TEL AVIV, ISRAEL
May 17, 1967
The reason nobody understood what Egypt’s president was planning was because Nasser himself had no idea; he was swept along by events, and so was Israel.
Incited by Soviet claims that Israel was amassing troops on Syria’s border, and the Syrian president’s panicked reaction to the shooting down of his six MIGs, Nasser made a historic miscalculation: he expelled the three and a half thousand peacekeepers of the United Nations Emergency Force who since the 1956 war had acted as a buffer between Egypt and Israel. Worse, to relieve supposed Israeli pressure on Syria’s border, and hoping to satisfy his Soviet mentors, Nasser ordered troops and tanks into Sinai to distract Israel’s attention from Syria.
In days, six hundred Egyptian tanks and fifty thousand men were massed in the sweltering desert dunes within miles of Israel’s almost open border. Arab radio broadcasts rejoiced in the imminent slaughter of the Jews.
The boys had just gone to bed when Peter got the call to return to Mossad headquarters ASAP. He didn’t get back home for four all-but-sleepless-nights.
That first night at the Office Meir Amit outlined to his section heads their urgent challenge. “Until now,” Amit said, “we thought Nasser was bluffing. But now it looks like the lunatic really thinks he is the leader of the Arab world, and he may attack us. We know his military capability is limited, and he has overreached himself. Our military has a plan which will work. Our challenge now is diplomatic and tactical, and in some sense it is contradictory. We need to advise the government on the optimal moment to attack Egypt, while considering another key question, how to keep America on our side. That is what the prime minister needs from us.”
Peter broke the momentary silence. “The army wants to attack now, the sooner the better. The prime minister wants to wait until we have American approval, however long it takes. We need to find the balance. Correct?”
“Exactly,” Amit said. “It puts us in great danger. We know that the Egyptian army has attack plans of their own. We need to let the enemy build up on our border until the world understands we have no choice, but we also have to attack first. It’s extremely delicate and complex. We call this an anticipatory counteroffensive. It’s all about the timing. The generals only care about annihilating the Egyptian army. But Eshkol also cares about who will support us the day after. Nobody wants another Suez, where we won the battle and lost the war.”
But as Peter’s team mined their agents and sources, it seemed that armed conflict may not be inevitable. As politicians bickered and the military blustered, the intelligence agencies struggled to come up with proof that Nasser really wanted war.
By the next afternoon, a secret source in the Egyptian operations room had delivered his army’s battle orders showing the Egyptian divisions in Sinai were drawing up for defense, not offense. Radio communications monitored by Israeli signals intelligence confirmed this, as did reports from elite reconnaissance units of the Israeli army on the ground in Egypt’s Sinai desert, among them, Captain Ido Nesher.
The recommendation of Peter’s section then was not to rush to judgment, there was still an opportunity to avoid armed conflict. But the next evening they were overtaken by events.
Damascus had mobilized fifty battalions, Iraq sent army brigades closer to Jordan’s border: next stop could be Israel. The governments of Kuwait, Yemen, and Algeria announced they were ready to send planes and men to help Egypt and Syria. Egypt was still pouring men across the Suez Canal into Sinai, and Syria continued to pour cannon fire into Israel’s northern settlements.
If Nasser was bluffing, it was one hell of a bluff. Under furious pressure from the army, the Israeli government decided it could not risk a surprise attack by the Arabs and took a decisive step: a general mobilization of reserves. Every half hour radio announcers read out code names of units being called up: Silver Lining, Wedding March, Gates of Salvation, Peace and Greetings, and more. Electricians downed their tools, grocers closed their stores, teachers walked out of class as the citizen army of Israel rushed home to swap slacks and shirts for army fatigues, kiss their spouses and children good-bye, grab their guns, and gather at their preplanned collection points.
Once mobilized, little Israel could not afford to stay mobilized for long. It had to attack or stand down before the economy came to a standstill. The pressure was on.
Then it got worse.
Declaring that “No Israeli ship will ever navigate it again,” President Nasser closed the waters of the Straits of Tiran, Israel’s southern lifeline, its gateway to Asia and Africa. Jerusalem had long considered any move to block the Red Sea a causus belli.
The public was frightened, the borders seemed to be closing in, there was a sense of suffocation. Israel could not let it stand, but its leaders were riven by doubt.
The word was that Ben-Gurion, in his desert refuge, believed Israel could not win. General Harkabi at the Defense Ministry feared even if Israel won, ten thousand could die. America was more optimistic. The CIA station chief in Tel Aviv assessed Israel could defeat any combination of Arab armies in six to ten days. But Washington let it be known that if Israel attacked first, and without good reason, America could support Egypt.
With the public losing confidence in their prime minister, Eshkol’s military adviser besieged Mossad with calls. The prime minister was under pressure to resign and had to know: Should the general mobilization become total mobilization for war, or the opposite, should the reserves stand down and go home? War or peace? He needed information on Arab intentions, now.
With the country on the edge of total war, the government in chaos, and still no clear conclusion after four straight days of frenzy in the Office, Peter took a break and walked home, sucking in fresh air, giddy from fatigue. He hadn’t seen Tamara in a week, and he missed her. He hadn’t even been able to take her calls, the pressure was unprecedented. He had never felt such a weight of responsibility for the lives of his family and his countrymen. The gloom in the city further weighed on him. In cafés people argued and cursed, pausing only to listen to the hourly radio news. Newspapers reported there were two kinds of craven types: those hoarding food and those fleeing the country. Passing a group of elderly men around two tables, he overheard snippets: “Isn’t it hard enough here already, I can’t afford sugar in the coffee, for this I survived.” A different voice said, “And now there’s another war. Like a hole in the head I need this crazy place.”
Peter would have paused to listen more if he had the energy, but all he wanted was to hurry home and sleep. He needed six hours, and then he’d go back to work. At seven o’clock in the morning he needed to give a report to Amit on the plans of the Palestinians in the Gaza Strip, who were manning positions abandoned by the UNEF troops; he had three agents among them. Peter’s Palestinian report was a small contribution to the bigger issue: If there was war, would it be just with Egypt or Syria? Or both? With or without Jordan, the Palestinians, Lebanon, Iraq? Amit would present Mossad’s analysis to the prime minister in Jerusalem at ten o’clock.
Meanwhile rumors were leaking from the defense ministry in Tel Aviv that something was up with the chief of staff. Was Yitzhak Rabin really having a nervous breakdown, was the stress too great for him? If this warrior couldn’t take it, how could the country? It seemed inconceivable, but could Israel lose?
Could Israel face annihilation? Could the whole glorious adventure be doomed, after only nineteen years? Arab armies mobbing the streets of Jerusalem, Tel Aviv, Haifa, Ashdod? Cutting the throats of his children? Raping the women? As he approached his apartment building in the early evening Peter shook his head. Get a grip. Get some sleep. It’ll all look different at dawn. Or rather, when he had to get up, at two o’clock at night.
Diana was at Rachel’s, and Noah and Ezra were at the youth movement clubhouse where they spent hours every day with their friends. He wrote a note telling them not to wake him up, stuck it onto the fridge, always the twins’ first port of call, set his alarm and had a long cold shower. That freshened him enough to put on shorts and a T-shirt and sit on the narrow balcony to enjoy the air and listen to the radio. He’d hear the news and then go to bed.
Within a minute a familiar bulky figure came striding through the trees, looking up to his apartment. Peter waved. “Arie,” he called out, “what brings you here, you’re lucky I’m home. Come up.” He was glad to see him, he hadn’t seen his brother in weeks. He poured some juice from the fridge, scanning the small apartment for signs of Tamara. Arie’s heavy footsteps took the stairs two at a time. “What’s up with him,” Peter wondered, and quickly found out.
Arie was shouting even as he entered the room, drowning out the radio. He went straight to Peter and pushed him with two hands, so that Peter stumbled against the table. “You ben zonah! You son of a whore!” he yelled, waving his fist into Peter’s face, “you’re screwing my wife!”
Peter stepped to the side to gain some space. “Orange juice?” he offered.
“I know all about it!” Arie shouted. “How long’s it been going on? Behind my back. You bastard, I’ll…”
“First of all, don’t swear at me and, second, don’t talk about Tamara like that.” He was playing for time, he should have told Arie first, he knew it, but now it was too late.
“How long have you been screwing her!”
“Don’t talk like that. It’s complicated, you know it is. I…”
Arie moved fast, faster than Peter anticipated, and landed a blow on Peter’s head that spun him around and against a chair, so hard that he almost lost his balance. Before he could gather himself Arie hit him again with full force in the stomach and again on the chin, almost lifting him off the floor. Peter fell back dazed onto the sofa, desperately collecting himself, and as Arie went to grab his head Peter slipped to the side and from a lying position caught Arie with a kick in the groin that doubled him over, shocking his breath away. Arie gasped in pain as Peter pulled himself up and landed a hefty kick on Arie’s ass that toppled him onto the floor. He lay there, holding his balls, groaning and cursing. Peter stood above him, panting, holding his jaw with one hand, wiping sweat from his brow with the other.
Arie tried to force words past the groans. “That was … a pussy … kick.”
Peter fought to gain his breath. “Consider yourself lucky. You could be dead.” A flush of guilt swept Peter. Between loyalty to his brother and love for Tamara he had chosen love. Of course he had. Loyalty is for the past. Love is for the future.
“You bastard,” Arie said. “My own brother. After all I’ve done for you.”
“You haven’t done shit for me. I never let you.”
“I offered.”
Peter sat heavily on a chair, holding his chin. “I don’t want anything from you.”
“Except my wife.”
“Some marriage. How many women have you got on the side?”
“That’s my business. Stay away from her. I’m warning you.” As the threat hung in the air, the calm voice of the radio announcer broke through, reading a list of unit call-up codes to mobilize more reserves. Like all of Israel, they froze. A monotone: “Morning Dew. Early Winter. Red Rose.…”
“Red Rose. That’s me,” Arie said, speaking with a kind of wonder. “That’s my brigade.” He tried to stand but couldn’t. He kneeled on the floor, doubled over, his groin throbbing. “You think if I didn’t have such big balls it wouldn’t hurt so much?”
“Probably.”
“Next time it’ll be the other way around. I promise you, Peter, if I’m getting my ass blown off in Sinai and you’re here doing Tamara, I’ll kill you. I’ll drive my tank right up your ass.”
“Fighting words. Keep it for the Arabs. Arie, come on, let’s talk like grown-ups.” He hadn’t planned it this way but at least it was in the open at last. “Tamara and…”
“I don’t want to hear it. I have to go. Peter, listen to me. Leave her alone, or so help me God, I don’t care if you’re my brother, I’ll finish you.” Gripping the door frame, his last words were, “You understand me? I love Tamara and she’s mine.”
Peter was torn. Between: She’s yours? You don’t own her. And: You’re going to war, again? Let me hug you.
Peter ran after Arie and stopped him at the top of the stairs, pulling him into an embrace. “Arie, good luck, my brother, stay safe.”
Arie held him off with a look of contempt and ran down the stairs. Over the clatter of shoes, Peter heard the shout, “Go to hell.”