Mitla Pass - Leon Uris [55]
Evacuation
October 27, 1956
AN UNSEEN HAND swept over the land of Israel gathering up men from the fields and shops, from the offices and factories. A Hebrew code word spoken at news time over the radio sent men of a particular reserve unit scurrying to their homes where they took weapons from a locked closet, packed a bit of food, took their own winter coats and blankets, kissed the family goodbye, and headed quickly and quietly to the bus stop or hitched a ride. Units assembled in predestined secret places, a clump of woods, a kibbutz or moshav, or someplace away from the probing eyes across the border. It all took place in a silent, ethereal way without histrionics. Most of the reserve units were then moved into defensive positions along the border, freeing the standing army to go into the attack.
Transport was gleaned from city streets and highways. Vehicles were stopped at roadblocks, checked off a list, and the driver given a receipt for his confiscated car or truck. He continued on by hitching a ride. A good part of the bus system left the streets and highways to staging areas for the motor pools.
This was an army of poorly equipped militia which had to travel on the shaky wheels of aged buses, laundry vans, flatbed and stake trucks, ancient civilian automobiles, taxis.
Essential committees assembled all over the land and reviewed the emergency plans to keep vital services going with volunteer skeleton crews. This was the role of the older citizens. While the reservists were away the water had to keep running, the electricity humming, the schools and hospitals functioning, food supplies moving from farm to city.
The entire country moved in this ominous, silent, deadly rhythm.
AFTER LUNCH Gideon drove the jeep into Tel Aviv where Moshe Pearlman, a reserve colonel in the Prime Minister’s office had commandeered space over an auto agency and was in the process of converting it into the military press, censorship, and spokesman’s office. It was alive with activity, laying in as many new telex lines as possible.
Gideon’s literary agent in New York had again failed to come up with assignments, so he sent a dozen telex messages on his own to the newspaper syndicates asking for work.
From there, Gideon drove to the defense complex and turned in his jeep for the duration, then hitched a ride back to Herzlia. Valerie and the girls were making a game of putting blackout paper over the window.
In their neighborhood, mostly consisting of South African Jews, the men had simply disappeared. “You and Mr. Zimmerman seem to be the only men left,” Val said. “What do you think, hon? Is it going to blow over?”
Apparently the CIA didn’t think so. Gideon shrugged. “I’m not worried,” he lied.
Gideon kept a typewriter at home and took a whirl at writing. After a dozen crumpled pages hit the trash can he gave up.
“Switchboard at the hotel is shut down,” he said. “I’m going to run over to the village and make a few phone calls.”
As he jogged toward the village center, Gideon’s mind went strangely to something other than the call-up of the reserves and the deteriorating situation. He was thinking of his meeting with Rich Cromwell and particularly the stinging words about him and Natasha Solomon.
Back home in L.A., Gideon had always managed his extracurricular affairs with discretion, or so he thought. He controlled them from start to finish, never crossing a certain line of involvement, always pulling out before it became too serious.
“You’re a rotten bastard, Gideon,” a young actress had told him. “You deliberately make a girl fall in love with you then you let her down, always the gentleman. And you run home and pull the drawbridges up.”
Gideon had arrived in Israel determined to stay clean. Israel, he discovered, was quite sophisticated about bed hopping, General Dayan being the most prolific lecher in the country. Even Ben-Gurion was rumored to have a mistress, now and again.
Well, he hadn’t planned to fall in love with Natasha, but he did. For the first time in his life,