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  “We are talking about two truckloads, about thirty-five tons, and everything is neatly packed in crates.”

  “How am I to transfer these two vehicles from Germany? Who will instruct me how to do this legally? Who, for example, will prepare the customs declaration?”

  The CDSE shrugs. “Yiftach, this is war. Find a solution. You have forty-eight hours till the cargo leaves here on its way to Israel. Start getting used to the idea that we will be receiving more weird assignments like this, and we have to execute them to the best of our ability. Your liaison for this assignment is Israel Shacham, from the embassy in Bonn. Here is his phone number. Make a note of it.” Yiftach makes a note of it and the CDSE verifies that he has it down correctly. He continues, “Go to Orly airport in the morning, find out from El Al which airport authorities to talk to, and come back with vehicle entry permit to the airport. And Yiftach, don’t go there in jeans, and please wear a tie. Remember that you are a diplomat representing the State of Israel.”

  The CDSE peruses the papers in front of him and continues. “Starting today, we will have at least one daily flight coming in from Tel Aviv. The flight takes off at around two or three in the morning and lands here at six or six-thirty, just as the airport opens to air traffic. The aircraft will wait all day and take off for Israel at eight o’clock in the evening. It will reach Israel at night, offload its cargo, reload, and return. The plane will stay at the Tel Aviv airport for the minimum time it takes to unload, refuel, and take on cargo before leaving. The same thing will be happening in other cities in Europe. El Al planes will reduce the time they spend at the Tel Aviv airport to a necessary minimum to prevent them being bombed on the ground. There will be days when we will have two aircraft on the ground at Orly airport. That will all depend on the numbers of reserve duty soldiers we send to Israel from here. Yossi Ben-David, the administrative officer of the military attaché’s office, will coordinate the matter of the reserve soldiers. The military attaché returned to Israel on Thursday already, and the air force attaché is returning on tonight’s flight. That leaves only Yossi. Pay attention, Yiftach: beginning tomorrow, each El Al plane that departs for Israel will have to receive three flight permits. One from the embassy—I appoint you right now to represent the embassy, which obliges you to be at Orly airport an hour and a half before doors to the aircraft close—one from the military attaché’s office, and one from the El Al station manager. He will sign it himself. Until today, only one person signed, someone from El Al’s operations department at the airport. The station manager has been informed of this, and we will update Yossi when we find him. (The poor fellow is running around like crazy, enlisting reservists who happen to be here and those from the Israeli institutions and bodies that have permanent representatives in France.) The reason for the various confirmations is simple: the representative of the attachés must verify that the reservists he enlists are flown to Israel according to their importance to the military. You, Yiftach, will make sure that everything the embassy sends in the DIP[2] actually is sent. The quantity of DIP will increase considerably in the coming days because we will be sending a significant amount of equipment to Israel as DIP. Everything that is being said here is only valid for the next two days. After that, as we get more experience, there will be updates and adjustments. Since you will be on the road from now on, Yiftach, you must call us every two hours. We may be able to obtain radio communication equipment, but that requires permits from the authorities, and until arrangements are made, you are to call in on the phone. Emi will accompany you all the time, and Udi will coordinate everything at the embassy. Since he cannot work round the clock, we will find someone to relieve him, possibly Yossi Meidan.”

  The CDSE pauses; he appears to have finished his lecture, but when Yiftach begins to make a move, Herzl Ben-Shaul suddenly says, “I am not done yet, guys. Last but not least for today: All the guys who sort and send DIP from Israel have been drafted. Diplomatic mail will be arriving each morning in Paris for cities in Europe to which El Al planes are not flying that day. Most of the mail will be classified “confidential” or lower and can be sent unaccompanied by a courier. We, here, will forward the mail to its destination. An instruction has been sent to all the embassies not to send regular mail to Israel, because there is no one to attend to it. In an emergency, individual cases will be treated on their merits.”

  Yiftach begins to grasp the reality. This is going to be a strange war, during which I will be able to lead my normal life, see Chantal, and eat at restaurants as usual.

  The meeting disperses. Yiftach has no idea what is going to happen. Herzl had called it war, but men are going out to fight this war wearing suits and fashionable ties. Their weapons are their brains, their savvy and, mainly, their audacity. He would learn soon enough that in war, as in war (dans la Guerre, comme à la Guerre), nothing goes according to plan.

  The CDSE asked Yiftach to stay behind after the others leave. “Your unit in the IDF demanded you as a first priority. I sent a request to the head of the Mossad and stressed your importance to the war effort here. I notified them that you are familiar with the assignments and that we don’t have time to train anyone to replace you. They accepted that, and you have been officially commandeered to the military attaché here. In fact, you will continue to carry out all your assignments under orders from me. Similarly, I gave your home phone number to the people in Jerusalem. Every morning, starting from tomorrow at around four o’clock, they will call you at home and let you know everything that is on the plane and what urgent business you have to take care of. The phone call is intended to let you hear what they have to say and allow you to ask questions if you need to. I recommend that after each call you ask them to send you the same information in a telegram to the CB.[3] Anyway, that is their instruction. It is important that you make certain it is followed because I cannot rely on your memory at four o’clock in the morning after you work around the clock without sleep. If you’re not at home, ask Tzipi to tell them that you’re out and tell them to send the telegram. That’s all for today.”

  Yiftach thinks to himself, Okay, so my wife, Tzipi, has also been mobilized for this war. It’s lucky they don’t know about Chantal, or they might decide to draft her, too. Chantal, Yiftach’s lover, is a local Parisienne. The only one who knows of her existence is Emi, much to the latter’s disapproval. Emi, who grew up in a religious home, became secular when he volunteered for full military service at the age of nineteen, but he is still influenced by his religious education.

  After the meeting with the CDSE, Yiftach, Emi, and Udi go downstairs to Yiftach’s office to prepare for the coming day. Yiftach finds out the name of the embassy’s customs broker from the administrative officer, who is still in the building. The customs broker is responsible for releasing the personal cargo of emissaries coming to serve in Paris and takes care of dispatching their possessions back to Israel at the end of their tour of duty. According to the administrative officer, the customs broker is a good Jew named Edouard Benayoun, whom the administrative officer calls Eddy the Omnipotent. Yiftach makes a note of his phone number after finding out that the man gets to the office at half past seven every morning. The arrangements in the embassy have been completed, and it is a few minutes before one o’clock in the morning when Yiftach leaves his department on his way home.

  So we are now living the reality of a terrible war, Yiftach thinks as he makes his way back home on the empty streets of the city. He intentionally does not drive down the Champs Elysées, which is still alive and kicking, even in the wee hours of the night. Yiftach cannot help thinking that less than three thousand kilometers away, a war of survival is being fought, while here, life carries on; people are celebrating the end of the week, and in a few hours another autumn day will break. We are operating from another planet. Both my brothers and my brother-in-law are combat soldiers in this war; only I am doing something where the greatest danger that can befall me is a road accident, Yiftach thinks as he parks his
car in the 16th Arrondissement of Paris, where his apartment is located.

  Monday—Tuesday, October 8–9

  Monday Morning

  The phone startles me awake with a loud ring. In my rented apartment in Paris, there is only one telephone extension, and the instrument is on a shelf in the dining nook off the living room. It has a long cable of three and a half meters that allows one to take the phone to the kitchen, but it doesn’t reach the bedroom. The apartment is built like Israel’s state housing constructed in the fifties and early sixties. The building is a huge monstrosity with six entrances; each entrance has eight floors, with four apartments on each floor. Our apartment includes a living room with a dining nook attached to a kitchen and a hallway with a separate bathroom and lavatory, at the end of which is our bedroom, and beside it a nursery containing two beds. There is an additional room for guests. We have many friends and a large family, so the guest room is always occupied. At present, my wife Tzipi’s childhood friend, Irit, is visiting us after plowing through England. She decided to go home via Paris and spend Yom Kippur with us. Now she is stuck with us for a few days, as she can’t get back to Israel because of the war.

  Whoever designed this apartment didn’t think of installing an additional phone extension in the bedroom. So, when the telephone rings in the middle of the night, at least five or six very noisy rings are heard that rouse everyone in the house before you get to it and answer it. In the past, we tried to reduce the volume of the ringtone with no success. We gave up trying and thought at the time, How often are we likely to be called at night?

  To avoid the telephone waking everyone in the house (my wife, Tzipi, our guest, Irit, and our two small children), I decided, on returning from the embassy, to sleep on the sofa in the living room. I would answer the expected phone call very early in the morning as soon as the instrument began its loud ringing. I put the telephone on the floor beside the sofa when I returned home, some three hours before I expected the call. I did not get to inform Tzipi of the daily phone calls that would now awaken us so early every morning.

  When I finally reach full awareness, and find myself in a semi-reclining, almost seated position, I am convinced that it had been only a few seconds since the deafening first ring—until I see Tzipi standing worriedly beside me, having run in from the bedroom. As I listen to the message from Jerusalem, I notice that Tzipi has calmed down. Without adding a word, she goes to the kitchen, and I hear the sound of the kettle heating water for coffee. Good for you, my beloved wife, I think to myself. I drop back down in a reclining position and continue listening to the list of items on the aircraft that will land at Orly at six forty-five, learning what has to be transferred and to where. There is a list of parts that must be brought to Israel today for the IAF, a list of drugs, and—“Wait, stop!” I manage to interject when the speaker from Jerusalem (who identified himself at the beginning of the conversation, giving his name, which I have already forgotten) stops to catch his breath. “I don’t know what these lists of parts are. So please send a telegram to the Communication Bureau, and we will attend to it at the office in the morning.”

  “Calm down, Yiftach, the telegram is already there waiting for you. I am only reading from the copy to answer your questions. So, do you have any questions?”

  “Sure I do. Besides the matter of the DIP, which I understand we are to distribute to the whole world, I don’t understand a thing about airplane parts and the rest of the equipment. What do I know about medicines? What is going on here? Can you explain?”

  “Yes. You have to distribute the DIP. There is DIP for Brussels and The Hague that they will come and pick up from you. All the confidential items are described precisely in the encoded telegram. They will also bring you classified DIP that has to be sent back here on today’s flight. About the medications and the parts—your role boils down to making certain that everything is on the aircraft that is supposed to take off at eight thirty tonight. There are others who are handling and organizing this. You only have to coordinate it. That was what they told me. Get used to it; you will get a phone call like this every morning.”

  “But they told me it was a temporary arrangement, for only two days.” I protest.

  I hear a chuckle on the other end of the line. “In our country, the most permanent things are temporary ones. I would say that those two days will continue until further notice or until the end of the war. So get used to it right now. I want to remind you, Yiftach, we are at war here, so be prepared for anything, except for one thing: this isn’t going to be neat and tidy. I sent you in the DIP the eve of Yom Kippur newspapers, in which everything looks beautiful and routine, as well as clippings from the Sunday papers, in which all the headlines scream WAR. We’re fighting for our survival here, and you’re complaining that we are waking you in the middle of the night and imposing on you with errands you know nothing about. So wake up, my friend, and start moving your ass. Go and eat a crispy fresh baguette and think of me, with only shit to eat and plenty of it. We’ll speak tomorrow if I’m still alive, and you still have a country. Bye, and have a beautiful day.” The nameless guy hangs up. Why is he so pessimistic? I forgot to ask him his name again. His voice didn’t sound familiar. I am completely awake now, and Tzipi serves me a steaming hot cup of coffee.

  “When the telephone rang in the middle of the night I didn’t see you beside me in the bed. I was sure they were calling to tell me you had been injured or killed in an accident, or they suddenly sent you to Israel to the war, or I don’t know what. A lot of bad movies went through my head. I dashed to answer the phone so it wouldn’t wake Irit and the children. I saw that you were alive and here, taking the call, and I calmed down.”

  “Thank you for the coffee, Tzipi, honey,” I say as I draw myself up into an almost sitting position. “We’re at war, you know that. The embassy has given us a whole lot of assignments that oblige us to deal with matters that I have no prior experience with. Did you speak to your family yesterday?”

  “Yes, but it took a long time to get through to them. The whole world is calling Israel, and the lines are busy. I spoke to my mother. Zvika was called up on Saturday morning. My father was insulted that he wasn’t drafted. Mom said he was upset after they called Zvika. He went to the city hall in the morning to volunteer and hadn’t yet returned when I spoke to her, so it’s uncertain what he is doing. I also called your mother—I know you, and I was sure you hadn’t called her. She told me that your unit was already looking for you on Friday evening, and they called looking for you again on Yom Kippur. From the sound of what she said, it seemed she feared you were running away from them. I soothed her and told her you were at the embassy, and that if it was so urgent, they should call the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.”

  “I want you to know that I have no idea when I will come back home. Possibly I’ll be on the road. I will return in a day or two.” In my heart, I add, And I may even be with Chantal.

  “And what about me?! What am I supposed to do now? Sit at home and wait for you? I have to do something. Irit is here, and I’m sure she wants to go back to Israel. Can you arrange something for her with El Al?”

  “I have no idea, my darling Tzipi. I don’t think she’ll be able to fly to Israel anytime soon. It looks like it will take several days for us to finish sending all the draftees from here. Let me check how I can work it out.”

  “Perhaps I can go home with the children and be with my mom and dad?”

  “I want to go and join my unit, and they won’t let me. There is no way they will give you a place on the planes going out in the next couple of days. Come, let’s see what happens and we’ll decide as things develop.”

  I begin putting my thoughts in order. Udi will go to the airport to bring the DIP. Since he has no notion what will be sent or in what quantities, he should drive out to the airport in a large vehicle. Who will accompany him this morning? I don’t remember what we decided. It really bothers me that I don’t remember. What is happening to me? Is
a little pressure all it takes to make me lose my memory and my self-control? I have to pull myself together, and the sooner the better! I jump off the sofa and begin making preparations to leave the house.

  At seven-fifteen I am ready, so I try my luck contacting “Eddy the Omnipotent” Benayoun, who is supposed to reach his office in another fifteen minutes. I call his office. I’m in luck. Eddy picks up immediately.

  “Bonjour Eddy, this is Yiftach Cohen from the embassy. We need your help, but I can’t talk about it on the phone. Can you come straight to Orly this morning?”

  “That’s fine, Yiftach. Your administrative officer called me in the middle of the night and enlisted me to the war effort. If there is anything you need that I can help you with, I am at your service. They told me that you would call early in the morning. I’ve been waiting for your call since half past six. Let’s meet in another hour at the El Al cargo department at Orly airport. We don’t know one another personally; I believe that there, at El Al, they know you, and they also know me.”

  An hour is fine. I live less than a half-hour’s drive from Orly and driving there in the morning is traveling in the opposite direction to the traffic into town. I have a little more time. “Then it is settled.” I finalize the plans with Eddy and hang up.

  The next conversation is with the embassy in Bonn, Germany, to see what headway we are making in the matter of the radar station. Because we fear our phones might be tapped, we speak of “the shipment.”

  When I am ready to leave, dressed in a banal dark business suit, white shirt, and classic matching tie, Tzipi comments on my elegant appearance. “What a handsome guy! Are you going to meet President Pompidou, or a cute girl?” she asks. She declares as she adjusts my tie and straightens the collar of my shirt, “Spray some aftershave on yourself. It will help you with the women.”