The Glory (19 page)

“Well, since it’s my birthday party, I guess I should put on a dress,” said Daphna, who wore a dirty sweatshirt and dirtier
jeans.

“Is this your brother Dov?” Dzecki peered closely at a framed picture of an aviator standing by a plane.

“That’s Dov.”

“Is he coming?”

The mother said, a shade too casually, “Dov is qualifying in the Skyhawk this week, so he couldn’t get off.”

“Too bad. Him, I’d love to meet. I’d rather have been a fighter pilot, Daphna, than anything in the world.”

“Then why are you a rosh katan? You at least could have been an army officer by now.”

Dzecki’s answer was a shrug. “D’you suppose I could walk around the base, look at the planes?”

“Who’ll stop you? You’re in uniform. Just obey the signs, and stay away from jet engines, or you’ll be deaf for a week.”

Daphna went into her old room, which her younger brother Danny now occupied. Half the closet still contained clothes of hers,
because in her flat she had only a tiny cardboard wardrobe. She doffed the sweatshirt and jeans and stood in peach panties
and bra, contemplating her image in the closet mirror. Not bad, not bad at all. Look at those breasts! Why, she could compete
with those
zonot
(whores) in the dirty American magazines the aviators passed around. Maybe she should try modelling. Oh, poor Dzecki, what
he would give to be vouchsafed this sight, and what it promised. He had never gotten past a goodnight kiss, and never would.
Noah had his drawbacks — a military right-winger, rigid in his doctrinaire Zionism, scornful of her leftish Jericho Café set
— but she couldn’t help herself. He was a wondrous lover, that hot joy continued as gripping as ever, and he could be quietly
sweet, too. Probably in time they would marry, because Daphna could not picture herself in any other man’s arms, and she had
fended off arms without number for years. But what was the rush?

The white woolen dress Aunt Yael had given her for her last birthday was nice, Noah liked the way it clung to her figure.
She knew that Noah and her mother had been in touch, and that Imma was blatantly angling for a betrothal announcement with
this party. But Daphna wasn’t about to be pushed into anything, just because Noah was going off to France. She was drifting
with the wind, so to say, her mind was quite unsettled, and bringing Dzecki uninvited to Tel Nof was her anchor to windward.
Noah would be furious when he saw the parked Porsche, but too bad. She stripped and went to shower, happily singing an American
rock-and-roll hit.

Meantime Dzecki was wandering through the air base, which was all a-rumble with planes taking off and landing. It was his
first look at the Heyl Ha’avir (air force) from the inside. What a contrast to the army, especially his ordnance battalion
on the Golan Heights: those dreary rows of patched tents, the rusty disabled tanks standing in puddles, tracks off, turrets
removed, the muddy soldiers gabbling guttural slangy Hebrew laced with Arabic obscenities! Here was the Israel he had pictured
when all the world rang with the Six-Day War, and when on impulse he had left his beginning law practice on Long Island and
made aliya. Here all was order, all was clean, all radiated glory: spindly Skyhawks and Mirages in their earth-covered hangars,
menacing as giant steel hornets, with hairy technicians in coveralls working them over or fueling them; and small older planes,
and helicopters, and big transport planes, all in camouflage paint and marked with the Jewish star, all to be flown by Jewish
guys his own age. Here at last was
ISRAEL
.

Dzecki was having a hard time in the army. The other recruits, mostly good-natured but coarse and ignorant, by and large seemed
to think he was unbalanced. Why leave America to come here, when the dream of most of them was to go to America? And if his
reason was Zionism, then he was exceptionally crazy. Zionism was for politicians’ speeches, and for the sons and daughters
of big shots who got into the elite services. At first he had been known as Porsh, till he sequestered the car in a Haifa
garage. Only gradually had he become Dzecki to some, and Barkowe to others. The noncoms tended to go “BARKOWE!” at him like
enraged watchdogs, not caring whether he was American or sabra, rich or poor, crazy or sane. He was in their power.

Arriving at his quarters in a flying suit, Benny Luria heard the birthday girl carolling in the shower, and found his wife
in the kitchen, not at all in a party mood. “That fool daughter of ours,” Irit snarled at him, squeezing a large crude blue
20 in icing on the white cake, “brought that fool American cousin of Noah’s, with his fool Porsche.”

“So I noticed. That’s a nice new outfit, Irit. From Yael’s shop?”

“You like it? Yes, I went to get a present for Daphna, and my dear sister-in-law let me have this for almost nothing. By the
way, I saw the new baby, in a basket in her office.”

“What did they end up calling her?”

“Eva,” she snapped, with an acid side-glance.

Benny was silenced. Eva Sonshine supposedly did not exist, or at least the wife feigned to know nothing of the woman, though
she had once been a runner-up for Miss Israel. Still, when occasion offered, Irit was not above such needling. After a long
moment she went on, “So? You’re wearing a flying suit to the party, are you?”

“I have a mission this afternoon.” Irit threw down the icing scoop with a scowl. “Just more high-altitude photography, hamoodah.”

“Benny, this base command was supposed to be a rest.”

Irit Luria had sweated out years of operations, hundreds of missions, several wars, and her nerves were still pretty strong,
her husband knew. Something else must be eating at her, nor was it Eva. That was an old mess. In the synagogue at Danny’s
bar mitzvah he had half resolved to put an end to it. With one son qualifying in Skyhawks, and another burning to follow him,
Benny Luria knew it behooved him to get on better terms with the old Jewish God. But such things took time.

“What’s the matter? Noah’s coming, isn’t he?”

“Of course he is, but it’s all ruined, ruined. I’ve been on the phone with him about the party, and I
smelled
an engagement announcement today. Not anymore. What an idiot! Will she ever do better than Noah Barak? Is she going to marry
the Porsche?” That made Benny laugh, which only irked her.

“Irit, she’s still a young girl —”

“Is she? In her own apartment with that fat nobody, that scribbler Donna, doing what with herself? Maybe ballet, maybe painting,
maybe sculpture, and maybe I don’t know what else! Where does she get all that? What was our mistake with her? That’s probably
Noah now.” A motor was coughing and dying outside. Irit stalked off to the bedroom. “You talk to him.”

In a blazer and turtleneck sweater Lieutenant Commander Barak was natty as ever, but down in the mouth. Obviously he had seen
the Porsche. “So, it’s France next,” Benny greeted him cheerily. “Can you tell me about it?”

“Well, sir, it has to do with testing and maintenance of some new patrol boats in trial runs, that’s all.”

“I see.” That was not all, if Benny Luria had any skill at reading young officers’ faces and words. “Good luck.”

Noah took an orange from a fruit bowl, peeled it neatly, and gestured at
Ha’aretz
lying on the table. “Did you read that editorial?”

“Which one?”

“The one about the ‘flying artillery’ policy?”

“No. Is it for or against?”

“Oh, against. What do you think of the policy, sir?”

“Think of it? I’m executing it.”

“That’s orders. The air force mission is
Clear skies over Israel,
right?

“Just so.”

“Sir, is a dual mission good doctrine?”

Luria did not answer straight off. A sophisticated question, that one, much bandied about at air force headquarters. “En brera,”
he said.

“Why? Is the Bar-Lev Line really critical?” returned Noah, pulling the orange apart. “What about closing those miserable outposts
and withdrawing our forces beyond artillery range?”

“Yes, so the Egyptians immediately cross the Canal with their artillery, occupy the ground we’ve yielded up, and dig in that
much closer to the Sinai passes and to Tel Aviv. Then what?”

“Well, as soon as they start to cross, we’ve got them where we want them, haven’t we?” Noah probed with this standard argument
of the military journalists. “Our armor counterattacks and smashes them, and that restores the cease-fire —”

Clad in the white dress, all dimpling smiles, Daphna came swaying in. “Hello, motek,” she purred, giving Noah a kiss and a
hug.

“Happy birthday,” he said, and her father left them together, noting that Noah’s dark look did not lighten.

The party was a small one: Daphna’s parents, her brother Danny, now a gangling redhead in tennis togs just past his bar mitzvah,
and a few childhood friends from air force families, plus the glowering Noah and his bugbear Dzecki. As they sat around eating
birthday cake and ice cream with tea or soda, the American with the Porsche was the center of attention, or at least curiosity.
“But if your family isn’t religious or Zionist, Dzecki, what made you come here?” Benny Luria inquired.

“Yes, good question. You didn’t know me then,” grinned Daphna. “Didn’t you tell me it was because of the Six-Day War?” She
enjoyed her American slave without too much curiosity about him. That the world owed her such an attendant, Porsche and all,
was in the nature of things.

“Not entirely. I made some Israeli friends in high school, kids of your UN delegation people.” Dzecki turned to Noah. “They
knew I was related to your father, they were very impressed, and that made me feel good. What’s more — and I’ve never told
you this before, Noah — your father had a lot to do with my coming here.”

“My father? How? Until you came here he’d never mentioned you.”

“Well, he might not even remember. Our temple kids once toured Washington. He was there on some mission. Two of the guys were
Israeli friends of mine whose fathers knew him, and at the embassy they talked to him in Hebrew. He’s kind of scary, your
father, you know. Awesome, almost. I felt small and out of place. I didn’t tell him we were related, I just kept my mouth
shut. After that was when I started Hebrew lessons.”

Danny was idly bouncing a tennis racket on his palm. “Why didn’t you apply for the air force, Dzecki, once you got here? It’s
the only service.”

“Eyes,” said Dzecki. “Okay, but not good enough for a pilot.”

“Well, you might have been a navigator.”

“Not what I wanted. I swam for my college, so at first I wanted sea commandos, in the worst way. After I flunked the commando
swimming test I figured okay, that’s it, rosh katan, and I went for ordnance. I like machinery.”

“Why not the paratroopers?” inquired Daphna.

“Infantry with red boots.”

Noah growled, “Don’t say that to a paratrooper.”

“I won’t, but there’s nothing like the sea commandos. Colonel, what did you think of Green Island?”

“Bravest feat in our history,” replied Luria.

A stumpy girl who was a squadron leader’s daughter said, “My cousin in Holon had a boyfriend killed on Green Island.”

Death was not a stranger at Tel Nof, but each mention was sobering. Dzecki said after a moment, “Sea commando, or frogman?”

“Neither. Special services.”

“Brave, sure,” Noah said to Colonel Luria. “Was it worth it?”

Benny was slow to answer. “Absolutely. The Egyptians learned that when it comes to commando raids, they’re still outclassed.
And knocking out that radar ripped a nice hole in their aircraft warning system —”

“Happy birthday, Daphna! Am I too late for cake and ice cream?” With a door-slam the aviator of the photograph strode into
the living room, in a parka and slacks.

“Dov! Dov! You came!” His mother jumped up to embrace him, and a tumult of hugging, kissing, and handshaking ensued.

The father exclaimed, “So Dov, you’ve already qualified in the Skyhawk?”

“I soloed yesterday, Abba.”

Amid more tumult of congratulation, his shiny-eyed brother eagerly asked, “How did it go, Dov, how did it go?”

“Well, I bounced so hard when I landed, the squadron leader told me to get my ass home for a day to calm down.” Great laughter
all around. “Say, is there a movie star visiting the base? I saw this Porsche outside.”

Daphna said, “This is Dzecki Barkowe, Dov. It’s his Porsche.”

“Oh, you’re her American guy. Hello.” Dov coolly looked Dzecki in the eye and offered a callused hand. His smooth face was
singularly pale, with hard lines around the mouth, and his smile was remote. He greatly resembled his father, and he made
Dzecki feel very immature and very American. When Dov turned to Noah Barak his expression warmed. “What’s this, Admiral? I
hear you’re off to romance all the oo-la-la girls in France. Such luck.”

“L’Azazel, Dov,” said Noah, glancing at his watch, and breaking out of his glum mood in a charming grin, “I should have left
fifteen minutes ago, but I’m glad I didn’t. At least I’ve had a glimpse of you. Kol ha’kavod on your solo. When I get back,
we’ll meet and talk about things.”

“Definitely. You come to Hatzerim. We’ll give you a decent air force lunch.”

Noah laughed, and made brief goodbyes. Daphna walked out with him. A Mirage was howling off a nearby runway. “So, you’re really
going this time?” she screamed.

“Yes, you’ll be rid of me at last,” he yelled, as they passed the Porsche. “And vice versa.”

“Don’t be a pig, now. You know I hate the idea. I’ll miss you. Write, you hear me? Write! How long will you be gone? Tell
the truth.” A whole unit of Mirages was taking off one by one, in an earsplitting racket. An aviator and a girl sergeant strolled
past them deep in talk, from the way their lips and arms were moving.

“I love you,” bellowed Noah in her ear, “but what’s the point? We’re not going anywhere. What does it matter how long I’ll
be gone? Feel free to do what you please, and finish.”

“How dare you?” She whirled him around by an elbow, took him by the shoulders, and shook him. “How
dare
you, Noah Barak? Haven’t I” — a shout in his face — “proved I love you? What more can I do? What more do you want?”