Israel (94 page)

But Herschel had been just grand to him. Right now he was off speaking to some guy with an eye patch named Dayan, so Benny was sitting by himself twiddling his thumbs, but usually Hersch kept him company.

Benny glanced around the room. He recognized Golda Meir from newspaper photos. Up on the dais were Ben-Gurion and the other big shots of the provisional government. Behind them on the wall was a huge and brooding portrait of a bearded Theodor Herzl flanked by a brace of Mogen Davids. A lot of men up there did not look all that happy, and Benny, even if he was an out-of-towner, understood why. They had tried to postpone their country's independence.

Back in December of '47 the representatives from the
seven Arab states issued a joint statement that they would support the Arabs of Palestine with arms and money and that their own armies would attack the Jews upon the British evacuation. In March, just a few days after he and Herschel arrived, the Arabs made good on their threat. Syrian regulars crossed the border, moving against the Jewish village of Magdiel in Galilee. The battle lasted ten days and ended in stalemate. Haganah then staged a series of retaliatory attacks against Arab villages in the Jordan valley, dynamiting the homes of suspected ringleaders. To Benny the policy of demolition seemed needlessly cruel; Herschel said it was a trick taught to the Jews by the British, who used dynamite to tame rioters during the thirties.

In April, while he and Hersch were smoothing out the glitches in the assembly lines of the underground munitions operations, the Haganah attacked the village of Castel, just west of Jerusalem. That same month combined lrgun and Stem group forces attacked the village of Deir Yassin, also near Jerusalem. Hundreds of Arabs, men, women and children were massacred. The provisional government was so shocked that it actually sent a cabled apology to Transjordan even as Palestine's Arabs began to flee in panic from the Haganah units advancing throughout Galilee. Haganah also turned its attention to punishing the rebellious lrgun. Grenades were tossed into the midst of lrgun rallies. In an attempt to halt what Benny viewed a gang war, the two rivals, Begin and Ben-Gurion, drafted a series of truces, none of which lasted long. It was a bad situation, Benny thought, and typically Jewish.

The British went beyond freezing Jewish assets in their attempt to stack the deck in favor of the Arabs. Benny had seen them act like spoiled children, causing as much chaos as they could during their departure. All equipment and property that could not be handed over to the Arabs was destroyed. A nasty unofficially sanctioned
paramilitary group, the British League, had sprung up to terrorize Jewish civilians with grenade attacks and kidnappings, after which the victims were turned over to Arab mobs.

The British did their best to salt the earth as they left, but they did at last leave. The Jewish forces rushed to fill the vacuum. On the British withdrawal from Jaffa the lrgun, which had been massing just outside Tel Aviv, invaded the ancient Arab port city and drove out some ninety thousand Arabs. In Haifa days of street fighting culminated in a Haganah attack in the wake of the British departure. Seventy thousand Arabs were exiled, mostly to Lebanon. In the same manner Jewish forces grabbed all the rest of the territory granted to them by the UN. Of all the Jewish holdings, only the Ezyon Block—on Arab land according to the UN plan—had been lost. Jewish reinforcements had not been able to break through the Arab lines, while the airlifts had not been enough to keep the besieged settlements going.

As of today virtually all the territory granted under the partition plan, including Jerusalem with the exception of the Old City, was under Jewish control. It was Independence Eve, the British were gone and only a few thousand Arabs remained in Jewish territory.

And yet Benny could sympathize with those somber men on the dais who had begged Ben-Gurion to postpone independence and to accept Secretary of State George Marshall's recent offer to negotiate a truce with the Arabs. Their plan was to stall until the massive supplies of arms that had been purchased in Europe could be transported here, giving the new regular army a better chance when the Arab attacks did finally come. Marshall pointed out that President Truman was considering sending U.S. troops as a peacekeeping force but would do so only if the independence proclamation was delayed. If his offer was refused, Marshall warned, they would have themselves to
blame for bringing upon the Jewish people a second holocaust.

All this last minute diplomatic maneuvering threw the provisional government into turmoil. Herschel had been busy the last few days using what limited influence he had to lobby for a forthright declaration of independence. Benny figured Ben-Gurion thought the same way, for that point of view had prevailed.

Now the seven Arab states would definitely attack, and despite the best efforts of men like Herschel, there were still only enough weapons in the country to arm one in three would-be soldiers. The Jews had so far done well in separate skirmishes, but could they manage against sustained attacks from all sides? Just as important, would the two feuding factions resist turning their guns on each other?

Benny watched as Herschel made his way down the aisle to take his seat beside him. He looked happy about something.

“It's arranged,” Herschel whispered. “We're going with Moshe Dayan. It's not yet official, but he's been placed in command of the Jordan valley. The Syrians will invade there, and Dayan fought them during the Second World War.”

“Good for him,” Benny said. “Where are we going?”

“Remember I told you about Degania?”

“Sure, that's your home town.”

“Something like that,” Herschel chuckled. “Anyway, Degania is in the Jordan valley. My mother is there. It's where I wish to make my stand in the battle to come.” He paused, his expression growing serious. “There's another reason, Benny, one nobody knows. I have a score to settle with someone. He will be fighting with the Syrians, and he will also come to Degania, looking for me the way I am looking for him.”

“This guy's an Arab, huh? What did he do?”

“He killed my father.”

Benny stared. “I see. Yeah, sure. Degania it is.”

Herschel gripped Benny's arm. “Remember what I've told you. Now that the British are gone, the airfields are open and planes will be flying to transport arms. I can arrange for you to go to Europe if you'd like, Benny. You've no obligation to remain here.”

Before Benny could reply Ben-Gurion's gavel rapped, signaling the start of the ceremony. It was four o'clock.

“Think about what I've said,” Herschel whispered. “We must leave shortly.”

The ceremony was in Hebrew, of course. To Benny the language was so much coughing and duck-quacks, but he felt his emotions stir in response to Ben-Gurion's majestic tones and the fervor in the upturned faces of his audience. Now and again Herschel, visibly moved, would lean toward him to whisper a translated phrase.

The whole thing took a little more than half an hour. Then Herschel was grabbing his elbow, bidding him rise with the rest of the assembly as Ben-Gurion's gavel sounded a second time.

Cheers erupted in the meeting hall. Weeping, Herschel embraced him. “Benny, it's done. The state of Israel has come into existence.”

Radio transmitters carried the news of the ceremony to all parts of the infant nation and celebrations lined the streets of Tel Aviv. It reminded Benny, walking back to the quarters he and Herschel were sharing, of Times Square on New Year's Eve.

How he longed for New York, for home. Benny was walking alone. Herschel wanted to celebrate with some of the people at the ceremony, so Benny had excused himself in order to let Hersch enjoy the moment with his old friends.

Everywhere he looked people were laughing or crying
or linking hands to dance a joyous hora as if this were a goddamned wedding or something. He knew there were corners of Israel where the people were too busy fighting and bleeding to do much celebrating, and very soon the whole country was going to be in the same mess.

The Jews were outmanned and outgunned. The Syrians held the high ground in Galilee; Egyptian armored divisions were probably even now churning through the sands of the Negev; and the elite English-led five-thousand-man Arab Legion from Transjordan, was poised to storm Jerusalem.

The Jews had no artillery beyond a few handmade mortars and virtually no fighter aircraft. Until they received both, and shipments of small arms and ammo to supplement what Herschel's factories were churning out, the best the Jews could hope to do was to dig in and survive.

There would be women fighting in this war, and children. Herschel had shown him a classroom where the teacher was busy instructing the students on how to make Molotov cocktails. He could just see those kids pitching their little gasoline bombs at Egyptian tanks. He wondered how many of them would blow themselves up too.

Talk about long odds—if Benny had known the where-abouts of a bookie, and if he'd had any money, he would have put every dime on the opposing team.

As he paused on a street corner a girl in khaki shorts and a cotton blouse threw her arms about his neck, kissed him on the lips, said something in that damned Old Testament language and skipped away.

Benny watched her go, admiring her legs, although otherwise she wasn't his type. He preferred them with a future.

He dug the news clipping out of his pocket to look at it for what was possibly the hundredth time. It had come from none other but
The New York Times
.

Back in April the British cut off all mail and telegraph service to Palestine, and regular deliveries of anything, let alone periodicals, had not yet resumed. Herschel sensed how homesick Benny was, however, and had gotten him the rather dated but still complete copy of the
Times
from a pilot newly arrived from the States. Benny read the old paper from cover to cover and found the news item buried in the paper's second section. “Reputed Mobster Arraigned,” the headline read. Stefano de Fazio, it seemed, had been arrested for racketeering, extortion and income tax evasion.

The paper was a month old when he got it. It meant that likely Benny was off the hook and could go home if that was what he chose to do.

He was through with Dolores, of course, and he doubted she'd let him get close to the kids, but he could be back on top in no time—if he returned, and why shouldn't he?

Okay, it would mean taking a powder on Herschel right when he could use some backup, going up against that guy who'd iced his old man. And it would mean deserting those kids, some no older than his own boys, who were filling bottles with gasoline and shoving in wicks torn from rags.

Kids against tanks—holy shit.

Maybe he would stick around, but just for a little while. As a kid he'd built up his own reputation leading a gang that defended against the roving Italian and Irish gangs who liked to bust Jewish heads.

That's what was going on here, Benny thought. Irish gangs or Hitler or these damned Arabs—what they all had in common was a desire to bust up Jews. He'd missed that scrape with Hitler, as Becky had once reminded him.

Getting killed in a war is a sucker's move, he told himself. Then he thought about the ceremony he'd just attended and how a tough guy like Herschel broke down to tears. He thought about this pipsqueak nation's chosen
colors, blue and white. It was a nice flag, and it'd be a shame to let a bunch of camel drivers trample it into the mud before it had a chance to wave.

He crumpled up the newspaper clipping but hesitated to toss it away. What's the point in being a hero? he asked himself a final time. Where's the percentage?

There was none, but he knew that he was going to stick around anyway. Besides, being a war hero would likely impress Becky.

This time he did try to toss away the crumpled clipping, but it stuck to his sweaty fingers. It sure was hot.

Danny watched anxiously, his hands jammed into his pockets, biting his lower lip to keep from yelling out dumb advice that would only distract the ground crew. Slowly, gently, the dismantled fuselage of the Messerschmitt was lifted with a block and tackle and gingerly swung into the cavernous hold of the cargo plane. That was his fighter they were loading, and as soon as they were finished packing the wings, guns and ammo, he would board the big C-54 to return to Israel.

His training at the Czech fighter base had been an adventure more out of
Alice in Wonderland
than
Tailspin Tommy
—including last night's surprise ending.

He left Israel—Palestine then—with several other volunteers. He spent a restless night at the hotel that was to be his home during his training, and the next morning they took a bus to the fighter base. They were issued overalls embroidered with swastikas and introduced to their instructors, former RAF pilots. To Danny that just added to the madness. The British who were not leading the
Arabs of Transjordan against the Jews of Israel were training Jews wearing swastikas to shoot down Egyptians flying British-supplied Spitfires.

The Messerschmitt was unlike anything Danny had ever flown. The big Daimler-Benz engine was powerful and smooth. Danny had his plane nudging three-fifty at full throttle. The Messerschmitt had a nice tight turning radius. Unfortunately, his baby also had some severe drawbacks. It took real muscle to control her. After a flight his arms felt like rubber and his thigh ached from riding the rudder bar. Visibility was horrible, and in a dogfight the first guy to see his opponent usually ended up the winner.

There were other problems. It was the devil to handle on the ground due to its narrow-track landing gear. Taxiing was a symphony of rumbling engine and squealing brakes as Danny struggled not to dip a gull wing onto the grass. It had no artificial horizon and no cockpit armor to protect the pilot, who sat smack on top of the fuel tank. It carried only two machine guns, mounted on top of the engine cowling, as opposed to the Spitfire's eight. It was true that the ME-109 was also armed with a cannon in each wing, but their rate of fire was very slow, considering that on average a pilot had an enemy plane in his sights for only two seconds. Besides, cannon needed cannon shells and, as Danny knew, Herschel was busy churning out machine gun bullets, not cannon shells. Israel-bound cargo planes would airlift in shells as well as spare parts for the ten Messerschmitts that formed the core of the new nation's air force, but Danny knew those cannon were going to be empty more often than not.