No Medals Today Read online

  Emi and I load the DIP that is supposed to be sent from Orly to the Scandinavian countries and the sacks of DIP bound for Israel. We took only the “Secret” and “Top Secret” DIP. The rest is sent via El Al cargo, together with the equipment and shipments accumulated today for shipment to Israel. We drive in the ancient-new car we were given by Damian. That is against the rules. We have no time to arrange a diplomatic registration number for the vehicle, and the car theoretically belongs to El Al, which means it cannot carry a diplomatic license plate, so we will use the civilian plate. Tomorrow, I must arrange to legalize the vehicle with the security officer. The Volkswagen will only be used to transport DIP and equipment between the embassy and the El Al planes at the Orly airport. We will use vehicles with diplomatic licenses for all our other requirements.

  After we deposit the DIP for shipment in the cargo area, we return to the passenger terminal, Orly’s southern terminal. While Emi waits for me in the car, I enter the security office, where the papers for the car and the permit to allow the vehicle into the airport await me.

  The El Al check-in desks are crowded and noisy. Dozens of Israelis are trying to find a seat on the plane. Each one has a heartbreaking story about why he wants to get back to Israel tonight. Some twenty uniformed airport policemen, armed with submachine guns, patrol the area to ward off any possible attack from hostile elements.

  Yossi Ben-David has the lists, and he announces the names of the lucky ones who have been approved to fly to Israel. An observer might think that all these people are pushing with all their might to get to a place where they are giving away gold and silver rather than registering to fly to a country where a fierce war is being fought. Each person who gets confirmation from Yossi for inspection looks like someone who has won the lottery. Each goes through the security inspection and runs to the duty-free store to purchase last-minute goods before going to war (in the basement of the terminal, there is a small supermarket, where some of the passengers buy French cheese, chocolate, and other products they think aren’t available in Israel now).

  When the plane fills up with passengers, Yossi gathers all the disappointed ones who didn’t get on the flight and makes a list of their names. Emi and I help him with it. “You won’t believe how many reserve duty soldiers I found among the names on the list,” says Yossi. “I found many names that I was asked to look for, that Israel wanted me to locate without delay. I had no idea where to start looking for them and look here! They are coming to me on their own, saving me a lot of work.”

  I am supposed to see Chantal tonight. We last met on Thursday, two days before the war, and we arranged to meet this evening for a romantic dinner. Time has been cut down the middle. The period before the war suddenly seems hazy and in the distant past. Only four days ago. I spent a glorious time with her, I think. I have no way of telling her that I can’t meet her. I believe she reads the newspapers and watches television and will understand that this war is keeping me very busy now, I think, trying to calm myself. The thought of dinner with Chantal reminds me that we haven’t eaten for many hours. At noon, we grabbed a small sandwich that wasn’t enough. When we sign off on the flight’s departure, thirty minutes remain before it leaves, and we are obliged to wait a further fifteen minutes after the aircraft takes off. Only then are we permitted to leave. Forty-five minutes is plenty of time to eat a good meal at the airport, and that is exactly what we do. Emi and I are eating heartily at a small bistro in the waiting area of the airport when two crew members, wearing the uniforms of an airline we aren’t immediately able to identify, approach us.

  “Are you from Israel?” one of them asks in French.

  “Yes,” I reply, unsuccessfully trying to figure out which airline they belong to.

  “We are from Middle East Airlines, the Lebanese airline. We are both Christians, and we want to tell you that all the Christians in Lebanon are with you in your struggle. Give them a beating and wipe them out. They are real bastards, so you’ll be doing humanity a great favor if you hit them really hard.” Without waiting for a response, they continue on their way.

  “Did you see that, Yiftach? The Good Lord sent us these two to support what we’re doing here.”

  Only on our way back, I remember that, once again, I forgot to call Chantal. Why the hell is this happening to me?

  Tuesday

  On Tuesday, at five thirty in the morning, six trucks wait at the border crossing between Germany and Belgium, near the town of Aachen. This time, each vehicle is manned by two drivers. Their instructions are unequivocal: “Never leave the truck without at least one of you in it.” It’s been explained to them that the trucks are carrying precious cargo that may be stolen on the way. Such things have happened; entire trucks with their cargo have disappeared while their drivers were at lunch or taking a rest stop. The drivers have no idea of the real nature of the shipment on the trucks, and to tell the truth, they don’t care. The Customs Office opens at exactly six o’clock. The routine procedure of stamping the documents takes a few minutes. The six trucks get to the various exit points; they all passed through customs on leaving Germany. They all have a single destination: Créteil in southeastern Paris. There are three customs counters, and three representatives of three customs brokerage firms are at the counters, so each truck deals with a different customs officer. Another three brokers from other customs brokerage firms will transfer the documents between six thirty and seven in the morning. Everything is carefully planned in advance. The first three drivers receive their laissez-passer and get on their way a few minutes after six thirty. They have all been ordered to drive to a particular large gas station in the vicinity of Liège, where they are to stop for breakfast and call the dispatch office in Cologne to report their location.

  At approximately eleven o’clock in the morning, Eddy receives a report from one of the six trucks: at the entrance to the parking lot of the filling station near Liège, the truck hit a private vehicle. One person has been injured, and they are waiting for the police to arrive. What’s to be done?

  The driver, who called in will call again in an hour. The first delay has now happened. Will there be more problems?

  At three thirty in the afternoon, five loaded trucks leave the ESSO gas station, located some one hundred kilometers north of Paris, on their way to the Orly airport. Ahead of them is a toll road that stretches from northern France to Paris. They can expect to find heavy traffic on the Boulevard Périphérique, the circular road that surrounds Paris.

  The sixth truck, the one involved in the accident, is delayed in Belgium. It appears that no one was hurt in the mishap near Liège. The so-called casualty merely suffered shock. He was frightened by the enormous truck that hit his small car; according to the on-the-spot report, the driver of the private vehicle was at fault. This is also the conclusion reached by the Belgian police, who investigate the event there. In spite of the private driver’s hysteria, the truck is allowed to proceed on its way after the necessary forms are filled out. The report to the insurance company is made, and Eddy sends a Telex from his office, undertaking to appear when, where, and if the police demand it. Everything is quite routine; nothing is unusual except the delay of the truck, which must arrive this evening in time for the flight to Israel. Only six or seven hours are left before it must reach Orly, and there is an additional wait at the border crossing between Belgium and France.

  The five trucks are expected to arrive at the Orly airport at approximately six thirty in the evening, and the sixth truck should arrive three hours later. Because of the delay, Eddy instructs the drivers of the delayed vehicle to change places with one another and drive non-stop to the Orly airport.

  In the El Al cargo department at Orly, the papers for the “humanitarian aid” shipment that includes medicines from France are being prepared. In fact, it is the radar station. They request and receive a slot[5] for a flight transporting the unusual shipment to Israel. The aircraft itself is being prepared to fly to Tel-Nof. There, the radar
station will be offloaded. At first, they planned to land the plane at the Bir Gafgafa Airport in Sinai, but at the last minute they decided to land at Tel-Nof. The pilots do not know whether the change in plan was because there was no gear to unload a 707 at Bir Gafgafa or for some other reason. The plane is due to land at Tel-Nof at five in the morning, at first light; it will offload its precious cargo, fly to Lod (a few minutes away), and then take off and fly back to Europe immediately to bring additional shipments. The regular passenger flight takes off on schedule, as usual. No problems are noted.

  All six trucks reach Orly at more or less the expected times. The shipment is loaded onto the cargo plane, which takes off, weighing about a half a ton more than allowed in the manufacturer’s specifications. There is a sigh of relief from all involved when it finally takes off. The CDSE refuses to open a bottle of champagne. He says that this is just an everyday occurrence, not a noteworthy occasion.

  Wednesday, October 10

  Today, like the previous three days, begins with the ringing of the telephone at around four in the morning. “Good morning, Yiftach! This is your daily call from Tel Aviv. Are you awake? Do you hear me?”

  I slowly emerge from my dream, in which the last frame is Chantal and me embracing on the bridge over the River Seine. I try to recall the dream without success because I have to return to the reality that has suddenly fallen on me: assignments, the war, the uncertainty of what is happening in Israel. I haven’t heard anything from my two brothers, my brother-in-law, or the friends in my unit; in general, I have only vague information about what is going on. I hardly ever see Tzipi. When I get home, she’s been asleep for a long time. During the day she is busy at school and in the evening, she takes care of our two small children. One goes to school, and the other attends preschool. I have no idea what Irit is up to; I haven’t seen her since the war broke out. I see Tzipi only in the mornings, when she joins me for coffee and attends to my appearance before I leave.

  At the embassy, they aren’t releasing any information that isn’t vital to doing our job—not because of security considerations, but simply because there isn’t enough time. What will happen today? What assignments will they set us? I discover that I didn’t undress when I returned home last night at about two in the morning. I remember that I decided to let my body be horizontal for a few minutes before going to bed in the usual manner, on the sofa in the living room. I fell fast asleep, a dead weight for two hours, till the ringing of the phone brought me back to life.

  “Yes, I am awake. Only just, but awake.” After two days that seem more like two weeks, I already know and remember the name of my permanent caller. “Good morning, Yechiel, carry on!” I receive all the regular reports: what will be in the DIP today, what has to be sent to Israel urgently, and other tasks.

  As usual, I conclude with the request to send a telegram to CB, and as usual, my partner in the conversation from Tel Aviv replies, “I have already sent the telegram. I’m just checking to see if you have any questions and if everything is clear. Have a brilliant day! Oh yes, I forgot! Eat a fresh young baguette for me!” He hangs up before I manage a response. I must get ready now. I make a brief call to Udi, who is about to go out and pick up the DIP from the plane that will arrive in another hour and a half. I have to shave this morning—I may be meeting people other than the people at the embassy, and I must look good. I have to wear a suit again today. And a tie. Ouf!

  It’s six thirty in the morning. At this period of the year, it’s still dark outside at this time of day, and dawn breaks only after seven thirty. Emi and I are already at the Le Bourget airport in North Paris. The French UTA airline’s flights from Africa land here. One of them is bringing the Regev family from Dakar, the capital of Senegal. Like all the African countries, Senegal has broken off diplomatic relations with Israel as a result of its war with Egypt and Syria. The embassy in Dakar closed a few days ago, and today the first secretary, together with his wife and two small children, are arriving. All their belongings are already out of Senegal and on the way back to Israel. The families are usually removed immediately upon the announcement of a break in relations, but this time, for some reason, the family remained with the head of the family until the end. No one mentioned why. They will be staying in Paris for one day—that is, for today—and will leave tonight on the El Al flight to Tel Aviv. Like most of the expelled diplomats, David Regev is carrying classified documents. In most cases, it is specifically meant for this: why bother, after almost an entire night of flying with one’s family, with finding transport from one airfield to another (which is probably on the other side of an unfamiliar city) if a driver and escort can be arranged? These people who have been expelled from Africa have no idea of what we are going through in Paris, and in truth, it doesn’t matter much to them. They only think of themselves.

  The flight was to have landed at 6:10 a.m., but when we got to the airport, we discovered that it would not land until 6:35 a.m.—a minor delay, nothing serious. We take advantage of the opportunity to drink café-crème with a croissant. This morning, since we have more time because of the delay in the plane’s arrival, we add a tartine to this enforced breakfast. A tartineis a piping hot, freshly baked baguette with lashings of butter. The bistro at the airport serves thetartine with a small bowl of preserves, which makes it taste even better. The crackling sound of biting into the crisp shell of the fresh baguette, and the crumbs that fly everywhere, add a lot to the flavor. I can’t help thinking of Yechiel in Tel Aviv, who each morning, in our daily conversation, asks, among other things, that I eat just such a baguette in his honor.

  At 6:45 a.m., I must call the embassy to say good morning to the night-duty officer and check that the telegrams came to CB. It’s probably going to be another routine day—urgently required gear for the IAF that the IAI will import from the Marcel Dassault Company, equipment that must be acquired from other sources, and all of the usual assignments. Many departments have been closed in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv because everyone has been called up. All Israeli embassies, all over the world, are asking for first-hand news about DIP dispatches and reports about the war that is raging at full blast under a cloud of media silence. In particular, they are asking for informational material from Israeli sources: the Israeli press and the spokesmen of the IDF, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and the Ministry of Information. Every morning, a large amount of disorganized and unsorted material is sent to us from Israel, and we organize it and deliver it to the rest of the world. When our representative in Rio de Janiero are going to bed, the ones in Tokyo are just welcoming a new day, and our embassy has an officer on duty to patiently answer all questions, both on by telex and from those who approach him in person. When someone tries to be smart and turn directly to Jerusalem or Tel Aviv to save time, they receive a brief and consistent reply: “We don’t have time for you. Call Paris, they’re dealing with everything.”

  Relaxed and delighted, having enjoyed the coffee, croissant, and tartine, I turn to Emi and muse, “Why is it that we talk about ‘screwing’ in Hebrew, but in English or French, it’s ‘making love’? When I am with Chantal, and she says ‘make love to me’ (fais moi l’amour), it sounds like music to my ears—it is beautiful, sublime poetry, divine. And it sounds exactly like that in English, too. But in Hebrew, we say ‘Come and fuck me’ (which I’ve never heard from any woman), and it sounds so beastly, revolting, and demeaning. Has anyone ever asked you, Emi, ‘Come and screw me’? In French as well as English, that’s comparable to ‘fucking.’”

  Emi is astounded. He is a thoroughly innocent guy who never talks about his love life. The whole subject is taboo for him. He attacks me. “What’s come over you, Yiftach? We are at war, with a slate of jobs we’ll never see the end of. We haven’t even woken up properly to a new day, and the only thing on your mind is getting laid?” Poor guy, he can’t even bring himself to say the ‘f’ word.

  “Not at all,” I reply calmly, really enjoying the obvious embarrassment on his face. �
��I’m actually very involved with what’s going on. But since this war broke out, I haven’t had a spare moment for Chantal. I want to call her home today soon after she wakes up because she threatened me yesterday on the phone—she said that there would be a big scandal if I didn’t turn up at her house today. She gave me an ultimatum to be at her place within the next twenty-four hours. I promised that whatever happens, I would be with her this evening. I still have no idea how I am going to make that happen. Besides which, my friend, you still haven’t answered my question. Look, in English, they say ‘make love, not war.’ In Hebrew, we fuck the enemy, and we also fuck our lovers and wives. I can’t make sense of it. Why does this act of love have to be so negative? Jews have so many words to describe happiness: glee, delight, gladness, joy, and more. And look at this; the Hebrew words for these feelings have all become girls’ names—Gila, Ditza, Hedva, Rina, and Simcha. Why? Because much of Judaism is built on how happiness empowers you in life. A person with a lot of love in his life wants to deepen his awareness of love, to perform an act that brings great joy. He begins to need different words to express love and passion, to describe different emotional states of wanting to be together. It’s a shame that Eliezer Ben-Yehudah, who revived Modern Hebrew, has died. I would ask him. I am sure he would find a solution and invent some positive words to describe the act of love.”

  Emi gets angry. “Give me a break from your nonsense. I’ve had enough of covering for you every time you find a new girl to chase. Haven’t I warned you to be careful? Look how you complicated your life with this Chantal after getting rid of Veronique. I just don’t understand you. What’s wrong with a wife like Tzipi? She’s a great woman, looks fantastic, and is also an exemplary mom. As a teacher, she is loved by everyone—students and parents alike. She is a really sexy woman, yet you’re always looking for others.”