The Glory (3 page)

The captain leaned in the doorway as Noah was stripping to shower. “So, Noah, what happened at supply?”

“Again, no countermeasures.”

“What’s the delay this time?”

“
Balagan
[Foul-up], that’s what. Balagan beyond belief. Captain, the requisitions I submitted sat in somebody’s in-basket for
two weeks
. I tracked them down myself. They just went out Tuesday. I made a big scandal with the head supply officer, Colonel Fischer.
You know what he said? He said, ‘Lieutenant, calm down. Do you really think the Egyptians can aim and fire missiles? Anyway,
whatever missiles they’ve got are Russian, they’re bound to malfunction. You’ll get your countermeasures by November, that’s
three weeks away. So what’s the fuss?’ ”

“He doesn’t have to patrol off Port Said,” observed the captain gloomily. There was hard intelligence of Soviet-made Osa and
Komar missile boats of the Egyptian navy in Port Said. But they had not gone into action in the war, so senior navy officers,
unlike the two destroyer captains, were not taking them seriously.

Under the steaming shower Noah wondered how he could assist his American cousin. Haifa customs agents were all alike, except
that some were more rascally than others. He couldn’t leave the ship, but it occurred to him that Daphna might help the guy.
She often got Friday off, and Barkowe might simply have a language problem.

J
ack Barkowe ordered an early breakfast in his hotel room and sat at the window, delighting in the spectacular view of Haifa
harbor. Like San Francisco, only prettier, he thought in his exalted mood. The Mekhess snag had not fazed him. His family
and friends, trying to dissuade him from going on aliya, had harped on the notorious Israeli bureaucracy. Well, here he was,
and he would lick the Mekhess and bring in his Porsche. It was as good a way as any to cut his teeth on his new life.

The door opened and in rolled a room service table ahead of a waiter smiling and singing the victory song that had swept Israel.

Jerusalem of gold,

Of bronze and of light …

“And where is
Adoni
[Milord] going today?” inquired the waiter, a little dark mustached man in a white coat. “Nazareth? The Golan Heights? The
Sea of Galilee? The tomb of Maimonides, maybe? That’s very good luck, the tomb of Maimonides. It’s near Tiberias. I visited
it, and my wife got pregnant with twins.”

“I’m not married.”

“Visit the tomb of Maimonides, and you’ll get married. To a beautiful Israeli girl.”

As Barkowe was finishing his breakfast the telephone rang. “Mr. Barkowe? You having trouble with the Mekhess?”

“Who are you?”

“Avi Shammai, of Shammai Brothers. We solve Mekhess problems. Our specialty is automobiles.”

“Come right up.”

Avi Shammai was a big stout blond man, in a striped short-sleeved shirt, brown pants, and sandals on bare feet. “It’s no problem,”
he said. “We run into this all the time.”

“How can you help me?”

Avi Shammai’s English was rapid but cloudy. His proposal involved temporarily transferring ownership of the Porsche to the
Shammai Brothers, who would take it to Cyprus, adjust the odometer to show more mileage, perform other alterations, and bring
it back in as a secondhand car. Something like that. Barkowe found him hard to follow, but through the verbiage three points
gradually became clear. First, it was no problem; second, the cost would be five thousand American dollars; third, Barkowe
would pay twenty-five hundred dollars now, the balance when Shammai Brothers delivered him the car.

“When will that be?”

“In a month, guaranteed.”

“What’s your phone number?”

“Mr. Barkowe, Shammai Brothers is a busy firm. I’ve brought all the necessary documents —”

“Just your number, please.” Barkowe pulled from his pocket the card the Israeli had given him on the ferry. “Write it on here.”

Shammai took the card and glanced at it. With a strange expression mingling amazement and horror he said, “You know Guli?”

“Who?”

The agent extended the card, printed all in Hebrew except for two words,
Avram Gulinkoff
. “Him. Where did you get this card?”

None of this fellow’s business, Barkowe thought. “Oh, friend of my father’s. Why?”

Avi Shammai dropped the card on the breakfast table and hurried out, his sandals loudly flapping. Barkowe was puzzling over
this bizarre turn when the phone rang again. Another helpful agent? Was his predicament the talk of Haifa?

“Dzeck Barkowe?” A girl’s voice, peppy and sweet.

“I’m Jack Barkowe. Who is this?”

“My name’s Daphna Luria. I’m Noah Barak’s friend, and I’m here in the lobby. You’re having problems with the Mekhess?”

“I’ll be right down. Tan jacket.”

“I’ll find you, Dzecki.”

Barkowe had never liked the familiar “Jackie.” It was his custom to growl, “The name’s Jack,” when people used it. But
Dzecki
, as this girl said it, sounded sort of piquant.

The elevator door opened on pandemonium. From big snorting busses tourists were pouring into the hotel, and more tourists
were pouring out into other enormous busses spouting black fumes. The lobby was festooned with banners —
KING DAVID TOURS, HOLY LAND TOURS, SCHEINBAUM TOURS, PARADISE TOURS
— under which mountains of luggage rose. Shouldering through the tumultuous lobby, looking for someone who might be Daphna,
Barkowe heard a babble of tongues, English predominating. A tap on his shoulder. “Here I am, Dzecki.” She was a smallish girl
in a beige uniform, with heavy blond hair on which perched a little black cap. Her bosom was marked, her figure slender, her
eyes lively and amused. A dish, at first glance. “Do we talk Hebrew or English?” she inquired.

“N’nasseh Ivrit,”
he said. (“Let’s try Hebrew.”)

“Ah. Very good. Noah thinks,” she said, as they pushed toward the lobby entrance, “that maybe I can help you. He can’t leave
the ship until tomorrow, when the Mekhess will be closed.” She glanced pertly at him. “Shabbat. Understand?”

“Every word.”

“Lovely.”

Soon they were riding in a small slanted subwaylike car going down a steep tunnel. “This is the Carmelit,” she said. “Don’t
waste your money on taxis while you’re at the Dan. We can walk from the bottom to the Mekhess.”

They did, and found the huge shed vacant and quiet; no cars, no inspectors, all windows but one closed. “There’s my car,”
he said.

“Which one?”

“The blue one.”

The Porsche gleamed among the shoddy impounded cars like a sapphire dropped in dirt. Daphna widened amazed eyes at him, bluer
than the Porsche. “That’s
YOUR
car, Dzecki? What arc you, a millionaire’s son?”

He laughed. “I’m broke. It’s a story.”

At the open window, Barkowe handed his documents through the grill to a bald man with very big yellow false teeth. “Ah yes,
the Porsche. Interesting case,” said the man in passable English, his teeth clicking. “But the boat to Italy has left.”

Daphna entered into a vigorous dispute which Barkowe could not follow at all, the teeth behind the grill clicking like castanets.
“Well, you have a real problem,” she said at last to Barkowe. “Let’s go to the supervisor. This man isn’t a bad person, he
feels sorry for you.”

“Sure.
Ani mitzta’er
.”

A glint of humor flashed in her sharp blue eyes. “Just so.
Ani mitzta’er
. You’ll hear that a lot in Israel.”

The paunchy supervisor had a large sad face and sat in a very small office, behind a desk piled high with scruffy folders.
He nodded often at the pretty soldier as she rattled on, regarding her with benign melancholy appetite.

“You understand Hebrew?” he asked Barkowe in a hoarse rumble.

“Not the way she’s talking now.”

The supervisor almost smiled, and spoke slowly. “Sir, in strict confidence, by January your car will undoubtedly be admissible.
A former high Treasury official plans to import this model, you see.”

“
January
? I’m paying twenty dollars a day storage. Can’t I post a bond meantime and use it?”

“No, no. Unheard of. Twenty dollars a day is a problem, I grant you. The next boat for Italy leaves Monday.” At the look on
the American’s face he shrugged. “Ani mitzta’er.”

As they left the shed Daphna said, “I’ve been useless to you.”

“Far from it. Thanks a lot, now I know where I stand. I’m going to Tel Aviv and break down all doors in the American Embassy.”

“Good for you.” With a beautiful smile Daphna Luria held out her hand. “I think you’ll survive here, Dzecki.” She strode off
to a bus stop, and looking after her, he thought he had seldom seen a more seductive swaying walk. Lucky Cousin Noah! There
had to be other Israeli girls like Daphna Luria, and at that, he might yet try the tomb of Maimonides. Back in his room the
breakfast table had not yet been removed, and there lay the card of Avram Gulinkoff. What could he lose? He asked the hotel
operator to get him the phone number.

“Guli speaking,” said the hoarse voice brusquely. “Who’s this?”

“Mr. Gulinkoff, this is Jack Barkowe.”

“What? Who?”

“The American on the ferry.”

A peculiar sound, half a growl and half a chuckle. “Oh, yes, Yaakov. Shalom. What can I do for you, Yaakov?”

I
n dirty fatigues and a dirtier floppy cap, her hands and face black-smeared, Daphna was hurrying to the gate of the Ramat
David air force base a few days later. A note had been handed to her:
Sergeant Luria — Unauthorized civilian at gate inquiring for you. Has no pass
. Outside the guard hut, a cluster of guards and off-duty soldiers all but hid the blue Porsche. Astounded, she pushed through.
“Dzecki! By my life, how did you get it out?”

He stood by the car, tipping his red driver’s cap. “Hi, Daphna, care for a spin?”

“You fool, I can’t leave the base.”

“Just joking. I’m on my way to the Golan Heights. I thought I’d let you know I’ve got my car, and thank you for your help
at the Mekhess.”

“Me? I did nothing. Who liberated it, the American ambassador?”

“You’re not even close.”

The enlisted men who surrounded them were all grinning. The visit would be the talk of the base, she knew. She was a marked
girl at Ramat David, for her father, Colonel Benny Luria, had led a squadron of Mirages in the surprise air strike on Egypt,
which — at least in air force opinion — had won the Six-Day War in the first seven minutes. “Well, nice seeing you, but I
can’t stay, I’m on duty.”

“Right.” He jumped into the Porsche and started it up with a rich purr.

“My God,” she couldn’t help saying, “how I’d love to drive that car.”

“Anytime, Daphna.” He tipped the cap and roared off.

He was soaking in a hot tub the following night, stiff and aching from ten hours of driving around the Negev, and from a bone-jolting
ride on a camel at a Bedouin market outside Beersheba.
R-r-r-ing
went the phone by the tub. “Dzecki? It’s Daphna Luria. I’m calling from my base.”

“Daphna, hi. What’s up?”

“Have you been to Jericho or Hebron?”

“No. I’ve driven all over, but not in the occupied territories. I’m too new here.”

“Sensible. Well, listen. I’m free on Friday, and it turns out that poor Noah can’t meet me. His ship will have to relieve
the
Jaffa
a day early, it’s got engine trouble, and we’re both furious. I asked him about showing you around the West Bank Friday and
he said by all means to do it.”

“Great. What’s involved, Daphna? Any risk?”

“Nothing to it. The Arabs are behaving very well indeed, I assure you. They’re in shock. We’ll have no trouble at all. Be
here at seven, and that’ll give us a nice long day.”

“You’re on.”

It was a cold windy cloudy morning, the sun a low dull red ball, when Daphna came out of the gate and waved. Dzecki this time
saw not a sloppy mess in fatigues, but the fetching girl of the Dan lobby, with one difference. Swinging on a shoulder as
before was her blue leather purse, but slung over the other was a submachine gun.

“Shalom, Dzecki. We talk Hebrew, yes? Good practice for you.” He jumped out and ran around to open the door for her. “Oo-ah,
such a
gentleman
. How nice.” She gestured at the gate guards, who were goggling at the Porsche and at them. “Those boors can’t imagine what
you’re doing, or why. Probably never saw it happen before.”

“Daphna, what’s with the Uzi?” He got behind the wheel and started the car.

“Elohim, Dzecki, what a sound that engine makes! Like a tiger waking up. I’m signed out for the Uzi, and I’d better bring
it back, or it’s my head. Let’s just get going.”

“Okay. Where to?”

“Simple. Afula, Jenin, Nablus, Jericho. Straight run.”

“Fine. You direct me.”

“Now come on,” she said as they started off, “however did you get this car out of the claws of the Mekhess?”

“Well, it’s a story.” He described his meeting with Gulinkoff on the ferry, then had her giggling with an account of Avi Shammai’s
visit, and his strange reaction to the man’s business card. “After you and I got nowhere, Daphna, I thought I’d just call
the guy, a shot in the dark. He was real nice, this Guli. He said he was about to fly to Switzerland, but he’d be back soon
and look into it. He sure did.”

“Oo-ah, such
protectsia
. Guli, you say? Noah must know him. A real manipulator. You were lucky.”

“Was I ever! He called me a couple of days later and said, ‘Go get your car, Yaakov.’ That was that.”

“Yaakov? Why Yaakov? Where did he get that name?”

As Dzecki explained she was smiling indulgently. “Don’t be in such a hurry to change your name. Dzecki is nice. So! And the
Mekhess simply let you drive it away?”

“Right. Four days’ storage fee, and a twenty-shekel fine for violating regulations. And when I think what the Shammai Brothers
wanted of me —”

“Good for you, Dzecki. Most Americans would have gone along with the Shammai Brothers.”