TEL AVIV, ISRAEL
December 1966
For the first time ever, Rachel missed her bus stop; she only realized when the driver turned on the radio news, which startled her from her reverie. But then she welcomed the extra time as she walked home before seeing Moshe.
At first she had been bewildered by the sight of Tamara and Peter sleeping in bed together. Were they sick? Then she had seen their clothes on the floor, their underwear even, which had all but sent her into shock. She had closed the door as quietly as she could, and backed away as if in a trance. She had wanted to leave immediately but couldn’t leave Diana alone, so she had made tea while she thought what to do. Her hand had trembled so much she thought she would spill the water as she poured. What did she just see? What did it mean? And then Tamara had caught her by the arm at the door, and sworn her to secrecy. It was true that Peter was a most charming man, and Arie was a terrible husband. And this was Israel, not Egypt, she wasn’t stupid, she knew what went on. But still—brothers. This could only end badly. Very badly.
And shouldn’t she tell Moshe? She had never kept a secret from him in her life, nor he from her. Maybe it was best to stay out of it. As she turned the last corner and walked to her building, she still hadn’t decided.Ya Allah! She stopped in her tracks. Arie’s car was at the door. Did he know? Why had he come?
She hurried home, to hear Moshe’s raised voice. When he was excited he almost shouted, it was his way. She heard “Russia” and “stupid people.”
“Hello, Rachel,” Arie said, kissing her on the cheek and taking her bag. “Save me from Moshe.”
“Save us all from the government!” Moshe shouted. “Really, it’s true,” he continued where he had left off, barely acknowledging his wife. “Every time the army attacks Syria or Jordan in retaliation for a terrorist attack, the truth is we provoked it. I’m telling you, our government wants war.”
“Every time?” Arie said. “Oh, come on. Why would we want war? We want peace, to grow the economy, it’s in terrible shape, that’s what we want.”
“That’s what you want. What Eshkol and Meir and all those other blockheads care about is more land, and an excuse to take it. We send a tractor into a demilitarized zone, the Syrians shoot at it, we bomb their gun position, and so it goes. Each time—”
“Is that what you’re going to write? How do you know? We want peace. You’re like a propagandist for—”
“Me? All I want is for people to know the truth. And the truth is—”
“The truth is terrorists are crossing into our country, killing our farmers, mortaring the kibbutzim, laying land mines in the fields, and we have to stop them. That’s the truth.”
“That’s what the government wants you to think. You’re a sheep, you believe everything they say.”
“And what every other journalist thinks and writes. Why should you know better…?”
“I’m making some tea, would anyone like some?” Rachel put in when she could, with a higher-pitched voice than usual. She retreated to the kitchen, heaving a sigh. How could she look Arie in the eyes again? She knew now she couldn’t tell Moshe, knowing him he would blurt it out. But what was Arie doing here, talking politics with Moshe, or rather, arguing? Even in the kitchen she heard every word.
Moshe was beating the table: “In Samua last month, that Jordanian village, we killed fourteen Jordanian soldiers, we blew up at least fifty houses, and why? Because three of our boys died when they hit a land mine in the Hebron hills. Now the Jordanian army is on alert. Don’t you see, one thing leads to another, we never miss an opportunity to create bigger clashes, and soon we’ll have a war crashing down on us. It’s my duty to write about it. All you do is read the hacks who spout the government line.”
“Where do you get your information from? The Arabs? The Russians? You’re playing right into their hands. You’re helping them.”
“Me, are you crazy? My own son, Ido, is in the infantry, a captain, they’re the ones who cross the borders at night. Do you think I want to help the enemy? I want him to come home in one piece, we can’t sleep we’re so afraid for him.”
“How is Ido?” Arie said, his voice softening as it always did when he talked about Tamara’s little brother. “Does he come home at weekends?”
“When he can. If he does, all he does is sleep. He doesn’t tell us anything, and he shouldn’t. We write about what we know, but there’s much more we don’t know. We’re in a low-level war that will explode, mark my words.”
“Give Ido my love. He’s a real fighter.”
“And Estie. Two children in the army, God help me. She’s in intelligence. Arie,” Moshe said, placing his hand on Arie’s forearm across the table. “Believe me, when I write about Israel, I write only the truth, for their sake. All I want is for them to come home safely. I want peace. And then maybe, your children will not have to fight. I hope not.”
“Me too, Moshe. Tamara and I pray for Ido and Estie, they are the best of the best. How old are they now?”
“Ido is twenty. And Estie is twenty-two. She signed on for three more years, she’s an officer too.”
Rachel brought in the tea, and some biscuits. “We ran out, Arie, this is the best I can do.”
“Thank you, Rachel,” Arie said, looking down. “I do love to visit.”
Moshe sensed something. “And we love to see you. But you never said why you came, I just went on and on. Because I’m writing a column on this. Forgive me. Is anything wrong, can I help?”
“Well, there is something I wanted to talk to you about, apart from war and peace.”
Rachel froze. She didn’t want to hear this. How long had this all been going on for? Tamara had said it was just once. She didn’t know what to believe. “I’ll just clean up in the kitchen,” she said. She went to close the door but couldn’t help herself and left it ajar, listening, her heart aflutter.
“Tamara,” Arie said.
Rachel’s heart sank. She felt the blood draining from her face.
“I can’t really talk to her about this. Or anybody. It’s strange really, everybody I meet wants something from me: money, a job, an introduction, advice, help, it’s always give, give give.”
Moshe began to say, well, you have so much more than anybody else, what’s wrong with giving, but stopped himself. Arie never spoke like this. He should listen, not comment.
At the door, Rachel strained to hear. Her hand shook. Was this the end of her daughter’s marriage?
Arie went on: “And yet the people closest to me, who I love most: you, Rachel, my brother, Tamara, you never ask for anything.”
Moshe nodded gravely, arms folded, waiting.
“What I’m trying to say,” Arie went on, “in a very roundabout way, is that I don’t have so much to give anymore, and I can’t talk about it to Tamara, or really, anyone.” He came to a halt.
Moshe put in, “Is business that bad?”
“You were the only one who warned me, everybody else was pushing me to invest in this and that, and only you warned me of the recession around the corner. I remember you telling me it was all smoke and mirrors, that I was far too heavily invested when I should be hedging my bets. Anyway, you were right and everybody else was wrong.” Again, he halted suddenly.
Rachel quietly closed the door. Thank God that’s all it’s about. Maybe it really was just once and would never happen again.
Moshe prompted him. “And?”
“Well,” Arie said with a short laugh. “Nothing really. I guess I’m just looking for sympathy. And for someone with their finger to the wind. What do you think will happen now? I’m trying to sell the grocery chain but there are no buyers. No foreign investment either. And frankly, between you and me, servicing the loans is killing me. If one of the banks calls in a loan, and word gets out, and investors panic, which they would, there could be a landslide, an avalanche.”
“But just last week Maariv ran a story on you and your new investments in mining.”
“It’s all a bluff. Putting a brave face on it all. I told them about potential investments, not actual money on the table. I may have blurred it a bit. As you said yourself, smoke and mirrors. There’s another strike in Kiryat Gat in the textile factory, and that could spread to my other plants. Car sales? In the toilet. Construction? No loans to build; we’ve halted three large projects in the middle but we still have to service the debt. The pharmacies? Too many of them. Electronics? Nobody’s buying, taxes are too high. Believe it or not, the only real growth area is chicken featherbeds. They’re huge in Romania.”
They both laughed.
“I missed my vocation,” Moshe said. “But seriously, you know that for the first time since the founding of the state, more Jews are leaving than coming?”
“No, is that so? Why?”
“It’s just too hard for many people. The recession. People won’t come if they can’t work.”
“It means business won’t pick up anytime soon.”
“Exactly. The only way there’ll be more business is if there’s a war. And going back to where we began, it’s coming.”
Arie nodded. “Well, I refuse to hope that war will save me. When I think of Ido, I’d rather go under.”
Moshe studied him. You know, he thought, I think he just may mean it.