TEL AVIV, ISRAEL
June 3, 1967
The waiting was the worst. The country crept, hanging its head. The Holocaust and the terrible price of the war of liberation hung over the people. They trembled, hoarded food, and listened to the radio news with dread: Arab leaders called for the annihilation of Israel, boasted of Arab strength—they had more soldiers, more warplanes, more tanks, more guns, more of everything and all was aimed at the slaughter of the two million Jews of Israel.
Egypt declared a mutual defense pact with Jordan and sent it two commando brigades; Iraq joined the pact and sent more commando brigades and tanks, while its president swore, “No Jewish survivors.” Syria moved four infantry brigades to Israel’s Golan border, promising “a battle of annihilation.”
“They’d kill every last one of us if they could,” Moshe was saying, “but we have the ultimate weapon—we’re small and alone. Our weakness is our strength.” Moshe repeated the phrase, savoring it.
“Is that your column today?” Tamara asked, stacking weeks’ worth of eggs, cooking oil, rice, cans of vegetables, candles. She didn’t consider herself a hoarder, but with her children and Peter’s in the house, and her parents, she had to stock up for the war.
“Yes. I spoke to Peter, he told me something interesting. Egypt was all set to surprise us last week. Their plan was to attack our airfields, destroy our planes before we had time to react, bomb the runways, our ports, and at the same time invade with tanks to cut our country in two. Without our air force, we’d be helpless.”
Tamara looked up, holding bags of rice. “So why didn’t they?”
“Russia stopped them. I don’t know why.”
“Peter said that?”
“Yes. He’s in a position to know.”
“I thought Russia wanted them to attack us?”
“Who knows what’s really going on?”
“Is it true that making Moshe Dayan defense minister means there will definitely be war?”
“Of course. Why else do it? We have to attack, there’s a limit to how long we can call up the reserves.”
The soldiers’ frustration was no secret. Army camps were like summer picnic areas, with families bringing sandwiches, soup, fridge-loads of food for the fighters. Women played chamber music, barbers offered free haircuts, children played paddleball as if they were at the beach—anything to relieve the strain of the long wait.
Daniel and Carmel also clamored to visit their dad, but Tamara was torn. Arie’s parting note had been like a dagger, and after Peter had told her about the fight, she didn’t know what to think. How she must have hurt Arie. Yet he had hurt her for fifteen years and even now probably still had a mistress in some Tel Aviv apartment.
In their one phone call since he had been called up, Arie had sounded beaten. It was their first real talk, beyond children and the house, for months. He sounded so needy. And when he said good-bye, Tamara had said, I love you. How could she not? Her husband, her children’s father, was going to war and he was troubled. What else could she say? she asked herself now. Did she mean it? Did he mean it too, when he said the same? After all, he was sleeping by his tank in the desert, soon to kill or be killed. For any man, a time for reckoning, and Arie had more to reckon with than most. But who else was he calling for sympathy? How many other women? All she knew for certain was that Arie was in pain, so was Peter, and so was she.
Their fight had exposed all she had denied or concealed: their failing marriage, her love for Peter, the need to choose. Arie had to choose between his wife or his lovers. She had to choose between Arie or Peter. Peter had to choose how long he could wait for her. They could not all keep hurting each other, hiding and cheating. Had her mother told her father? She must have.
“It’s complicated,” Tamara said to herself, unaware she was speaking aloud.”No it isn’t,” Moshe said without looking up. “With ‘weakness is our strength,’ I mean, that gives us a motivation Arab soldiers just don’t have.”
Tamara sighed. “That isn’t what I meant. Life, Father. Life is complicated. Do you know what I mean?”
Now Moshe did raise his head. He had been waiting for an opening for weeks. “I think I may know what you mean. Tamara, my child, yes, it’s complicated. How can I help you?”
Tamara’s eyes became misty and she kissed the crown of his head. “You can’t, Daddy. You can’t.”