Tanner’s Virgin

I took a taxi to the airport. I couldn’t go home and I couldn’t go back to England. I couldn’t go to Kabul because the spies would tear me apart. I couldn’t go to India or Pakistan because it would cost too much. I had only three thousand dollars and that would be barely enough to buy Phaedra’s freedom. I couldn’t go to Iran because the only direct flights went through either Athens or Istanbul, and I couldn’t go to Athens or Istanbul for political reasons. I probably could have gone to Baghdad, but I wasn’t sure how seriously the Iraqis took my involvement with the Kurdish rebels. I probably could have gone to Amman, unless the Jordanians knew me as a member of the Stern Gang.

I felt like Philip Nolan, the man without a country. I felt like a displaced person, a refugee, homeless, unwanted-

So where I went was Tel Aviv.

Chapter 7

Tourists entering Israel had their passports checked at length. Their luggage, too, received careful scrutiny. I had no way of knowing whether this was a matter of routine or if the inspectors had been tipped off to some special circumstances, but it was obvious in any event that M. Paul Mornay’s Belgian passport would not get me into the Promised Land.

So Paul Mornay left the tourist line and joined another line composed of those pla

He gladly helped me, and in short order M. Paul Mornay had filed his preliminary applications for Israeli citizenship, stating that he was a Jew and had a Jewish mother, this last being Israel’s sine qua non of Hebritude. “So you see that we are stricter than Hitler,” the immigration officer joked. “With just one Jewish grandparent one could be admitted to Auschwitz, but one must have a Jewish mother to enter Israel.”

I’ve no idea whether the real Paul Mornay, aliveh sholem, had a Jewish mother. Neither of my own parents were Jewish, although I do remember dimly that a sister of my father’s had married a man named Moritz Steinhardt, at which point the rest of the family ceased speaking with her. I have never been wholly certain whether she was ostracized because her husband was Jewish or German.

But as I filled out the immigration forms I felt a sudden bond of kinship with Mi

I stood at the window of Gershon’s apartment and looked out at downtown Tel Aviv. “Many Americans compare our city to San Francisco,” Gershon said, “but I have never been there. Do you notice the resemblance?”

I did now. In the taxi from the airport, I could think only that the driver punished his cab like a New Yorker.

“I have spoken to Zvi,” Gershon went on. “You recall that he was with us in Prague when we first met you, Evan. He must stop at synagogue for his father’s yahrzeit but will be over later. You remember also Ari and Haim?”

“Yes.”

“Haim is with the Army in Sinai. It is months since I have seen him. And Ari. When you saw him, he still had both his legs. He lost one in the June war. His jeep took a direct hit, he was lucky to live at all. So now he has an administrative job in Hebron. A desk job, preparing orders for the management of the new lands of Greater Israel. It is no fun for him, as you can imagine. But there is talk of his ru

“In American politics, too.”

“I have heard this.” Gershon ran a hand through his thick black curls. “So much for old times. Zvi you will soon meet again, and the others must wait until your next visit. But you must be starving. I have an Arab girl who comes in twice a week to clean. She comes tomorrow, which accounts for the appearance of this apartment.” He shrugged. “But I must do my own cooking, and my skills in that area limit me to sandwiches. Are you a very close observer of the dietary laws, Evan?”

“Not really.”

“A bit of butter on a meat sandwich-”

“Would not bother me at all.”

“Thank God,” Gershon said. He returned from the kitchen with a plate of sandwiches on thinly sliced dark rye. I took a bite and looked at him.

“Zebra sandwiches, Evan. You have probably not had anything of the sort in America.”

“Never.”

“The flesh of the zebra is virtually unknown outside of Israel. It is said that zebra tastes remarkably like the flesh of the prohibited swine, yet the zebra parteth the hoof in obedience to the Mosaic injunction. These sandwiches, for example, may taste rather like ham sandwiches.”

“There is a remarkable resemblance.”

“The zebra is a heaven-sent animal.” Gershon’s eyes shone. “For example, a portion of his flesh when fried is an exceptionally good accompaniment to eggs for breakfast. They say that it tastes much like bacon, but of course I have no basis for comparison.”

I finished one of the sandwiches. “The, uh, zebras,” I said. “Are they imported?”

“Oh, no. The raising of zebras is a native Israeli industry. Yet perhaps because the breeders wish to protect their secrets, one rarely actually sees these fine black-and-white striped animals anywhere in the nation. However, on a drive through the countryside one might hear their characteristic cry from within one of their pens.”

“What sound do zebras make?”

“Oink,” Gershon said. “Ah, Evan, my comrade, one requires a Talmudic turn of mind to contend with life in modern Israel. Between the theocracy and the round-shouldered ghetto dwellers and the lice-ridden Sephardim, one has one’s hands full in letting the country take her place among the nations of the world. Do you know that there are fools who would return Sinai to Nasser and the Golan Heights to Syria? There are even those who would give back Jerusalem to Hussein. But not a square foot of territory shall be returned.”

“There is talk that Sinai and the west bank of the Jordan might be given back as part of a peace settlement,” I said.

“Peace?” Gershon sighed heavily. “Peace,” he said. “Peace is a bottle of beer, Evan.” This statement confused me until a while later, after Zvi had joined us, Gershon served us some local beer. The brand name was Shalom. “We have no need of peace, Evan. In what sort of war does the victor make concessions to the vanquished? Almost a year and a half ago, in June, after years of provocation, the Arab attack was crushed in a lightning war of six days. Now the deserts shall bloom and we shall have renewed living space for the Jews of the world who will return to their homeland. Who can even speak of peace? Every day there are new border incidents. The people grow strong with victory. They have a sense of their historic mission…”

The mind plays tricks, translating phrases from one language to another. Lightning war becomes blitzkrieg, living space metamorphoses into lebensraum. I remembered the Sternist oath I had sworn in a cold-water flat on Attorney Street, pledging to work for the restoration of Israel to its historic boundaries from Dan to Beersheba on both sides of the Jordan. The language of the oath, I realized, was somewhat inconclusive; Dan and Beersheba set the north-south limits, but just how far “Greater Israel” might extend east and west of the Jordan was subject to varying interpretation.