The Prime Ministers: An Intimate Narrative of Israeli Leadership (79 page)

It was while the ancient carriage clattered and clanked its way back through Hyde Park to my embassy in Palace Green that my mind wandered back to Jerusalem and to Begin, and it suddenly dawned on me that under the stress and the mess of packing, I had composed and authorized the dispatch of a full-fledged communication from the prime minister of Israel to the president of the United States without the prime minister having approved its language. I took comfort in the thought, however, that having heard nothing to the contrary, the communication must have said what the prime minister wanted it to say.

A few weeks later, on 20 August, while at my desk at the embassy, Harry Hurwitz called.

“Harry, good to hear from you,” I said. “How’s the job going?”

“I’m not sure I still have one,” he answered. “Begin’s just resigned.”

“You’re joking! When?”

“An hour ago, at the cabinet meeting. He arrived at the office this morning looking even paler than usual. He called in Yechiel. When Yechiel came out, he looked as white as a sheet. I asked him what was going on, and he told me that Begin had just told him he was going into the cabinet to submit his resignation there and then. And that’s exactly what he did. He simply told the ministers, ‘I cannot go on.’”

“Just like that?”

“They were stunned. They appealed to him to reconsider. But he told them that if he’d had any doubts he might have been open to persuasion, but since he had none, nothing would make him change his mind.”

“And what did he do then?”

“Then he went back to his room, called me in, took me by the hand, and said, ‘Harry, I’m sorry for what I’m doing to you and to my other friends, but I hope you understand. I simply cannot go on.’”

“But why today? Why not last week? Why not next week?”

“I have a theory, but you won’t believe it.”

“Try me.”

“After he said what he said to me, he walked over to the window, and he stood there staring at something.”

“At what?”

“German flags.”

“German flags?”

“That’s what I said. And as he was standing there a strange smile came over his face, and I distinctly heard him whisper to himself, ‘So that problem has been resolved, too.’”

“What problem?”

“The German chancellor, Helmut Kohl, is arriving tomorrow on an official visit. Normally, Begin would have had to receive him at the airport. But can you imagine him standing to attention while the German national anthem was being played? I can’t. And can you imagine him making a toast to Germany at the official banquet? I can’t. This must have been preying on his mind for God knows how long. That’s my theory as to why he chose today to resign. But if I know anything about Menachem Begin, he’ll never admit it to a soul.”

To the best of my knowledge, Menachem Begin never did tell anyone what last straw broke his inner drive, causing him to resign and go into seclusion for nine years, distant and withdrawn till the end of his days. He made no public statement when he stepped down, no speech to the nation. He became a man of silence. Speculation abounds as to what made him do it – his failing health, the death of his wife, the heavy toll of the Lebanon war, the Inquiry Commission that followed, the furor over Sharon, the deteriorating economic situation. But nobody knows for sure.

Photograph credit: Yaron Levitch

Menachem Begin leaving hospital after second hip operation, March 1991

During all those years of his public silence, I saw him only once, in 1984, while I was on home leave from London. Yechiel Kadishai astonished me by returning my call to say that yes, Mr. Begin was agreeable to my calling on him. I was astonished because I had been told he was seeing no one but his immediate family, a very few old associates and, of course, Yechiel, his ever faithful factotum.

“You’ll find his mind as sharp as ever,” Yechiel told me when he ushered me in to Mr. Begin’s modest, simply furnished apartment located in the leafy Jerusalem suburb of Yefe Nof, close to his son, Benny. When I walked into the lounge I found him sitting on a couch strewn with newspapers, clothed in a dressing gown. His complexion was bloodless, and he gave me a joyless smile.

“I was saddened to hear of the murder of Police Officer Yvonne Fletcher outside the Libyan Embassy. When you return to London please convey my condolences to her family, and to her commander.”

Those were his first words to me, and I heard them with incredulity.

Yvonne Fletcher was a British police officer who, a few days earlier, had been shot and killed by a gun fired from inside the Libyan Embassy in the heart of London, during an anti-Libyan demonstration which she was policing. This enfeebled man was asking me to convey his commiserations over a human tragedy in a far-off foreign capital, the details of which he was fully conversant with. Our chat was in equal measure wistful and wry. During the course of it, he asked me about the probability of a member of the British royal family accepting an invitation to visit Israel officially. None ever had. I told him that from the feelers I had put out, the prospects were slim.

“When President and Mrs. Herzog recently made an unofficial visit to London,” I told him, “Lord Rothschild used his good offices to elicit a royal invitation for a private lunch at Windsor Castle. The press asked me if President Herzog intended to use the occasion to invite the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh to visit Israel. I said I had no doubt that he would. Within the hour, I received a phone call from the Queen’s secretary, a Sir Humphrey somebody, who said President Herzog must do no such thing. ‘It’s simply not protocol to issue such an invitation at a private luncheon,’ he said. When I reported this to President Herzog he laughed and extended an invitation just the same. The reply he got was a polite ‘Thank you. One day.’”

Menachem Begin smiled at this, and he actually laughed when I went on to tell him about a lunch at Kensington Palace held in honor of a visit by Shimon Peres, who by then was prime minister of Israel. Kensington Palace was home of the Prince and Princess of Wales, Charles and Diana. Peres had attended without his wife, Sonya, but my wife Mimi had accompanied me, and there had been a handful of other guests.

The whole occasion was an informal and cozy affair, Prince Charles elegant in a navy blazer, buttoned-down collar and regimental tie, Diana lovely in a simple high-necked, long-sleeved summer dress. They welcomed their guests in a comfy, happy-looking parlor, papered in a bold floral design and draped with pinkish curtains. Following a prelude of pleasantries and drinks, the suave and urbane Shimon Peres said with a semi-bow, “Your Royal Highnesses, I come carrying gifts from Jerusalem,” and he presented to Diana, a Roman coin bearing the likeness of Diana the goddess of the hunt, and to the passionate equestrian Charles, a statuette of a terracotta horse of ancient Greek provenance, both unearthed in Jerusalem.

Princess Diana inspected her coin with huge delight, while Charles handled his horse a tad awkwardly, saying, “Wonderful piece! Most appreciated! But I’m afraid my gift to you is far less grand.” He picked up two volumes from a piano top and said, “You have a reputation, Prime Minister, of being a man of letters, so I pray you will find these of interest. They are the latest biographies of our poet, T.S. Eliot, and of my late great-uncle, Lord Mountbatten of Burma.”

“They come highly recommended,” added a jovial Antonia Fraser, a prolific writer of historical biographies, and wife of playwright Harold Pinter.

“And they will make a fine addition to your library, I promise you,” guffawed the famed academic Lord Annan, a vaguely soldierly type in his seventies, with a glossy pate as bald as a billiard ball.

Shimon Peres expressed his gratitude and then said, formally, “It is my privilege, Your Royal Highnesses, to extend to you an official invitation to visit Israel at a time of your convenience, where you will be received with all honor as most welcome guests.”

Diana’s eyes sparkled, and her husband responded, “How kind! We’d love to come,” adding quickly the usual reservation, “at the appropriate time.”

“Lunch is about ready,” Princess Diana said with an easy smile, and she led us into a cozy dining room, its windows framing a view of a splendid walled garden. We were eleven, amicably seated at a single round table under a chandelier, surrounded by canvases of priceless masterpieces.

“Is Mr. Peres married?” whispered Princess Diana hurriedly in my ear as I sat down next to her.

“Very much so,” I whispered. “But his wife, Sonya, prefers not to get involved in his public activities.”

“I totally empathize with her,” murmured the princess.

Princess Diana had a reputation for common sense and practicality, and it was said that her outward softness masked an inner shrewdness and candidness. This she amply displayed when she said, “If one is not careful one can shrivel up in this fishbowl. I love getting out and about and meeting real people. You Israelis are said to be an informal lot, not ones to stand on ceremony.”

“I suppose that’s true,” said I meaninglessly.

“I remember at school,” continued Diana, rather mischievously, “how us girls would confide nothing to our parents except things we couldn’t hide, like end-of-term results and weather reports. We were too scared to be thought ninnies by our mummies and daddies, so the last thing we would do was to bare our souls, show our emotions. Not done! But I won’t let that happen to my children.”

“Come to think of it,” said Prince Charles to the whole table, apropos of nothing, “I almost did visit Israel once. It was last year
–
illegally.”

The high-pitched chatter ceased as we all beamed at the prospect of a tale.

“Oh yes, indeed,” the prince continued in his top-drawer fashion. “I was in Jordan, you see, guest of King Hussein, and I was water skiing in Akaba Bay. Suddenly”
–
his voice took on a roguish tone
–
“I found my speedboat being chased by Jordanian coastguards. They began blaring at me through a klaxon to turn around immediately; otherwise I’d be accosted by the Israeli navy as I was almost in Eilat waters
–
something like that.”

“Pity you turned around,” said Peres wittily. “Our coastguard would have cast a red carpet upon the waters in your honor.”

We all chuckled politely, while a butler refilled our glasses.

“Mr. Peres, I always think of Israel as a plucky little country,” said Diana, resting her chin on her hand, a bemused smile on her lips.

“That is kind of you to say so,” said Peres.

“Well, as for me, Prime Minister,” brooded Charles, “I always find the Middle East so full of impenetrable intricacies. Do you think a day will ever come when you and your neighbors will get along together?”

“One day,” said Peres wistfully. And then, poetically, as was his wont, “One must remember, just as a bird cannot fly with one wing and a man cannot applaud with one hand, so a country cannot make peace just with one side, with itself.”

“Of course,” said Charles, and he went on to express high praise for the kosher menu, engendering a discourse of veneration for the virtues of tradition. This was followed over dessert by gossip and funny stories concerning world leaders whom the royals and their guests had met, and it was during this chitchat that Princess Diana, her big, dazzling eyes focusing beseechingly on my wife, leaned over to her, and quietly said, “Do me a favor. Please tell people I’m not anorexic. Look, I’ve just taken a second helping of pudding.” She chuckled at herself, and then joined in the general conversation about the London arts scene. Mr. Peres was saying he had enjoyed a fine production of
Les Miserables
the previous evening.

“Oh, I saw that when it first played at the Barbican, before it moved to the Palace Theater,” said Diana gamely. The trouble with the Palace is it’s so hard to find parking there.”

“You, a royal princess, have parking problems?” asked Peres astonished.

“Not now,” replied Diana demurely. “I’m talking about before I became a princess.”

“Are you going to allow us to see the little princes?” ventured Antonia Fraser. “How are they?”

“True little devils!” laughed Diana infectiously, somehow managing to be regal and jolly at the same time. “They’re up to all kinds of tricks! William is four and Harry is two, and yesterday, at Buckingham Palace, I let William loose in the throne room. That child is an absolute bull in a china shop. He went running around the thrones going ‘Bang! Bang! Bang!’”

She said this aiming two fingers at her husband, like a pistol.

Stiffly, Prince Charles rose, and said, “Prime Minister, friends, shall we retire?” and he led us back to the parlor for coffee and liqueur, where a nanny soon appeared with the little princes. Diana reached out to cradle Harry adoringly in her arms, while William, bouncing across every barrier of protocol, ran to the center of the room, and pointing a finger at the towering figure of the baldheaded Lord Annan, cried, “Mummy, why does that big man have no hair?”

“William, you must not say that,” admonished Diana, stifling a giggle that was drowned out by Lord Annan’s great roar of laughter. Even Prince Charles could not contain a smile.