time before we know who was to blame for the massacre. We may never know. […] Perhaps the most somber consequence of the current strife in Lebanon is the dimming of the inspiring moral beacon which shone so brightly from beleaguered Israel.
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Cold anger drove Menachem Begin’s pen across a sheet of paper in response to the Senator’s letter. In sentences that were unmarked by the slightest erasure and second thought, he wrote:

The whole campaign of blaming Israel for the massacre, of placing moral responsibility on Israel seems to me, an old man who has seen so much in his lifetime, to be almost unbelievable, fantastic and utterly despicable. After the September 14 assassination of president-elect Bashir Gemayel we decided to move the
IDF
into West Beirut to prevent a Christian revenge of the Muslim population. It never occurred to anyone dealing with the Lebanese military units which subsequently entered the Shatila and Sabra camps that they would perpetrate a massacre. The first horrific truth is that Arabs murdered Arabs. The second truth is that Israeli soldiers stopped the carnage. And the third truth is that if the current libelous campaign against Israel should go on without a reaction of outrage by decent men
–
yes, outrage
–
then within a matter of weeks or months everyone everywhere will have gotten the impression that it was an Israeli military unit which perpetrated the horrible killings.
100

How right he was. Surf the Internet and see.

It’s time I met President Reagan again,” said the prime minister, in a resigned voice. “There are misunderstandings that only I can clear up. If I could just sit down with him face to face I’m sure I could convince him that we were in no way blameworthy for Sabra and Shatila, and that the Lebanon war was a well considered and justifiable action. What we did was as much in the American interest as our own
–
to set Lebanon free of the
Plo
thugs, and clip Syria’s wings. Surely Reagan can be made to see that?”

“According to what I hear from Sam Lewis,” I answered, in a futile attempt to cheer him up, “there are people in the administration who are angry, but not
–
”

“I’m well aware of that,” interjected Begin in a sapped voice.

“
–
but not the president. He’s unhappy about the war and upset about your having turned down his peace initiative, but he still looks upon us as a barrier to Soviet expansionism, and remains an admirer of Israel. What’s more, he retains his high regard for you personally.”

“That’s nice to hear,” said Begin sullenly, and he stared ahead of him, as if some troubling spectacle was taking place in his mind.

“I have to rebuild the personal relationship and confidence not only with the president but also with those around him,” he murmured. “And I must speak to the Jews as well.”

This exchange took place in mid-October, 1982. The Kahan Commission’s findings would not be announced for several months, and the Sabra and Shatila massacre was still a fresh wound. It was triggered by a report I had prepared on Diaspora Jewish attitudes toward Israel following the massacre. In certain important quarters they had soured alarmingly. Begin studied the three-page report for several minutes and emitted a long sigh. Finally, he looked up and in a weary voice repeated, “Yes, I have to speak to the Jews.”

There was no self-pity in his voice, but the manner of his speech indicated that his troubles and infirmities were growing upon him. He had lost weight. His face was worn, devoid of its usual commanding expression. His public speeches had become perfunctory. He was hurting from the condemnation of antagonists over his Lebanon war policy, frustrated that the Lebanese turn of events had deprived him of another peace treaty, and physically drained by the cumulative attrition of his past frailties – heart trouble, a minor stroke, the broken hip, and perhaps most of all, his constant anxiety over the health of his beloved wife and lifelong companion, Aliza. By this time she was hooked up to a respirator at Jerusalem’s Hadassah Hospital, having suffered an acute attack of her chronic asthma. Once, twice a day sometimes, he would repair to the hospital to sit by her bedside. His detractors were beginning to make the claim that the prime minister of Israel was becoming immobilized due to a serious depression.

Pondering his misfortunes, he did seem to be sinking into a cocoon of melancholy. Yechiel tried to bolster his spirits by suggesting he arrange some visits to the development towns, where he was very much loved
–
a suggestion he had been making repeatedly. But Begin shut down on the topic and said he didn’t want to hear any more about it. “The important thing for me now is to see Reagan,” he reiterated.

Grasping at this intent as if it was proof positive that the prime minister of Israel was functioning perfectly well, Yechiel Kadishai said he’d get onto the matter right away with Ambassador Lewis.

“But don’t fix a definite date yet,” cautioned Begin. “I won’t leave the country while Alla is in hospital.” Then, to me, with a restored air of professional poise, “Start thinking about what Jewish forums in America I should be addressing. We have to get our message across to them, our own people, first and foremost. And when you bring my greetings tonight to the Bonds leadership at the King David Hotel, tell them what that message is. And tell Sam Rothberg I really am sorry I can’t do it myself.”

That night was a big night at the King David. The elated greetings and excited laughter of the cocktail throng in the lobby made it seem as if nothing could be more euphoric than being together in that place, which was still the most important networking axis in the Jewish world. Anybody who was anybody passed through the portals of the King David at one time or another. On this particular night, Israel Bonds big shots from all over the world were straining their voices as they greeted each other under the lobby’s high ceiling, rich with ancient Semitic motifs that evoked the glorious period of the legendary King David.

I had known many of these big Bonds buyers for years, so it took me a while to squeeze my way through the boisterous groups, returning “hellos” and hearty handshakes as I inched my way forward in search of Sam Rothberg, world chairman of the Bonds organization, and a dear personal friend. Eventually I found him amid the crush, good-naturedly teasing an overdressed, aging lady who was attired in a sparkling evening gown as well as winged sunglasses. “Gloria,” he was saying to her, eyes twinkling mischievously, “you look stunning! And it’s a good thing you remembered your sunglasses, because sometimes late at night here in Jerusalem the sun gets really,
really
bright, and then it snows.”

In spite of herself, the woman laughed richly along with Sam, but his face turned sober when he saw me. We retreated to the privacy of the adjacent reading room.

“How is he?” he asked.

“He sends his personal apologies. I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with me tonight as his understudy.”

“That’s fine, but why won’t he see me privately as he always does?”

“He’s hardly seeing anyone. He’s not in the best of spirits. It’s happened before. His doctors say he’ll snap out of it. He always has in the past.”

“Peres tells me he’s dysfunctional.”

“Nonsense! He’s low, but he has all his wits about him. I’ve just come from a meeting where he decided it’s time for him to visit America again
–
to see the president and speak to the Jews. That’s not the talk of a dysfunctional prime minister. He’s concerned about Jewish support after Sabra and Shatila, and that’s what I’m going to be talking to the audience about tonight.”

“Good! When does he plan to come to America?”

“As soon as possible, I guess
–
once Mrs. Begin is out of hospital and the appointment with the president is set.”

“Tell him to come to Los Angeles.”

“Why Los Angeles?”

“Because he’s forever meeting the Jewish
macher
s in New York, but Los Angeles is the fastest-growing Jewish community in America, and it’s been a long time since he’s been there. In mid-November we’re planning the biggest international banquet ever
–
two thousand people: Hollywood stars, political big shots, the lot. And if he comes as guest of honor I can guarantee him massive exposure and top notch meetings. It’ll be worth the effort. Tell him I said so.”

“I will.”

“Tell him I want him there.”

“I shall quote your every word.”

This was vintage Sam Rothberg
–
obstinate and determined. Once he’d gotten an idea into his head he wouldn’t let go.

When I put the proposal to the prime minister the following morning, his spontaneous response was, “How can I say no to Sam? If he thinks Los Angeles is important, include it in my itinerary.” And then, softly, to himself, “Assuming of course Alla is well enough to enable me to go.”

I put LA into the itinerary, and told Sam that, everything else being equal, the prime minister would be happy to be guest of honor at the Bonds black-tie gala at the Los Angeles Century Plaza Hotel, on Saturday night, 13 November. The schedule had him flying from there to Dallas the following morning, to address a mass rally of Christian supporters, and then on to Washington for his meeting with the president. Given the tightness of the scheduling and the complex logistics involved we decided to make use of an antiquated Boeing 707 belonging to the Israel Air Force, and to cover the costs by billing the sizeable press contingent accompanying the premier. Departure date was set for Friday morning, 12 November, and the plan was to fly directly to California, landing en route only to refuel, and arrive in Los Angeles well in time for Shabbat, thanks to the ten-hour time difference.

Everything was falling nicely into place when a few days before the departure date, Yechiel Kadishai stuck his head around my door and groused, “We have a problem.”

“How big a problem?”

“Massive! Begin doesn’t want to go. The doctors have performed a tracheotomy on Aliza to relieve her breathing, and he refuses to leave her. We have to cancel everything. I’ll speak to Sam Lewis and to the Dallas people. You handle Rothberg.”

He turned and left, and I felt frantic. How was I to break this news to Sam Rothberg, after he had promoted his whole Bonds razzmatazz around Begin’s presence? I asked Norma, my secretary, to get him for me on the phone, but then changed my mind, and told her not to. It was still the middle of the night in America. I had a reprieve for a few hours, at least.

Came the afternoon and Yechiel was back, beaming.

“Why the smile?” I asked.

“Have you spoken to Rothberg yet?”

“No, I was just about to.”

“Well don’t. We’re going.”

“How come? What’s happened?”

“Alla insists. They’ve stuck tubes down her throat, so she can’t talk. She communicates with notes. When Menachem told her he’d decided not to go she scribbled to him. ‘You’ve got to go. It’s a meeting with the president. It’s important for the country. I’ll be all right.’ He was truly tormented, not knowing what best to do. Finally, he consulted the doctors and they assured him that though Alla was still frail, her condition was reasonably stabilized, and they saw no reason for him to change his plans. So we’re going.”

Being in charge of the programming I flew on ahead, to make sure that every final detail of the prime minister’s schedule was in place. Upon my arrival in Los Angeles, Sam Rothberg asked me to join him at a pre-banquet cocktail party for the biggest Bonds buyers. It would get the ball rolling for the big night. The gathering turned out to be a diamond-studied affair in a Beverly Hills mansion, with about fifty guests. My task was to say something inspirational, and when I had finished, our hostess rose to ask what on earth had induced me, way back in 1947, a mere boy of eighteen, to leave the comforts and safety of my Manchester home for what was already then war-torn Palestine. In response, I described the atmosphere of those tortured post-Holocaust days, and the thrill that had come over me on catching my first sight of Haifa from the deck of a ship called the
Aegean Sta
r
.

“
Aegean Star?
Did you say
Aegean Star?
” interrupted a fellow in the audience. He spoke with a thick European accent, and he sounded thunderstruck.

“Does that name mean anything to you, Jay?” asked our hostess, who introduced him to the room as Jay Cole.

“Are you kidding?” retorted Jay Cole, brimming with incredulity. “I was on that ship, goddamnit!”

He looked to be in his mid-fifties, short and plump, with a tan that spoke of golf courses, cruises, and beach clubs. His thin hair was tinted blond, and he wore a sky-blue, short-sleeved silk shirt with a heavy gold necklace hung around the points of its collar, like a decoration. But despite the swanky outfit and bleached hair, I could still see scars cutting through his eyebrows. Those, and the death camp tattoo on his arm were the unmistakable signature of another name I recalled from my youth, more than thirty years before.

“Yossel Kolowitz,” I called out with unrestrained excitement.

He waded through the fan of chairs with a smart-ass grin, seized me by the hand, and said, “Damn right I am. And you’re the kid from Manchester.”

“You two have met before?” asked our hostess, bemused.

The quickening interest flowing through the room was palpable as, for the next half hour, Jay Cole told the story of Yossel Kolowitz
–
his survival in Auschwitz, his failed attempt to jump ship, his internment by the British, his enlistment into Begin’s Irgun
,
his heroic adventures during the War of Independence and, finally, his life on Kibbutz Mishmar HaEmek.

Later, over drinks by the pool, Yossel told me the rest of his story. He had ultimately chosen to live with the uncle on a non-religious kibbutz rather than with the uncle in a Jerusalem yeshiva. The kibbutz had been good for him. He had learned the trade of plumbing, married a local girl, and had two sons. An
IDF
reservist, he was called up to serve during the Six-Day War, and was wounded. He went to America to recuperate. He decided to stay, and chose Los Angeles because of the climate, where he made a decent living as a plumber. In due course, his two sons joined him and, together, they prospered in the plumbing accessories business.

When I asked him how his boys had taken to America, a blush of pleasure rose to his cheeks. “They’ve made me a
zaydie
, a grandfather,” he beamed. “I’ve got six
eineklich
” (grandchildren). “My older boy is married to a girl from Utah, and my younger one to a girl from Wyoming.”

He must have seen my smile falter because he quickly moved his face very close to mine, almost threateningly, and in a mulish whisper that was shot through with his old swagger and bluster, he hissed, “Sure, I would have wanted my boys not to have married
shikses
[non-Jewish women]
. So what am I supposed to do, hotshot
–
disown them? This is America, right? These things happen all the time in America, right?”

I nodded, wanting to distance myself from his pain, but he drove on relentlessly.

“Don’t think I’m not heartbroken. Of course I’m heartbroken. People here call me Jay Cole. It’s a masquerade. I’m back to my old Auschwitz cabaret tricks. I put on fancy clothes and fancy airs, and at my country club I make people laugh. They think I’m one of them, but underneath I’m crying; I’m forever a survivor. So just keep your opinions to yourself, hotshot, and don’t start telling me what’s right and what’s wrong. Menachem Begin is a survivor. He’ll understand. Goodbye!” And with that, off he went.

The weather in Los Angeles the following Shabbat afternoon, 13 November, the day after Begin’s arrival, was a glorious mix of sun, breeze, and shade. The plaza in front of the hotel where we were staying boasted fountains and foliage; winter flowers bloomed in circular beds and cascaded from pedestals. As I approached the hotel I spied Yechiel Kadishai striding back and forth, eyes darting hither and thither. It looked like he was desperately in search of someone.