One Generation After (16 page)

“Your tale,” I tell him, “had a certain dimension—forgive me if I insist—a religious dimension.”

He stares at me in mock exasperation. What was I trying to prove? Now it’s his turn to question me: “Did I speak of God?”

“No.”

“Of the Bible?”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Did I discuss problems other than those relating directly to the fighting? Did I preach faith? Did I quote the Torah?”

“No.”

“So you see! Your question is absurd. Ask anyone you want, but not me. All I did was tell a story. Mine.”

True. But what a story! There is prophecy in it, and the more I listen to it, the more I like what I hear. Feverish preparations, mounting tension, orders and counterorders, terse telephone conversations, errands, details, muffled voices and hurried steps in the night: the final stage before the first attack. Gripped by a boundless fervor, disobeying orders, heedless of danger, every paratrooper in the battalion wanted to fight in the front line, at the very eye of the storm. The colonel led the way. His driver, a giant named Ben-Tzur, kept jamming the accelerator to the floor, yet Motta Gur was shouting: “Faster, Ben-Tzur, faster!”

Once they were forced to stop because of an overturned Jordanian motorcycle, probably mined. “Ben-Tzur, what are you waiting for? Keep moving!” There was no mine. At the entrance to the Old City, a half-open gate, perhaps a trap. “Go on, Ben-Tzur, move!” It was not a trap. Jumping out of the jeep—useless in the narrow alleyways—the colonel started running with the others, ahead of the others. A wild, insane race. Shells ripping through the waning night. Men blown to bits. The wounded among them moaning and crawling ahead on their knees. The paratroopers were running from street to street, from turret to turret, propelled by an irresistible, unrelenting force, every one of them obscurely aware of having lived for this moment, for this race. And suddenly, over the deafening clangor, Motta Gur was shouting his report to Headquarters: “The Har Habayit is ours! Do you hear me? The Temple Mount is in our hands …”
And everywhere, on every front, in every home, officers and soldiers, children and old people wept and embraced. And in those tears, those explosions of feeling, there was an element of the unreal which made the event unique, and changed all those who lived through it.

“You make it sound too poetic,” says Motta Gur. “I don’t buy that.”

“In other words, for you, this was just another episode, another battle among many?”

“I wouldn’t go that far … After all, it was Jerusalem, wasn’t it? But … why are you laughing?”

“And in what way was Jerusalem different from any other military objective?”

“Jerusalem was not just a military objective. It was something else. Jerusalem is … Jerusalem.”

“And what makes Jerusalem … Jerusalem?”

“Its history, of course. It’s Jewish, isn’t it? It touches me. It concerns me.”

“Jericho too has a history linked to ours. And so does Hebron. And Gaza. And Bethlehem.”

“Your comparisons are boring. Jerusalem defies comparison.”

He has fallen into the trap. Here he is, expressing himself in mystical terms. He realizes it and falls silent. As for me, I visualize again the unforgettable: his paratroopers in front of the Wall.

“Your men were sobbing like children. And you? Did you cry?”

“No.”

“You didn’t?”

“I arrived at the Wall somewhat after my advance unit. I was busy elsewhere. The battle had to go on.” And after a silence: “And then … I don’t like ceremonies.”

“None?”

“I like simplicity, spontaneity.”

Should I now express my view that he would have liked the encounter with the Wall for precisely that reason; for its disorder and total lack of stagecraft? No need for words. He knows. Because, once more, he is on the defensive:

“Let’s change the subject, shall we?”

“No.”

He shrugs his shoulders.

“All right,” I say. “We won’t talk about the Wall. Let’s talk about something else. The Temple Mount, for example. You were the first to get there, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” he says, stiffening again.

I look him straight in the eye and ask: “Were you moved?”

“I’ll let you guess.”

“Moved … to tears?”

“I didn’t cry.”

“You didn’t?”

“Stop bothering me, will you? I don’t believe in tears. Period.”

“Just the same, try to remember: standing there, on the reconquered Mount, what did you feel? Pride? A sense of victory? Nostalgia, perhaps?”

“Let’s say: a feeling no words can express.”

“Try.”

“One must not speak of things one feels deeply.”

“Then, what should one speak of?”

“Nothing.”

“I don’t agree. Whosoever survives a test, whatever it may be, must tell the story, that is his duty.”

Motta Gur reflects and acquiesces reluctantly: “Perhaps. You may be right.” His eyes half-closed, he seems to be rummaging in his memory. “You may be right, but I could not satisfy your curiosity. I could not define the feeling that swept through me at that particular moment. I only remember how deep it was. Never, in all my life, have I felt anything so powerful, so exhilarating.”

Then he lowers his voice to tell me his dream.

A dream which, after 1948, was to haunt more than one Jewish fighter: to recapture what was once the capital of the Kingdom of Israel and reunite it with Israel’s destiny.

“For twenty years, always and everywhere, I was preparing myself for that certain day, that certain battle. You see, when the Old City capitulated, I was posted in the Negev. And I promised myself one thing: the next time, at the first opportunity, I would be the one to lead the assault. One day I even said it—jokingly—to Chief Army Chaplain Shlomo Goren: ‘You stick with me and I guarantee you will see the Wall again before anyone else.’ When we met in the Temple court, in front of the Wall, he reminded me of my promise.”

“But you, had you forgotten it?”

“Forgotten it? You’ll laugh, but I never doubted I would keep
my pledge. Listen: just a few days before Monday, June 5th, I suddenly decided it might be useful to take my staff on an inspection tour of Jerusalem’s outposts. When, in fact, we had no business there. According to the plans, my objective was a point behind the Egyptian lines, to the south and rather far.”

“How, then, do you explain this improvised inspection?”

“I can’t. Not even to myself. I felt like going to Jerusalem, so I went. To see. To familiarize myself with the terrain. You never know what can happen; it’s best to be prepared.”

And then all hell broke loose in the desert. Israel had been fighting for several hours, yet Motta Gur and his paratroopers, though in a state of alert, still did not know that they would be assigned the privileged task the government itself hesitated to envision seriously. It all depended on young King Hussein: would he adopt a “wait and see” policy or would he open a second front? By committing the most fatal error of his reign, the Jordanian sovereign invited Motta Gur and his troops to enter history.

“And you were sure of victory?”

“I was.”

“From the beginning?”

“From the beginning.”

“You never doubted it?”

“Never.”

And he explains: he knew the respective strengths of his own men and the enemy’s. The Jewish soldiers were better trained and motivated; for them it was a matter of defending their children
and their homes. They could be trusted never to give up without a fight, nor would they ever retreat, leaving behind functioning tanks and cannons.

“Would you say they’re fearless?”

“Everybody experiences fear sometime.”

“You too?”

“Yes. I too.”

“Fear of suffering? Of dying? Of dying one hour before victory?”

“Just fear.”

“Does it make you feel ashamed?”

“Not at all. Fear is human. Even if I could discard it, I don’t think I’d want to. It’s the price I want to and must pay. However, it is easier to overcome by putting yourself on the firing line rather than sending your men, your comrades. Many times I would have preferred to be with them or in their place. I would imagine them wounded, disfigured, and envy them their fear.”

Abruptly he falls silent, a vision of horror in his eyes. This hardened officer, who wishes he were made of steel, worries about the fate of his soldiers to the point of pain, of tenderness. In mid-battle he remembered a captain he knew to be profoundly religious. Imagining what his joy would be to see the Wall again, he dispatched him on the spot: the captain arrived there before his commanding officer.

“Strange,” says Motta Gur, wrinkling his forehead. “Though begun as a strictly military operation, the conquest of Jerusalem changed character. Suddenly, the way we fought was different: we were different. Overwhelmed by a feeling at once new and ancestral, we understood that our true objective was
no longer the taking of this strategic position or that important network, it was the liberation of history itself. We were on our way to keep an appointment, and we went running, breathless, our hearts pounding …”

But above all, don’t tell him that he expresses himself more like a storyteller than a soldier. Tell him that his tale is inspired, and he’ll fly into a rage.

“You’re really mad! Inspired, me? I’m not even religious and certainly not observant! Haven’t I said it often enough? If from time to time I happen to go to the synagogue, what does that mean? That my children go and I accompany them. And what does that prove? Nothing, except that I fulfill my duty as a father …”

No, Motta Gur is not religious, at least not in the usual sense. If I detect ancient sounds of legend in his narrative, is that his fault? If I hear echoes of the Talmud in his tales, is that his fault?

“Listen,” he says, and now he is really upset, “don’t let your imagination run away with you. Understand? I have told you once and I’ll tell you again: I fought a battle, that’s true. But I only did my duty as a soldier and as a Jew. And now, here with you, I’ve done nothing but tell a story. Mine.”

Wrong! It is also the story of a dream. His, ours. And the dream transcends the story.

You are concerned. That is what you told me when last we met. Concerned about the situation in the Middle East, naturally. So am I. Concerned and troubled. The future seems forbidding. Cease-fire violations, artillery duels, sabotage and reprisals, night raids, assaults and bombardments: violence negates inertia and fosters its own escalation. Too many mothers, on both sides, are in mourning. Too many young, on both sides, give their lives before having lived. Will, then, this curse never be revoked? I thought: We are friends, you and I, we share the same faith in friendship, surely we share the same fears. Except that you went on to say: I should not like Israel to become a power defined by its conquests, and yet that is bound to happen. You added: I would not like to see the young Jews over there developing a conqueror’s mentality and yet, barring a dramatic change, they may indeed be forced to acquire such a mentality.

And so, since we are friends, I write to reassure you. You are wrong to worry; you needn’t. The Jew in victory will not disappoint you: he remains unchanged, even under changing conditions. He may no longer be victim, yet he will never be tormentor. He will not try to break the will of enemies in his
power by means of gallows and/or humiliation. Victory, in the Jewish tradition, does not depend on defeat inflicted on the adversary. Every victory is first a victory over oneself. For this reason too the Jew has never been an executioner; he is almost always the victim.

Walk about on the Western Bank and you will feel neither the horror nor the pity inevitably inspired by European ghettos. No degrading images of hunger and desolation. The sick are cared for, the children fed. Also, people here are free. Free to go wherever they wish, see whomever they wish. The local dignitaries will speak overtly of their opposition to Israel: they know they won’t be punished. Just as they may listen to broadcasts from Cairo or Damascus, which day after day incite them to terrorism and rebellion. Do you know many examples of occupation forces permitting such practices? Do you know of other cases where the occupier encourages the occupied to maintain family, commercial and other ties with the enemy while still in a state of war? Go and see what is happening on the Allenby Bridge—where hundreds of residents shuttle daily between Hebron, Nablus, Bethlehem and Amman—and you will no longer compare the situation in Israel today with conditions that prevailed in German-occupied Europe.

Of course, you will answer me that, by definition, every occupation regime is saddening and fundamentally unjust. That is my opinion too. Only I feel compelled to add this: since for the moment the occupation is necessary, the form it takes in Israel is, I believe, the most humane and least oppressive possible. It is an act of bad faith to compare Israeli soldiers to Germans; theirs is another concept of man and his triumphs.

Why should you expect Jewish fighters to reveal a sudden thirst for power, for violence, when in the heat of battle they remained calm and sober? Why should you expect them to develop, belatedly, sadistic inclinations?