between
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TECHIEDENARI
star
and
the
cross
*
Lichtman
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CITADEL
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PROPERTY OF
The
University of
Michigan
Libraries
1817
ANTES SCIENTIA VERITAS

•
•MAY BE FOR THE ·TIME · TO·
INSCRIBEIT IN·A·BOOK THAT IT
נצחון
GEX
LIBRIS
PHILIP
SLOMOVITZ
מספרי. שרגא פייבל סלמביץ
עַתָּה בְּוֹא כָתְבָהּ עַל־לְוּחַ
אִתָּם וְעַל־סֵפֶר חָקָהּ
וּתְהִי לְיוֹם אַחֲרוֹן
לָעַר עַד־עוֹלָם:
ISAIAH 30:8
BARCUS 4
COME FOR EVER AND · EVER·
L..
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***..
!

:
:
between
the
star
and
the
cross


William Lichtman

between
the
star
and
the
cross
THE CITADEL PRESS
NEW YORK
828
20180 de
ZIADOS VARIETIE GRO
FIRST EDITION
Copyright © 1957 by William Lichtman. All rights reserved.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 57-9015. Manufactured
in the United States of America by the Haddon Craftsmen. Pub-
lished by The Citadel Press, 222 Fourth Avenue, New York 3, N. Y.


1
Stacks
Guft
Philips Slimnuts
12-3-68-
739199-291
To say that this book is entirely fiction, and
that all of the characters and all of the events
are merely products of the author's imagina-
tion, would be a slander against the dead. . .

IN MEMORY OF
My Sister Dorothy
AND DEDICATED TO A GIRL CALLED
Milly

..

between
the
star
and
the
cross

The night, Leon thought, was like some huge sponge heavy
with ink. And then, when this sponge was squeezed, as space
was now being compressed by the speed of his jet, it squirted
its thick murkiness at him.
For a moment he took a quick glance overhead, where the
small, canopied bubble of the F-86 sheltered him from the
Mediterranean night. Nothing. Only darkness. But he knew
that fourteen other jets were winging above and below in
flights of five.
And all were on their way to the Promised Land, to the
Israel of 1956....
Automatically, Leon gazed at his instruments, the numbers
gleaming at him boldly from the panel. His speed registered
six hundred miles per hour; his fuel was enough; and he was
flying at 30,000 feet. Again he computed what he already
knew. Since there were about 1,446 air miles from Rome to
Haifa, the entire flight would take over two and one-half
I
11
hours-three, to be on the safe side. They had left the Italian
capital long before dawn, had 'swung down the boot, past
Naples and Catanzaro and the Ionian Sea, keeping Athens
away off to the left. The Greeks were anxious, and there
were many itching fingers on the shore AA batteries. Ahead
of them lay Rhodes and Crete, the journey less than half
completed.
Leon knew that if they flew high enough and far enough
out they would be safe. Nobody would intercept the fifteen
jets. Besides, the agent in Rome assured them that everything
was "fixed"—all they need do was fly. At the most, Leon and
the other pilots had been informed, foreign nations would
think that they were simply a covey of Israeli jets on a cross-
country training flight. The Mediterranean was used to them
by now, although Leon could remember 1948, when things
had been different.
The silence kept pressing around him. He had left the speed
of sound far behind. For a moment, he thought of flipping the
radio on, then hesitated. There was no need; he would be in-
formed if anything went wrong. To take any unnecessary
risk, even if slight, would be foolish.
Once more he gazed around. These Sabrejets, he reflected,
had already proven their worth. The first American swept-
wing fighter to be hurled into combat, they had played havoc
with the notorious Russian MIG-15's in Korea. For two years,
American fighter pilots had used the Sabrejet, and later models
-the D, F, and H were still being turned out.
Leon grunted, then grinned crookedly. Too bad Popsie
couldn't have arranged for some H's to be sent to help Israel.
But the A models were good enough; the Israeli Air Force
would welcome fifteen jets, even if they were more than two
years old.
Almost lovingly, Leon tapped the panel, an expression of
fondness and superstition for the construction of the plane,
12
for its J47-GE engines, for its streamlined deadliness, for its
blazing speed which had set records of six hundred and sev-
enty miles per hour. The Gyppos, he thought, would have a
hard time fighting these babies. Let Nasser and the Arabs
have their tanks and their Czech-built jets!
Leon shifted, to ease himself, his thoughts swinging back
to the flight still ahead of him. It was almost like old times,
like the ETO, then the CBI, and then Israel after the World
War. How many planes? How many fights? How many
miles? How many heartaches?
He sighed. ...
"Here we go again!" he muttered, and he could not explain
whether it was with remorse or pride that he allowed the
words to escape him. He was flying a combat plane, and pos-
sibly into combat-if things got worse in the Near East. But
with this difference: he was going to stay this time. He
was not coming back. He would see Mildred again and—
Mildred....
The old pain, not unmixed with a longing excitement,
seeped through him slowly. How long had it been since he
had seen her? Would she want to see him again, talk to him
again? Would she.... He shook his head, refusing to allow
the image to form, the thought-picture of her mouth raised
to his again, her lips seeking his, her arms refusing to let
him go.
“Millie . . .”
It was almost a groan.
To be sure, Popsie had told him that she would expect him,
had, indeed, asked about him. But would he find her the same?
Had she changed? Was there another man in her life now?
Unable to help himself, he allowed the thoughts to crowd
the present from his life, to have the old memories, like the
silent and stealthy scouts of an invading force, creep up upon
him. While one half of his brain functioned, did what it had
13
to do to keep flying, the other half surrendered to the pull of
the years. Time streaked backward, faster even than the speed
of the jet. It rushed over him, overwhelmed him, the slip-
stream tumbling him over and over with its force. Images
rolled, tilted, skipped, hurled past him. . . the wars... Millie
. Dotty Mom... school... the Civil Service. ...
Then the old East Side days when he was fighting in the
Garden.
14
*1*
I was back on my stool on the left side of the ring, feeling
Whitey's fingers removing the mouthpiece so I could breathe
easier. I gulped the smoke-thick air hungrily, extended my
tongue for the honey-and-orange juice-soaked sponge that the
trainer flicked at me. My ribs hurt and there was an ache at
the back of my head. I was hardly aware of the crowd, which
was still screaming and applauding.
"What round?" I asked Whitey.
"Sixth," the trainer answered, carefully wiping off the
blood around my right eye, and then beginning to pinch the
edges of the cut together, the styptic pencil already skim-
ming around my brows. "Two more, kid. Just two more. You
got him on points already. You win this one and you get a
shot at a Garden semi-final. . . just hang on."
"Yeah." More than that I could not say. It hurt to talk. My
throat was burning, and my nose was clogged with blood.
Spears with burning tips seemed to be piercing my lungs. I
15
looked
up as Dr. Martini pushed his hand under my chin.
"Let's see that cut, boy," the doctor was lifting my chin
in his hand, the keen, wise eyes boring into the cut. Then
Martini dropped his hand, turning to Whitey. "I'm instructing
the ref to stop the fight any time," I heard the doctor say. "If
it is opened once more, I want this kid out of the ring."
"It's nothin'," Whitey muttered, his hands never stopping.
"This boy of mine has had it worse."
"Yeah?" Martini turned doubtful eyes back upon me.
"Kid," he asked kindly, "what's your name?"
"Leon Baker."
"Where are you now?”
"At Madison Square. Fighting an eight-rounder prelim.”
"What year is it?” Martini asked again.
I took a deep breath. "1939. November."
Martini's eyes were relentless. "Who are you fighting?"
"A kid named Rocky Aurora. A middleweight, just like
me. Used to live on the same block with me."
"Where do you live now?"
“Doc," Whitey burst in impatiently. “We ain't
time. The kid is okay I tell you!"
"Where do you live now?" Martini pursued.
"162 Forsythe Street, New York City."
"How old are you?"
got much
"Doc..." Whitey was almost screaming.
"How old are you, kid?"
Whitey was already slipping the mouthpiece into place. I
heard the buzzer dimly. Ten seconds. . . .
I blinked my eyes and shook my head. I had to think, and
it came hard. Let's see .. 1918 subtracted from 1939. . . .
"Twenty-one," I mumbled, my lips feeling thick and
puffed.
"Okay," the doctor said, lifting the strand of rope and slip-
ping outside the ring as the bell clanged. I felt myself pushed
16
from my corner, getting just a fleeting glimpse of Rocky
making the sign of the cross against his breast.
There it was again. The cross-sign. I wished I had time to
make my own hands move in the double triangle of the Shield
of David. Why not? I thought bitterly. Wasn't I between
those signs, always caught between trying to understand and
love the Christian and yet having to fight as a Jew? The Star
and Cross.
The crowd was howling, the overhead lights burned down
mercilessly upon me. Automatically, without thinking, I
raised my hands, blinking my vision into focus as Rocky
bounded into view, a confident, grinning Rocky, that left
hand already moving forward, snake-like, for the jab....
Rocky's a nice kid, I was thinking. I have nothing against
him. Knew him for a long time. East-Sider, like me. We had
even cracked a few jokes together in the dressing room before
the fight. Prelim boys didn't have their own dressing rooms.
Rocky's old man had an ice route-failing now because of the
new refrigerators-all the way from Cherry Street to Delan-
cey. No wonder Rocky wanted to help the old man out. Six
kids in the family, and Rocky the oldest. Needs that three
hundred for the fight. Same as I do.
Sudden pain stung at my mouth again, I winced and
ducked, grunting sharply as Rocky's right smacked into my
ribs. I backed away, no longer on my toes, my head folding
between my shoulders.
For six rounds it had been that way, both of us hammering
away at each other with no mercy. Two kids, knocking their
brains out, hoping to make a good impression so they could
move up and get into bigger money if they pleased the crowd
and the promoters. Hammering with wild, methodical fury,
as if we were deadly enemies and fighting for our lives.
I had tried to make myself angry during the first three
rounds, to imagine that Rocky was really my enemy. I had
17
.
struck, thinking that each blow was being pounded against
the frustrations of life itself. This one for Mom. This one for
the fate that had taken Pop away so early and placed him
in a cold grave somewhere on Long Island. This one for the
crummy place Mom and I had to live in now. The uppercut
for the fates that had sent me to that phony home for or-
phans... the right cross for the Depression, the lack of jobs,
the shame and humiliation of begging for work. That jab for
being forced to quit school... and the rights and lefts against
a destiny which seemed to mock and defy me. Why should
it be so hard to be a Jew? I wondered. Rocky's Italian-he
doesn't mind it too much when they call him a guinea bastard.
But when they tell me I'm a Jew-boy...
Fury blazed hotly in me again and I pivoted, ducked, and
coming up, sent my right flashing at Rocky's jaw. Again the
crowd howled but the echoes were lost and silent in my mind
now.
The dancing, sneering figure before me no longer was
Rocky Aurora. He was everything in life that I hated, feared,
and despised. Rocky was poverty, loneliness, frustration,
hatred and prejudice. Rocky was the man who had refused
to hire me "We prefer to have mechanics on our airline
who have an . . . er . . . more American background." Why
hadn't the son-of-a-bitch come right out and said it: "No Jews
wanted!" Rocky was the symbol of all the gang-fights on the
East Side, the slums, the stench and the smell of poverty and
want.
Rocky was the eight-ball, behind which I had always found
myself; Rocky was the gray in my mother's hair, the shadows
of want and unhappiness under my sister's eyes.
I did not remember hearing the bell or going back to my
stool, or even seeing Whitey jump into the ring, already
splashing water into my face. But the first words I did hear
were my own.
18
.
"Can't breathe, Whitey ... can't breathe.”
"And no wonder," I became aware of another voice, the
doctor's. "I'm having Freeman call the fight." Freeman was
the referee. "This kid is through for the night. The membrane
in his nose is all smashed. No wonder he can't breathe. He'll
get killed out there now."
I did not hear Whitey's protestations, hardly was aware of
the clanging bell, of Freeman informing all that the fight had
been stopped with Rocky winning on a TKO in the seventh.
Nor was I aware of Whitey's removing my gloves, slipping
the robe on me and then leading me out of the ring, under
the passageway to the dressing room. There, gagging on my
own blood, I fainted.
I almost fainted again when I came home and saw my
mother's stricken face as she beheld my battered features,
the nose puffed and swollen, the tremendous welts on my
cheeks, the black eye, blossoming like some obscene flower on
my face, the red and hot-looking ear. I tried to smile, to mum-
ble something, but I couldn't. I let myself be soothed by the
warm and familiar comfort of her body as she cradled my
head against her.
"No more, Leon. No more fights. No more, zindeleh."
Somehow I managed to hold out the money I had received
for the fight. One hundred and fifty dollars. Out of that, I
would have to pay Whitey his ten per cent, tip the old man
who took care of my locker, pay the next installment on the
new shoes and gloves I had recently bought at a local sports
store. Still, there would be enough left to pay the rent. At
least I had done that much.
"No more fights," my mother was saying again. “No more,
Leon. You hear? You promise?"
Dumbly, I nodded.
No more.
19
:
..
Within a week, I was well enough to start making the
rounds again. There was no word from the Civil Service
about the coming examinations I hoped to take. Once again,
I tried the airlines, coming out early to the field, hanging
around the mechanics, watching the big airliners land or take
off. As always, the sight of the big silver planes, so squat and
ugly on the ground and so sleek and beautiful in the air,
thrilled me.
At Connair I had one friend who told me there might be
an opening. "Sure, kid, sure," Sonny Dunn, a lanky, gray-
haired mechanic told me. "They got your application. I saw
to that. They're considering it. Your record is good. Gradu-
ate of Brooklyn Tech-that helps. I know you're nuts about
flying, but you gotta wait. We all do."
So I waited, waited a week, ten days and then was called
back to the personnel office. There, a fat, heavily made-up
woman smiled artificially at me. "We have considered your
application, Mr. Baker," she informed me sweetly, "but I am
afraid we have nothing definite to offer you. You see..." and
she paused, chewing the end of her pencil thoughtfully. Then
she looked up brightly. "Perhaps.
brightly. "Perhaps . . . and I know this is none
of my business, but perhaps you might put down something
else about your religion. You could say you are a Unitarian
or that you belong to Ethical Culture. You don't look like
a..." and she paused, hesitating.
"Like a Jew?" I asked fiercely.
"Why, yes," she smiled at me again. "With those blue eyes,
that blond hair and fair skin, you could be almost anything.
Let's be realistic, Mr. Baker. Jewish personnel, well, the air-
lines prefer not to hire them. Most of them turn out to be
troublemakers, want to join the unions right away, always
start organizing. But if..."
I did not hear the rest of it. I walked out of her office,
my face set in the old bitter and frustrated lines. Always
20
that one thing. Being Jewish. Why did it matter so much?
What was wrong with it? I thought of Shakespeare's play
in which Shylock says, “Hath not a Jew eyes . . . hands . . .
dimensions...?"
Near the hangar, Sonny Dunn was waiting for me. Sonny
took one look at my face. "No go, hunh, kid?”
"No." I looked up and tried to smile. "Thanks, anyway,
Sonny. When I get to be president of this line, I'll make you
chief mechanic." I smiled weakly again.
Sonny shifted the toothpick in his mouth. He stroked one
tanned and leathery cheek with a smudged fore-finger. In
the sunlight the big orange insignia of the company on his
coverall blazed like some queer, round planet.
“Listen, kid. There's one place you might try."
"Tried them all, Sonny. No go. They don't want Jew-
boys."
"This place might," Sonny answered slowly. "They're hot
for anyone who wants to fly or work with planes. They're
looking for guys, and don't care if they're Hindus or fire-
worshippers just so long as they can be useful around
a plane."
My eyes flickered with sudden interest. I didn't quite be-
lieve it. "Where?" I asked sarcastically, "in Shangri-la or
some place?"
"No, right here in New York. Fellow by the name of Clay
Evans was around the other day asking about guys who
wanted to fly. Gave me his address. Let's see . . ." Sonny
searched his pocket, came up with a folded and dirtied piece
of
paper. "Yeah... Clay Evans. Room 2312, Chrysler Build-
ing. Why don't you go and see him? Tell him I sent you.
I took the paper, looked at it doubtfully, shrugged, then
thanked Sonny again and walked away.
Clay Evans tapped the application in front of him. I could
see that it was the one I had filled out. Once more the mani-
>>
21
:.
cured fingers played a little tattoo on the sheet, the tiny
waxed mustache bristled. Then Evans looked up, his pale eyes
as frosty as ever.
"Right," he said. "Just one thing, Baker. Why do you
really want to join the RAF?"
"Because I hate Nazis," I answered. "Because I hate any-
one who kills Jews. It's as simple as that. And . . ." I took a
deep breath, "because I'm a little crazy about flying.”
"Right," Evans said again, his eyes never leaving my face.
"Just one word of advice, Baker. Stop wearing that chip on
your shoulder. Oh, you'll fight Nazis all right, but you'll have
to do it coldly and mechanically. When you're in a plane,
you can't get mad. You've got to keep your wits about you."
He grinned slowly. "So consider yourself in. From this mo-
ment on, you're a member of the Royal Air Force. I'll tell you
where to go and what to do. But remember, you can still wash
out if you lose your head and get mad in the beginning."
I did not wash out.
Receiving my training in Canada, I at last had what I
wanted. I was flying. And the best part of it was that it made
no difference who or what I was. There were other Ameri-
cans with me, and men who were Jews as well, but the great
leveling finger of war did not point at men with different
creeds. I was at Number One Y Depot, then England and
finally taking part in the gigantic Battle of Britain.
Mission after mission followed, but aside from the initial
fear of the first flights, the battle became almost routine, a job
that had to be done. In my vocabulary, I acquired a few more
words. Roger. Right. Hurricane and Spitfire.
And the 88's.
More than the war itself I hated the 88's. They spread their
puffing mushrooms of death everywhere. I grew to detest
them, to look upon them with loathing and to curse them
22
healthily with all the fervor of my young years.
There were moments, of course, when the acidness of my
earlier years ate into my conscience, especially when some of
the other RAF men taunted me and the other Americans
about the fact that the United States still remained neutral.
"Hey, Yank! When are the States coming in?"
It was a question I could not answer, not even when death
began to take its toll of my own class. Out of fifty-seven
men who had graduated from Flight School, there were only
seven of us left. The 88's had taken Potter, McGill and
Lehman, whose Jewish blood had joined that of his brethren
in Germany's death camps and torture chambers.
I felt proud, however, when America did join in the war,
and I took advantage of the offer to join the United States.
Army Air Corps which the RAF extended to all Yank fliers.
I was Captain Leon Baker now, beribboned and experienced,
a tested combat veteran who could not make love or drink
enough to erase the fear and pain and the inevitability of death
in his eyes.
So I flew again, thinking each mission was my last, wonder-
ing how I had managed to escape so far, especially that time
when I had been shot down over the Ploesti oilfields and had,
after three weeks with the Underground, been able to make
my way back to my lines. I had been decorated for that and
given a rest, but the thrill of flying, the fact that the war was
still on, thus making it an uncompleted mission for me, drove
me back to combat.
The war took me all over the world now, flying in the CBI
theatre, asking nothing of life save that I live. For the first
time, I became aware that I might see this conflict through
without having to pay for it with my life. And when peace
came, and the orders came out that there would be no more
combat, I was too stunned to celebrate.
The big day had come.
23
It was over.
But all I thought was:
What now, Leon Baker?
What now, Leon Baker:
What would I do now? Go back to Forsythe Street and
begin the struggle all over again? Back to the East Side, to
start the old rat race once more? I was tired, so tired; tired
of war, blood, planes. I wanted to live now, to live in peace,
to find a girl, a job, start to have my own family. But would
that be allowed me?
In the long bull sessions at the various BOQ's I had fre-
quented, the men all talked of the same thing-the GI Bill
of Rights, something that would give a man an education and
prepare him for a future. Nearly all were going to take ad-
vantage of it, save a few mercenary souls, who said they
would stay on in the East and fly for whoever would pay
them the most. Chiang's Nationalist China forces were ru-
mored to be ready to pay Americans for flying for them
against the Reds.
I would have none of this, although offers were made to
me. It was not that I was a political neutral; I was just too
tired for more fighting. Much as I loved flying, that inde-
scribably wonderful feeling of being all alone in your world,
far above everything, I nevertheless took my discharge, re-
turned to New York, Forsythe Street, my mother, and to the
search for what life might hold for me.
There were inexpensive courses at New York University,
courses in acting, writing and the coming thing, television. But
courses were one thing; quite another was actually getting
work in the field. My classroom work did not count as ex-
perience. Agency doors were closed to me, my scripts were
returned.
What now, Leon Baker?
I hit the airlines again, trying for a job. Surely an ex-Air
24
Force captain, with so much experience, with so many com-
bat missions and flying time, could get a job?
But wherever I went, I found the same story. It was tough
for pilots with all kinds of experience. Worst of all was meet-
ing the other men on my rounds, former friends, buddies of
mine. Many whom I had known in the war were now com-
petitors, fighting for the single job that was offered. Shame-
facedly, they looked away from each other, trying hard not
to remember the days when combat had made them comrades,
and the days now, when peace was creating rivals of them.
Vaguely at first, then with increasing frequency, I began
to hear of a new conflict in which my experience might be
useful. The pot was boiling in the Near East, in Palestine,
where the people of Israel were preparing themselves for a
life-and-death struggle with the Arabs and Egyptians.
I had been aware of Palestine before, but it had been a sort
of aloof and indifferent awareness. I had not felt part of the
struggle. Palestine meant some obscure thing called Zionism,
or the little blue boxes into which one put a few pennies at a
time, and which were collected by strange-looking men with
alpaca coats and bearded faces.
But now, as I made the rounds again, the words Palestine
and freedom began to assume a new and heady meaning. I
began to read more and more about the coming struggle,
aware of an excitement that stirred my loins and mind. The
people of Israel were struggling to be free. They wanted a
land of their own, one they could govern themselves. Think
of it! I told myself, the Jews would have their own land. No
longer would anybody be able to kick them around or insult
them. They would have their own representatives and am-
bassadors, their own army, and nobody could inflict shame
or hurt upon them.
But in my cynical, callous way, I tried to tell myself that
all this fervent patriotism was just an excuse to get into flying
25
again, to make money again. Not again, was I, Leon Baker,
going to be seduced by slogans and flag-waving. The Jews
wanted a land of their own and wanted to fight for it? Good!
Let them. But I, Leon Baker, was not going to have any part
of it.
Inwardly I knew that this was not true. I was cognizant
that all the cynicism I was vocally expressing was just to hide
my real feelings. I was more interested in Palestine than I was
willing to admit.
That was why, perhaps, I took part in the giant parade
down Fifth Avenue, with Jewish war veterans and others de-
manding that Israel be given its freedom and admitted to the
United Nations. There I met former comrades and colleagues
of mine, all wearing their uniforms and combat ribbons and
wings. But when I saw men approach them and ask them if
they would be interested in flying for Israel, I was astounded
by their half-joking, half-serious replies:
"You might get killed doing that, Mister!"
Somehow the day did not seem as bright and shiny as it
had in the morning. Somehow the glitter was gone, the drums
sounded hollowly, and the ribbons, wings and insignia flashed
less in the sunlight. Thoughtfully, and a little shocked, I re-
turned home, trying in vain to tell myself that the boys were
right: why should they want to get into fighting again, having
just returned from war? With less conviction I tried to con-
vince myself that Israel was none of my business. My real goal
was to get a job I liked, find my girl and start to live as a
person should.
I was, by this time, working in Civil Service, at a job I con-
sidered boring and routine, but one I needed to support my-
self and my mother. But, as the days went on, I found myself
thinking more and more about Israel, about what a homeland
for the Jews could mean. I began to read more and more
-
26
about Israel, finding my sympathetic interest growing and my
indignation flowering.
Despite my telling myself that it was really none of my
business, I found myself attending meetings in which help for
Israel was being solicited and discussed. At first I simply
listened--sometimes with amusement, sometimes with skepti-
cism-as the rather childish and impractical plans unfolded.
Then I found myself asking questions, never receiving ade-
quate replies.
Because of my more and more frequent attendances at
meetings, which were held to ask aid for Israel, I began to be
solicited for help, getting letters urging me to make every
effort to bring my experience and combat knowledge to help
the fighters for Palestine. These letters ranged from flaming
patriotic appeals to cold and outright offers of payment. All of
these, I at first ignored, my mind was not yet fully made up,
and I was still thinking of the conflict I'd just experienced,
still tired; sick of war and bloodshed. I knew from friends
who had answered some of the requests that many of the or-
ganizations were not bona fide or legal.
But I made up my mind after I met Sonia.
T
27
* 2 *
My meeting with Sonia Graham came in a place where I had
never thought of meeting anybody like her, and under cir-
cumstances which were embarrassing. In short, I found her as
the result of a subway brawl.
An old friend and neighbor, Jerry Morgan, had suggested
that we see the preview of a new picture which dealt with
flying and fliers at the RKO 86th Street Theatre. For want
of something better to do, I went along. I liked Jerry; we had
met in Europe and had gone through combat together for
more than a dozen missions before he had been hurt. Jerry,
as I jokingly remarked, looked more "Jewish" than any Jew
I ever knew. Although he was Welsh-he claimed he had
thousands of relatives in West Virginia-his swarthy skin, his
long, large and hooked nose, his black hair and dark eyes im-
mediately brought to mind the caricature of the Semite. Jerry
had fought many a battle because of this; not, as he often said,
because he resented being mistaken for a Jew, but because of
the slurs made against the Jews.
28
The movie was no better, no worse than a dozen of its
kind. Its chief interest to us was that we knew some of the
stunt fliers who had participated in the big combat scenes.
We were still discussing the merits of the film, the pros and
cons, picking out its technical flaws, when we boarded the
downtown Lexington Avenue Express at 86th Street. At that
hour the train was empty save for two or three people near
the center of the car.
One of them caught my attention briefly, a girl, looking
very pretty but aloof as she sat there. I paid her no more at-
tention because Jerry was still arguing about the movie.
The train started. We raised our voices. We were sitting
about a dozen feet from the door. As the express picked up
speed to the next stop-Grand Central-the subway doors
opened and three young men came in. Jerry stop talking and
I followed his gaze.
All three were dressed in Eisenhower jackets with unfaded
patches where the stripes and shoulder insignia had been. Dun-
garees and Texas boots made up the rest of their costume.
They moved easily and lightly as they stood in the vestibule,
chewing gum and looking over the passengers.
“I smell trouble from that bunch," Jerry said out of the
side of his mouth.
I looked again at the trio. "From those three punks?” I
smiled. "Why, they're kids!"
"Haven't you ever heard that kids carry knives nowadays?”
Jerry began. Then he stopped. "Oh, oh . . . here it comes!"
Instead of seating themselves all together, the three young
men swaggered down to where Jerry and I were sitting. One
let himself down next to me and the end of the long seat. The
other two found places directly next to Jerry. Now, Jerry
and I were exactly between the three.
They all looked alike, in dress, way of talking, and swag-
ger-even to the slick, vaselined hair combed back into "duck
1.
29
:
tails." I was annoyed that they had decided to seat themselves
in this fashion and was about to tell Jerry to move with me
and find another place when the one at my left leaned over
and spoke to his two companions.
"Something smells funny here," he said, pushing himself
closer to me. He sniffed loudly.
"Yeah," the second one answered. "Can't figure it out." He
also sniffed.
"It doesn't smell," the third one observed. "It stinks.
Phew!" And he squeezed the nostrils of his nose together with
a grimy hand.
Jerry and I looked at each other but said nothing. The train
pitched on, giving one of those familiar jolts. It wasn't much
of a movement, but it was enough to send one of the boys
next to me sprawling all over my lap. It was deliberate.
"Watch it, bud," I said to him.
He looked at me as he moved away, a thin, cruel smile on
his lips. Then he called over to the other two.
"Hey, men! I found out where that smell comes from."
He pointed at me. "From him!"
"And him, too," the pair laughed, nodding their heads at
Jerry.
The train rushed past a station. I just caught the number
68 and looked at Jerry. "Come on," I said, starting to rise,
"let's go."
But before I could get up, the first young man, moving like
a cat, was standing before me. Before I realized it he'd pushed
me back to the seat.
"Where do you think you're going, man? To stink up the
rest of the car with your Jew-smell?"
"Yeah." The other two had risen and were standing over
Jerry. "He stinks, too. Look at the boy. Acting as if he owned
the world." They grinned down at Jerry, but their hands
were loose, their shoulders tensed and bunched.
30

t
Once more I tried to get up. "Look, fellows," I began,
"let's cut out this crap. Get out of the way."
"Let's see you make me, prickface." The gum-chewing
face was still leering at me. "Or are you too scared, like the
rest of you sheenies? Jews start a war and then are too scared
to fight... afraid they might lose their money."
"That means you, too, chop-cock," one of them said to
Jerry.
We looked at each other. Then I looked at them.
"Look," I said again. "Why make trouble? Who's bother-
ing you?"
"All Jews bother me, feller. Plenty!"
I looked again at Jerry, and he caught the meaning. I saw
his hands bunch together into a fist.
“Okay,” I said. "All Jews bother you. But we aren't. So
scram... you guys have been in the Army, haven't you? You
should know better than to start something like this. I was in,
too, and so was my friend."
"Where? In Pentagon Public Relations, at some nice desk
job?" he sneered. "That's where most Jews hid out anyway.
As for you, I don't give a shit what you did. If you don't like
us, try and stop us."
I sighed, nodded to Jerry, and then stood up. I got half-
way before I was slammed down in the seat again, and I heard
a slight scream. I stood up again, this time staying up. Beside
me, I caught a flash of action as Jerry's body lunged at my
side.
G
The first punk was easy. I pushed forward, butted him hard
in the gut and, as he doubled up, crossed over a right that sent
him reeling. I followed up on my toes, as he went back, slam-
ming home the clincher to his jaw. He reeled, staggered, tried
to stop his fall against one of the seats, and then slid to the
ground, looking foolishly at me... before he closed his eyes.
They were really screaming now as Jerry and the two other
31
.
...
young hoodlums were mixing up, rolling over and over in
the aisle, pitching with the train. The few people in the car
-the girl among them-had crowded close to the vestibule. I
saw one of them run from the car to the next in search of a
guard. But I was too busy to care much.
Jerry and the two were still rolling over, trying to get a
hold, striking with fists and legs. I looked for an opening and
dove down, grasping at some of the greasy, slicked-down
hair. One of the attackers, the second one, grunted and turned
over to face me. His Texas-booted foot caught me square
under the eye.
Planets wheeled before me, stars flashed as I reeled back,
trying to catch my balance. The other was on top of me in a
second, trying to use his left fist, which had a huge ring on
it, to cut my face. I did not want to box with him, and dived
at his legs. We went down together. Thin shrieks rang
through my mind as I fought for a hold. The pitch of the
train was slackening as I finally secured a good grip on the
other's crotch. I squeezed and then, as he cried out and let
his arms go slack, I freed one arm and let him have it right
on the nose. Blood splattered everywhere, and I did not know
which was his and which was mine, from my cut eye.
Somehow he managed to struggle up, and I was after him,
crowding him to the door, where Jerry and the third one
were battling. The train had come to a stop now, the door
opened suddenly and the four of us, all entwined and en-
tangled, went sprawling out on the downtown platform of
the Lexington Avenue IRT.
I was raising my fist again when I felt my arm being jerked
back. I looked around and then grinned as I saw the blue
uniform of one of the Transit policemen. With him were two
others, already pulling our attackers off the heap.
"Okay, okay... break it up." We were jostled and pushed.
One of the policemen was sweating slightly, the beads run-
32
"
ning into his blue collar. "You guys want to rest up a bit,’
he was saying. “And we've got just the place for
began shoving me.
you." He
"Just a minute, officer..."
We turned at the voice. I recognized the girl who had been
in the car with us. "These two," she pointed at Jerry who
was trying to stop the bleeding at his nose, "are not to blame.
These three kids started it all. They began the fight. They
were molesting everybody."
"Yeah." A male voice broke in. "The city ought to get rid
of these juvenile delinquents.
""
I saw one of the policemen pushing my first opponent out
of the car. "Him, too," another voice, a woman's said. "These
three are all to blame. Those other two men tried to prevent
a fight but the punks wouldn't let them."
The cops stood looking at each other, at us, at the three
boys, one of whom was sniffling slightly. The first police-
man turned to me. "How about it?" he asked. "Did they start
the fight?"
•
"You heard the people, officer." I tried to grin.
"Let the two men go," the second woman insisted. "It was
not their fault at all." She looked at me. "If you want, young
man, I'm ready to go to court and swear you were not to
blame."
"Lady," the first cop said, wearily, "nobody is going to
court . . . unless charges are made, right here and now." He
peered at Jerry and me. "What about it? You want to bring
charges against these three?"
Jerry and I looked at each other, then at the policeman. We
both shook our heads at the same time. The Transit officer
shrugged his shoulder. "Then we have to let them go," he
said. "You sure?" he asked me once again.
"And I'll go to court with you, too, if necessary," a familiar
voice broke in, a younger voice, very indignant and
yet soft.
33
24
I turned around to look. It was the young woman who had
been in the car. I blinked once or twice to clear my vision.
I took a better look at her now.
She was, I saw, as well stacked as the proverbial GI house
of bricks. Her eyes were a deep, almost blackish-blue, the
hair over her shoulders very blonde, the cheeks and chin soft
and feminine, the nose pert. In short, a dish. With class, I
told myself.
"It won't be necessary," I smiled, or tried to. "I'm all right
and I guess," I looked at the sorrowful-looking three
punks, "they've learned their lesson."
The second cop spoke now. "If you want to go to a hos-
pital," he said, "that eye looks cut...'
"I don't think so," I answered. "I'll be okay."
""
The cops began to break the crowd up and the three trou-
ble-makers slinked at first, then started to run up the stairs.
Jerry and I looked at each other, grinned, and began to walk
away when a touch at my elbow stopped me. It was the girl.
"If you want to . . . if you think it's okay, I mean . . . if
you don't think . . ." she flustered. She looked very pretty
as a slight tinge of color came into her cheeks. "I don't live
far from here . . . and if you and your friend would like to,
we can stop in my place. I have bandages and salve . . . and,
well. " she still seemed embarrassed but her eyes were
steady. Almost pleading. Inviting, I thought, feeling a sud-
den excitement.
I turned to Jerry. "Okay? Shall we accept the lady's
invitation?"
"My name is Graham," she smiled. "Sonia Graham."
"And this is Jerry Morgan, and I'm Leon Baker-what's
left of me."
Her smile widened. "You seemed to know how to take care
of yourselves. But maybe now, you need someone to take
care of you?" Her eyes had boldened.
34
►
Well . . .” I looked at Jerry. "What do you say, Jerry,
you game?
""
Jerry wasn't dumb. He looked at her, looked at me, passed
his eyes over her once more. "I'll come in the cab as far as
you go, Miss Graham, and then I'll go on home."
"Oh, it will be no extra trouble, I assure you," she broke in
quickly, but Jerry shook his head. "I'm kinda pooped," he
said. "Besides, I've got a good nurse at home. My wife.” He
smiled at her, and it was the biggest lie I ever heard Jerry tell.
She looked almost relieved, I thought, and to tell the truth,
so was I. Jerry was a pal, to be sure, but in times like this
well, I thought of the old adage of two being company
and three a crowd. She shot me a quick glance, and I guess she
was thinking of the same thing, because she smiled. Not at
both of us now, but at me. Just me, as if we shared some
secret.
The crowd had completely scattered and we began walk-
ing toward the exit, molested by no more than a few curious
stares. I put my hand under my eye. The cut was small and
had already started to clot. I felt better at once.
All the way to Sonia's place, I said nothing more.
As the taxi rumbled southward to Gramercy Park, I sat
in the corner, not adding to the light conversation Jerry was
trying to make. When the cab finally stopped, Jerry remained
inside, saying goodbye to her and that he was going on home.
He muttered an embarrassed goodnight to Sonia, and mum-
bled, "See ya tomorrow, Leon," as the cab moved away.
I followed Sonia into the lobby, waiting with her as she
pressed the elevator button under PHC-"Penthouse, Center,"
she explained. "The place costs me a fortune, but I like it and
wouldn't live anywhere else, even if I do overpay."
As the anger withdrew from me, I had a chance to regard
the girl and my surroundings more closely. In the elevator
35
she seemed to look prettier than ever, almost beautiful, I con-
ceded, although her face was a little too babylike, a little too
freshly-scrubbed for true beauty.
As for her apartment, I decided quickly, she was right.
Three rooms, the largest of which was the living room. A few
pictures, with her initials on them, on the walls. A bookshelf,
low and running the length of three walls, a tiny kitchenette
and bath. Despite myself, I found my eyes roving over the
sofa-bed, now neatly and tightly made.
She led me out on the terrace, and with pride showed me
the city that spread south and north of us. "This is the real
reason I like this place," she said, indicating the jeweled ex-
panse that was Manhattan at night. I could see all three
bridges, the Empire State, the broad, flickering band that was
Fourteenth Street. And, somewhere beyond that, in the dark-
ness, is the lower East Side, I mused, where I was born and
bred.
While I obeyed her, stretching out on one of the wrought-
iron, garden furniture chairs, smoking a cigarette, she disap-
peared back into the apartment. From time to time, I saw her
shadow against the little kitchenette window, then on the
frosted one from the tiny bathroom. I heard the tinkle of
bottles and the sound of water. When she finally came back
onto the terrace again, I saw that she had changed into a
yellow, tightly-wrapped housecoat, that set off her eyes and
hair. In her hands she carried a tray upon which there rested
two cocktail glasses, a moistened face cloth, some bandaids
and a bottle of mercurochrome. "Spilled some of the mercuro-
chrome on my dress," she explained, "that's the reason for the
change. Here, let me . . ."
Carefully and tenderly, she used the washcloth to wipe the
blood and grime from my face. When she started to fuss with
the mercurochrome and bandaids, I stopped her, telling her
I wouldn't need it. "I've had worse than this," I smiled, taking
36
the Martini she handed me. "I used to be a fighter." I waited
for her to raise her drink to her lips. "And here's to bigger
and better battles," I smiled.
We drank in silence. She set her glass down, but I kept
toying with the slender stem of mine. "You're English, aren't
you?" I finally asked. "That accent.
יי?
She nodded brightly. I liked her smile and I also liked the
way she sat, straight and yet in a provocative way, so that her
full and heavy breasts seemed part of the movement.
"On both sides," she confessed. "My mother is dead. Father
is in the import-export business in London." She named a very
fashionable residential district as her home, a place I remem-
bered from my London years. "During the war, I met one of
your soldiers, a flier."
I looked up with interest. "Anybody I might know?" I
asked. "I spent a little time in the RAF before transferring
over to the Air Corps."
"He was a Yank navigator," Sonia replied, more slowly
now.
"With the 8th?" I asked.
"No..." Her answer was much quieter now. "We were
married in London before he was shipped to Italy. He was
shot down near Naples . . . then . . ." she took a deep breath
again, "I went to art school for a time, sold some things, and
as a GI bride, came to the States. Been working ever since for
Park and Plaza," she finished. "As a cartoonist," she added.
I frowned, feeling the anger rising thickly and hotly in
my throat, surprised as she reached out and touched my hand.
"I want to thank you for what you did tonight," she said.
"It was a gallant gesture."
It was on the tip of my tongue to say I would have done
it, gallant or not, but thought better of it and let it pass. If
she wanted to think of me as a hero, let her.
She studied my face, then a faint trace of laughter was
37
etched on her lips. "I don't want you to think that every man
I meet is invited up here," she said.
The sigh that escaped my lips was mingled with cigarette
smoke. If she was going to use that old standby, I thought,
I felt like leaving. Suddenly, the night, the girl, and all that
had happened, seemed empty and meaningless. The familiar
old restlessness, the frustration and anger weighed me down.
"I know,” I answered, "they only come up here hoping you
will learn how to make cheeseburgers." I smiled at her again,
but there was no mirth in it.
For a moment Sonia regarded me gravely. Then, twisting
her glass aimlessly, she answered, her voice low, "If that's
the way you feel, you might as well go now."
Without a word, I arose, stubbing out the cigarette in a
tray. She watched me, and I wished the light were better so
I could read her eyes. But when she made no move, I started
for the door.
"Thanks for the invitation, the Martini and the story
of
your life,” I said. "Maybe if we meet again, I'll tell you mine."
I paused, a little ashamed of myself. It was not her fault. Why
should I be bitter to her? "I'm sorry," I said. "But I mean it.
Maybe some other night. And I will tell you about my life.
I'm finishing chapter one now, and am about to start another,
only I don't know how to begin."
To my surprise, she placed her glass firmly down on the
table, rose and walked over to me, standing very close now.
I was immediately aware of the nearness of her, of the deli-
cate and subtle fragrance of jasmine and some other scent I
did not recognize. The way she moved and stood close to
me, the sudden spread of her nostrils told me with unerring
instinct that the curtain was about to go up on an old, old
drama
She kissed me, her mouth open and sweet, her tongue cling-
38
ing against my palate, searching in a frenzied softness. Then
she withdrew her lips and smiled at me.
"Why don't you start writing now?" she whispered.
She shivered once as my arms closed around her, as I
brought her body closer still, to let her know. . . . She made
no resistance as I picked her up and carried her to the Holly-
wood day bed. She was inert, reserved, very much the Eng-
lish lady.
And then she became fury itself. . . .
When our still-swollen and heated flesh parted slowly, she
lay for a long time in silence, still breathing heavily. Then,
turning lazily to me, she asked, "You're Jewish, aren't you,
Leon?"
Her voice was drowsy now, far away, but her words
snapped me out of my own delicious lethargy. I turned on my
side to look at her. She, too?
"I am," I answered sharply. "Does it make any difference
... now?”
"Leon," her voice was mildly reproving. "I only . . ." she
paused. "I suppose you think I'm terrible?"
I sighed. Why must they all say the same thing, in the same
place, at the same old times? Was it guilt, shame, fear?
"Look, Honey," I said, "I don't think you're terrible. I
think you're good. But I don't like post-mortems on this
stuff. And speaking of post-after-don't you think you'd
better...?" I left the question unfinished.
Her laugh was definitely, delightfully wicked.
"You don't have to worry about that," she confided. “Un-
less the doctors are wrong, I just can't..." She let the words
trail off. I let the silence continue, until she herself broke it.
"Tell me more about yourself," she urged.
At first I was resolved not to tell her anything. But I found
39
.
}.
the words coming slowly at first, gradually pouring out faster
and faster, until my speech had become a torrent, irresistible,
cascading out of me although I wanted to stop. I told her with
increasing acrimony of my poverty-stricken childhood, of my
mother, of the slums I'd always known. I told her of the home
for children where I'd been sent, of my bitterness at not being
accepted as an equal because of my faith. In a few graphic
phrases, etched with acid, I spoke of my efforts to get into
aviation, my fighting days, the war. And then of my inability
to find that which I was searching for, a peace and quiet that
I might never know.
"Perhaps," I said heavily, "that is why I am interested in
this Palestine deal. Maybe there, the Jews will find their peace
and quiet. And, as a Jew, I might get some comfort from that,
knowing there is a place for us in the world after all. But,"
I said, savagely, "they just won't let us. Nobody wants us.
You saw what happened tonight. Multiply that a thousand
times the world over, add the British, the Arabs, the Egyp-
tians, yes,” I went on heatedly, "even America and American
Jews, and you have an ugly story."
I lit another cigarette. I was sitting up, the sheet drawn
around my body, uncovered from the waist up. She leaned
forward, examining some slight scars around my shoulders,
on my arms, and along my ribs.
"The war?" she asked.
"Yeah." I pulled hard on the cigarette. "My badges of
sufferance."
"And you think that if you knew there was a homeland for
the Jews, this would also make life a little easier for you?"
I remained silent for a time. And when I spoke again, it was
with a gentleness I had not used before with her.
"I don't know," I answered slowly. "I just don't know. I
only feel that way, and I may be way off base. But I fought
in a war. Why? Because I happen to believe in America, de-
40
spite depressions and oppressions and prejudices and exploita-
tion-and because I am a Jew, and hated those who would
exterminate my people. Maybe if Jews were recognized as a
nation, with their own government, their own army, their
own representatives the world over, such things as Buchen-
wald would never happen again. Did you ever see a concen-
tration camp?" I asked in despair.
"Only in the newsreels."
"Then you're lucky, Sonia, damned lucky."
"You don't have to tell me about it, Leon," she said softly.
"It's okay. I feel better when I do talk about it. I saw them.
And all I can remember of them, aside from the horror, is a
smell . . ." I ran my hand through my hair. "Not a smell of
bones or blood or anything like that. Of-" I groped for the
right expression. "Of terror and fear. I guess that's it. It was
still there when I saw it. I remember another smell like it
when I was a kid. The smell of poverty. Do you know,” I
asked grimly, "that poverty has its own kind of smell. . . ?"
In the dark, I could see that she was ready to answer, then
thought better of it and let the reply go unvoiced. I grinned
weekly at her. "I'm sorry,” I said, inhaling deeply, “that I'm
burdening you with my troubles. I usually don't talk so much
about myself."
"Leon . . ." Her voice seemed to have an edge of excite-
ment. “Listen. Whether or not you want to go to Palestine
to fight against the Arabs is none of my business. But maybe
I can help you get started."
"You!" My laugh was genuine and without sarcasm.
"No, really," she insisted. "Up at the office there's been a
man who has been trying to interest the editor in a series of
articles about the Palestine problem. He's been camping on
our doorstep for weeks. The editor is Jewish, you know, and
this man.
"Who?"
>>
41
"Well, he says he is a rabbi. Abraham Lesser. Ever hear of
him?"
"No."
"Well," Sonia continued, "he wants to raise money for
Palestine, selling articles and stuff. But he also told Park-
that's the editor-that he is looking for ex-GI fliers, because
he has a genuine deal in prospect."
I shrugged. "All of them have genuine deals, honey," I said
lightly. "I've examined a few myself. Most of the men in-
volved are dreamers or fanatics who don't, you should excuse
the expression,” I mimicked, "know their asses from their el-
bows on this."
"This rabbi says he knows where he can get planes. He
says he also has the money to buy them. All he wants is some-
body to go to the planes and examine them and see if they
are worth the money." She touched her hand against my
shoulder. "Why don't you try? What have you got to lose?
If the deal doesn't sound right to you, why then you can just
disregard it. I can get this rabbi's name and address for you,
and you can write to him.”
For a moment I was silent. Then I shrugged again. What,
indeed, did I have to lose? Besides, the deal, if ever consum-
mated, didn't seem so difficult. Just to inspect some planes,
expenses paid, too. And who knows, I wondered idly, but
that this might be legitimate and lead to something?
“Okay,” I consented. "Let me have the guy's address, and
I'll get in touch with him." For the first time I looked di-
rectly at her. "Why," I asked curiously, "did you bother to
tell me all of this?"
Her brows raised and lowered themselves in a gesture I
found almost pathetic. For a time, she made no answer. And
when she did, it was with a small flickering smile.
"Let's just say that I don't like men with chips on their
shoulders. It weighs them down too much," she whispered,
42
reaching out for me again, "and makes them appear bent and
misshapen. And you do have a wonderful body, Leon. Oh,
Leon, Leon!"
And, as her flesh closed around me and embraced me again,
it seemed that only half my body was there in the apartment.
The other half seemed to be soaring in space, and once more
it seemed to me I could hear the throb of engines and the
sullen barking of the 88's and the whine of the shells around
my plane.
43
* 3 *
The room was dingy, smelling of unwashed clothes and feet.
A naked bulb hung suspended from the yellowed and cracked
ceiling. A cot bed graced one end, a few chairs the other. A
small dresser took up the third wall. All four men in the room
shifted their feet uneasily and took care not to spill ashes on
the not-too-clean floor.
I was seated next to the man who called himself Rabbi Abe
Lesser, marvelling at the ascetic, almost gaunt, cast of his
features. The mouth was sensuous and full, made even more
so by the cinnamon-colored mustache and small beard below
the lips. The eyes were a watery brown behind the horn
rimmed glasses. Lesser was very thin, and his hands long and
slender. They looked fit for only one thing, I speculated, the
turning of smudged and worn pages of the Talmud.
The other two men in the room were known to me. Al
Schwartz and Steve Cohen had both been in the Air Force
with me, and were still living in New York. Al was a big,
44
burly, slightly uncouth man, who reminded me of Heywood
Broun, whom I had once seen. Al had been too large and too
heavy to qualify as a single-engine pilot in the war and had
been forced, complaining all the time, to get his flying time
in a B-24 Liberator bomber. Steve Cohen was lighter, both in
weight and complexion, with carroty hair and icy-green eyes
that served him well as navigator on B-29's in the Pacific.
Like myself, both ex-fliers had been summoned to this room
to discuss the possibility of aid to Palestine, but so far nothing
concrete had developed.
Lesser, adjusting his yarmalka or alpaca skull cap on his
unruly locks, cracked his fingers again nervously. "My breth-
ren,” he said, in a strange sing-song, "that is all I can tell you
for now. If you are interested, we shall discuss it further; if
not, you may leave here in peace, and may God bless you
for having come." He spoke in Yiddish.
Al and Steve exchanged looks, and it was Al who rose first
to his feet. "I'm sorry, Rabbi," he said, "but the proposition
is not quite what I wanted.”
Or, I thought bitterly, in other words, there isn't enough
money in it for you.
"Me neither," Steve added quickly. "Maybe we'll find some
other deal some other place... right, Al?"
"Right." Al looked down at me. "You coming with us,
Leon?"
I turned my cigarette over in my fingers, staring down at it.
"No," I finally said thoughtfully. "I'm hanging around. I want
to hear more."
Steve and Al looked at me sharply, then Al shrugged and
shouldered his way past Steve and through the door. Steve,
looking back once, winked at me, and then followed his com-
panion. The door closed softly, but not enough to hide the
rabbi's sigh.
"They are good men," Lesser said piously, “but perhaps
45
eyes
""
no spirit moves them." He stared at me, blinking his brown
in confusion. "Still they are Jews!" he protested. "They
should want to do something without thought of money.
“Rabbi,” I said, hunching forward, "have you ever been
in a plane... when somebody was shooting at you?"
Lesser rubbed his chin, tugged at his beard and then ad-
justed the yarmalka more firmly over his thick curls. “I see,"
he said slowly.
"No
you don't, Rabbi. If you did, you'd understand. These
boys are risking their lives. They want to be paid for it."
A wisp of a smile trembled the rabbi's lips. "And you?"
he asked. “You want payment, too?”
"Of course. But it's not the main thing. I'm staying here
because I want to hear the rest of your proposition."
Lesser poked a finger through his sparse beard, hoping
to find a strand which he could wind around a finger. He
failed, I noticed with amusement. "Then money alone doesn't
prompt you?" He blinked morosely again. "I can assure you
of this, however, there will be money, plenty of it, for you."
"I'm glad to hear that," I answered drily, "because I was
beginning to wonder. But, you're right in one respect. It's
not the money alone. It's . . ." I searched for the expression
"it's something I don't fully understand myself. I am a
Jew. I have been insulted, sneered at, jeered at, hurt because
of that. Maybe if the Jews have their own homeland, such
things won't happen to kids such as I was. Nobody will call
them foul names . . . and nobody will burn them in furnaces
or kill them in concentration camps."
The rabbi stared again, then nodded. "God is with you,"
he answered, “and I will now tell you what you can do."
The plan, when revealed, seemed fairly simple to me. In
fact, it was so simple and prosaic, that I felt a twinge of dis-
appointment. All I had to do was to go up to Canada and
check on some PBY-5A's that were there. Lesser said he could
46
deb
purchase one of the aircraft from a broker called Charlie
Nabb, and that the plane would be used in the fight for Israel.
“Okay,” I finally said. "I'll go. I'll take time off from the
job, I have plenty coming to me anyway." I hesitated. “Now,
as for expenses..."
The rabbi's hands spread in swift apology. "Unfortu-
nately," he said, "I have no funds as yet. I expect them in a
day or two. Meanwhile, you fly up to Canada and we will
reimburse you then."
"We?" I looked at Lesser.
He shrugged again. "There are two other men with me,"
he explained. "Of necessity, of course.
"Of course." I tried to hide my smile, figuring out how
much of a cut the other two were to get, how much this trip
would cost me, what with fare and hotel expenses. I wished
I could have more time to find out about the rabbi and his
background and who his two partners were. But it was too
late now; I had committed myself and I was determined to see
the plan through. After all, I told myself cynically, if you're
so hot for helping Jews in Palestine, so willing to fly and risk
death again after six years of warfare, why should you worry
about a couple of bucks?
The rabbi, as if sensing my thoughts, was eager to bring
the conversation to a close. He was ushering me to the door,
uttering prayers and praise which I hardly heard.
It was only when I was out on the street again that I dared
take a deep breath of fresh air.
""
The Canadian trip was a fiasco.
The PBY-5A's, when I checked on them, were in
very bad
shape, certainly in no condition for any immediate flight. Nor
could they, I judged, be able to make more than 125 knots.
Hell, I reasoned, a man could walk faster than that!
Even more ridiculous was the price asked for the plane-
47
twenty thousand dollars. From Montreal, where I was paying
the hotel bill and expenses from my own pocket, I wired
Lesser that the planes were no good and that the price was
robbery. I also asked for my expense money.
Lesser's return wire was almost frantic in tone, saying that
I should return at once to New York and forget about the
purchase. "Will refund expenses to you at end of month," the
wire ended.
Ruefully, I packed, paid my bill, realizing that already this
mission had cost me close to three hundred dollars of my
own funds.
In the city again, I made immediate contact with the
rabbi, who this time received me with less prayer and more
prose.
"I am sorry about Montreal," he said, "but this time we
have something better, something really definite. In Florida.
There's a plane there we would like you to check out for us."
You are a fool twice over, Leon Baker, I told myself, for
even listening. Get out of here and get out fast. These jokers
will never pay you and you're in the red already because of
them. But still...
"Florida is nice at this time of the year," I said, carefully,
"but awfully expensive."
"Money!" The rabbi made a face of disgust. "I told you
you needn't worry about money. It will be returned to you."
"When?"
"When, when, when!" Lesser exploded, his fanatical face
becoming flushed. "I tell you, you'll get the money. First
check the planes. There is a Bill Cones there who will help
you. He flies for an airline. If both he and you think the plane
is okay, then it is a sale. In the meantime," he said, giving me a
crafty look, "I thought money was not as important to you
as helping the Jews of the world establish their own country.'
""
48
"Okay, okay," I sighed, "but I haven't got any money for
a flight to Florida. At least let me have that much."
Lesser lifted his palms again. “All I can give you at the
present are my blessings," he smiled faintly. "Perhaps if you
go down to Mitchell Field and try to get a lift to Miami some-
how, perhaps that way
way...
""
The anger that had been churning within me for a week
now burst out in my face, darkening it, rising thickly in my
throat. I arose swiftly, knocking the ashtray off the table in
doing so.
"What kind of an outfit are you running anyway?” I
shouted. "You're already owing me, you're ready to shell out
hundreds of thousands of dollars, you say, but you can't af-
ford to pay for a flight to Florida. What do you want me to
do, stand on the runways and lift my thumb for a hitchhike
as the planes go by?" I moved closer to Lesser, towering over
him, glaring at the frightened face.
"My brother...”
"Cut out that crap!"
"My brother... ." Lesser began again, "hear me. You will
get your money. Just be patient. All right. All I can say is
that I'll see what I can do. I think I can get you a flight on
a non-scheduled airline. But go please go, it's very
important."
Slightly mollified, I sat down again, taking down the name
of the airline and who it was I should see. Lesser assured me
that all would be arranged for me.
•
In Miami both I and Bill Cones examined the ship Lesser
had in mind. It was another PBY-and why Lesser insisted
upon PBY's I could not understand. A bright yellow aircraft,
it would cost, I soon found out, about eighteen thousand
dollars.
49
.
:
:
With Bill Cones's help, the ship was examined, checked and
rechecked, with landings made both on land and water. The
ship was pronounced fit, but now I was again spending my
own money for hotels and food, as well as gas bills. Three
wires to the rabbi brought no results, and the last one-with
my flat statement that I would leave the ship to rot where
it was unless the gas bill was paid-finally brought a tele-
graphed money order for three hundred. The gas
bill was
paid out of this sum, but now I was ordered to fly the ship
back to New York.
Back in the city, the PBY safely flown to its destination,
I met with Abe Lesser, this time adamantly demanding the
money due to me. Again, the rabbi began a long series of
explanations, promises, hints and prayers-but offered no pay-
ment of any kind.
Disgusted, I returned to my own apartment where I found
a note from Sonia, asking me to call her at the magazine at
once.
I noted that her voice was perturbed and worried the
second I heard her words of welcome. "Leon," she began
without hesitation, "you'd better act fast. This Lesser, the
rabbi, just saw Park, the editor. And Lesser has a new angle.
He wants to sell Park a story of how a ship is being smuggled
out of the United States to be sent to Palestine. Lesser says
he has it all documented and everything.
The receiver was wet against my fingers. Was Lesser in-
sane? Or had I, I thought with a sinking heart, been cheated
and double-crossed? If Lesser named any names-I felt the
blood drain from my face as I assured Sonia I would see
Lesser immediately.
I fairly raced back to the rabbi's apartment, bursting into
the room without knocking, stopping still at the sight of two
other men, both strangers to me. When I asked to speak to
50
Lesser, who was sitting dejectedly in one corner, one of the
men shook his head.
"I'm afraid the rabbi won't be available for some time,"
the older of the two men told me almost cheerfully. His smile
was wry. “We're from the Treasury Department. Seems as if
the rabbi . . . if he is a rabbi... has been a little careless with
his finances. He's been using moneys sent to him through the
mail, for Palestine, by well-meaning people whom he solicited.
But unfortunately, the rabbi has been keeping the money for
himself, without reporting it on his return. Too bad.” The
Treasury man looked curiously at me. "What's your connec-
tion with him?”
"He-ah, he owes me money, too." I said, struggling to keep
the anger from my face.
"Too bad," said the second man. "You'll just have to stand
in line with the rest." He motioned to Lesser. "Okay, buddy,
let's get going."
As I walked through the door again, I swore savagely to
myself that never, from now on, was I going to get involved
in this Palestine business. I had had it. Enough was enough.
I was already out nearly five hundred dollars, and it was
lucky for me that Sonia had warned me. This crazy and con-
niving, so-called rabbi could have implicated me in a smug-
gling charge against the government.
No more, I thought. If those are the kinds of Jews who
want to help Palestine, then let them do it themselves. I've
had it, up to my neck!
Somehow, despite the brilliant sunshine of the day, it
seemed cloudy and bleak to me.
#
51
*4*
*
Yes, I'd had it, all right-up to here-with Palestine and its
politics. Let the heroes do the fighting! I jeered to myself.
Let the others make the big dough. It was, as they say, a bitter
pill to swallow but, like most pills of that sort, this one cooled
the fever and stopped the headaches.
I told myself I'd devote more time to my family. I spent
more time with my mother and especially with my sister,
Dottie, whom I loved more than anyone else in the world.
Dottie seemed to be the only one who understood me. As
a kid, she had comforted me, talked to me, taken my side.
We were two against the world. Now the world was still
against her, but there was little I could do. An unfortunate
marriage had burdened Dottie's life with a wayward, lazy
and indifferent husband, Myer, whom I detested, for he was
just no good. He was never home, and I knew that he was
chasing around. He never worked, had no money, and when
he did show up, Dottie was weak enough to take him back
52
on the strength of his excuses. The results of these little home-
comings were two boys, whom I adored and who worshipped
me. And no small wonder! What other father did they have?
Dottie was not a healthy girl, either, but she would never
complain and I could not get her to tell me what her trou-
bles were. She refused to see a doctor. All her strength she
saved up for the part-time jobs she could hold, for her boys,
for me and, I must confess it, for Myer, whenever he was
around. I just couldn't see it. What did she see in that big,
no-good, lying loafer? But I never quarreled with her over
Myer. I loved Dottie too much to bring her extra pain.
At times, I thought she was the most beautiful woman in
the world-and the most courageous. With her orange hair
and those big, gray eyes and the soft, sensitive mouth she
could, when she smiled, light up the room. I brought her
and the boys little gifts, presents which were love-tokens
actually. I tried to find out what she was suffering from, but
she would never admit not feeling well. She went out of her
way to make special dishes for me, things I liked. Whenever
I could, I would take her and the boys to a movie, a show,
cursing Myer for not being around.
Once, I caught Dottie and my mother in serious conversa-
tion together. I was sure it was about her illness-whatever it
was--but when I accused them, they denied talking about
doctors. I couldn't get a word out of either of them, although
my mother looked very thoughtful.
The only times I saw her really look well was when Myer
showed up on his periodic visits. This time, when he came,
he said he had been busy in Florida, setting up another of his
"deals." What they were, or how they came out, I never
did find out. But Dottie believed him. And I dared not accuse
her or defend her and cause quarrels. But my heart ached
for her all the time.
During this time, I also continued to see Sonia. It was easier
f
53
than going out and looking for girls. I had her . . .
. . . and it
was enough. Besides, she was good company. But soon we
both realized that the affair was rapidly becoming dulled by
repetition and routine, the excitement fast dwindling, the
mystery fleeting. There was also the lack of common interest.
Her world was not my world. In fact, there were times, after
our love making, when we had nothing to say to each other.
Soon, we both realized that there was nothing holding us
together but physical bonds. It finally reached the stage where
we could talk about it calmly and dispassionately. Thus, when
Sonia received a new assignment in California and left for the
Coast, we said goodbye with mingled feelings of regret and
relief. Neither of us believed that we would see each other
again, or that the letters would mean anything. We did corre-
spond for a time but even stopped that after two or three
months.
We had nothing to say.
My Civil Service job, while it was a living, was interesting
to me only twice a month--when the paychecks came. And
when a deal which had been hanging fire for months finally
came through and I was assigned as test-pilot for Texarkan
Airways, I said a happy goodbye to the white collars in the
office. Texarkan had a branch office and hangar on Long
Island, and the main headquarters in a corner of the northwest
section of Texas.
I was happy. I was flying again. For the first time in months
I was able to discover an inner peace. I had not had such an
experience for years. The war, still not fully dead, neverthe-
less lay behind me, even if it came to life in nightmares occa-
sionally. My days fell into a steady routine and uninterrupted
pattern . . . flying in the morning, a conference or two, then
more flying, then home to my mother's for a solid meal, and
then for some fun.
There were other girls, of course, plenty of them, after
54
Sonia, but they were just part of the band of time that seemed
to fit so easily and so comfortably around me. Each morning,
I was surprised to discover anew the content and calm I felt,
and there were times when I even found myself whistling
while shaving. This was something I had not done for months,
or singing under a hot spray of the shower which felt so good
to my injured back. Nobody knew the pain I carried with
me; for the rest of my life, I was to bear those souvenirs of
the escape from the Underground and the crack-up in Florida.
I paid little attention to politics or international affairs,
specifically those that dealt with Palestine. As much as possi-
ble, I tried to avoid any conversation or discussion about Pal-
estine or the Jews.
From time to time my work took me into Texas, a state I
had always liked for its bigness and broadness. There, the
main offices of Texarkan sprawled under the hot, dry glare
or shivered under the blizzards which roared down from
Canada to the Panhandle. But I welcomed these trips as a
pleasant break. And when I took a new job up, wondering
how much it could do and how fast it could do it, the old
thrill, of being your own master, responsible to no one but
self and God, swept through me.
My weight and my bank account-both depleted after the
Lesser affair-began to grow again. I was content, pleased with
myself and without a worry until that early spring day of
1948 when I ran into Milt Rosen, a former Air Force Captain
who, along with me in those days when I wanted to be a
radio writer or director, had taken some GI courses at New
York University.
I can still remember that night well. It was one of those
lovely spring nights in New York, just after a rain, when the
grass starts shooting up from nowhere, even between the side-
walk cracks, when the puddles on the ground invite splash-
ing, when the whole sky seems to be made of soft purple
55
velvet. The city was stirring into life. Kids were playing
stickball, the Good Humor man was out early this season and
young men's and young women's fancies were turning, defi-
nitely, to that famous emotion.
I ran into Milt near the marquee of Loew's Delancey. He
was very excited. He had, he told me, finally been given a
minor role in a daytime soap opera, a role which would be
good for at least thirty-nine weeks on radio. Nice, steady
work. And would I like to come down to the CBS studio and
watch a first reading?
"It's only on 52nd Street," Milt babbled happily. "Won't
take long. Then, after it's over, we'll celebrate. Be my guest."
He bowed mockingly. I guess it must have been Jack Eigen
who was popularizing that expression then, and Milt was
quick to copy any new quip.
After congratulating Milt, I hesitated. I didn't want to go,
and yet I was curious about an actual rehearsal. Still, I
thought, I had nothing planned for that night. As Milt saw
my hesitation, he clapped his hand on my shoulder.
"There might be somebody there you'd like to meet," he
said enthusiastically. "Matter of fact, this same guy was re-
sponsible in a way for getting me my job. I had heard of
a documentary they were doing on radio about Palestine and
I auditioned. This guy was there, I guess as a sort of technical
adviser or something, and he recommended me.”
As soon as I heard that word "Palestine" I made up my
mind. I wasn't going to get mixed up in that business again,
and not with anybody. Milt must have read my face.
"Aw, c'mon," he pleaded. "Nobody's going to solicit you
for anything. Because of my work on the documentary, I got
this soap opera chance."
"Then what's this Palestine guy doing at the studio?" I
asked him suspiciously.
56
"Nothing," Milt said defensively. "I just invited him,
because he helped me get started. Nothing political,” he
shrugged. "What have you got to lose, Leon?" He grinned
at me. "You always wanted to get into radio, and maybe
I can introduce you to a few people."
He finally persuaded me. After all, I thought, what did
I have to lose? And I had nothing to do anyway. So I said
I'd go.
All the way up by Lexington Avenue Subway, I was silent.
I was annoyed and angry at myself. Here I had been trying
to forget about Palestine but Milt just has to mention the
word, and off I go! I wasn't kidding myself. It wasn't that
rehearsal that was attracting me to the studio; it was Palestine.
Again.
The studio was on the tenth floor, and when we came in
a number of people, with mimeographed scripts in front of
them, were seated around a battered old table, scarred with
cigarette burns, ringed by wet coffee cups and already filled
with paper containers of coffee and half-eaten sandwiches,
still wrapped in wax paper. Milt was greeted by everybody,
even a man whom he introduced as Mr. Somebody-or-other,
the director. He was given a script and told the reading
would start in a little while.
Then Milt took me over to the far side of the room, near
the covered piano, where a hatchet-faced, blue-eyed man,
with one of those red, weather-beaten complexions, was sit-
ting next to a girl.
I didn't pay any attention to the man.
I just kept staring at the girl. I tried to tell myself that I
was being rude, that this was no way to act-but I couldn't
help it. I tried to rationalize. What was so different about
her? I wondered. Other girls had blue eyes; true-not as
bright nor as large as hers, though. Plenty of women had that
57
short, turned-up kind of nose, the full, almost baby-like
cheeks, the jet-black hair which she wore in a chignon at the
back of a very lovely neck. My eyes traveled downward.
True, few women could boast of what lay hidden under that
white and gold blouse or was cunningly revealed along the
hip-line of her skirt. And her legs were good, rich and full,
the ankles tapering. I liked the way she held her cigarette,
too, not like women, between the tips of her fingers, but like
a man, held firmly in a short and very tanned and capable-
looking hand. And she inhaled deeply, too, I noticed.
Her mouth was perhaps too wide, but very mobile and red.
There was such an air of calm and efficient confidence about
her which I had sensed in few women.
She became aware of my stare. Easily she returned my look,
her eyes raking my whole face and figure. Then, in a low and
pleasant voice, she said: "Seen enough?"
Had any other woman made a crack like that, I would have
found a swift and insulting comeback. But she was smiling
as she spoke and I don't believe there was any malice or
haughtiness in her tone. Besides, there was something in her
voice, a trace of accent I could not place. It was American all
right, but not entirely American.
I looked back steadily at her. "I've seen enough,” I said
easily, "to know I'd like to have a drink with you later on."
Milt, who had been standing around uneasily, finally broke
in. "Don't you think you should know each other's names
first?” he smiled. I'll say this for Milt, he was a damned good
pilot during the war, but not much of a ladies' man. So I was
surprised to hear how easily and smoothly he could arrange
an introduction, as if he had spent a lifetime in the salons of
Europe, which he had not. Milt was strictly an East Side boy,
Stuyvesant High and later CCNY.
"Miss Davis," Milt said, "this is Mr. Baker. Leon, this is
Mildred Davis."
I liked the feel of her hand in mine.
58
"And this," Milt continued, "is Mr. Hitz. Ralph Hitz.
Ralph, this is Leon Baker.”
His handshake I didn't like so well.
"Ralph is the one who helped me get my job here," Milt
babbled happily. "I was auditioning for this Palestinian Docu-
mentary and he . . ."
Luckily, the director called Milt over to the table to begin
the first reading. The actors started. I stared at them and
then back at Hitz and finally at Mildred Davis. I guess I kept
looking at her longest. Once in a while, I caught her flashing
a glimpse at me, but it was an impersonal one, with no mean-
ing behind it.
The reading droned on. I grew restless. "Look," I whis-
pered, bending closer to the girl and closing my eyes at her
perfume, a scent I had never encountered before, “do you
really care what happens to Aunt Penny this trip? Suppose
you and I_"
"Mr. Hitz brought me here," she said sweetly.
"All right, and Mr. Hitz," I said recklessly, "go downstairs.
There's a little bar I know."
“And next a little apartment close by. No thanks, Mr.
Baker."
She turned away from me and concentrated on the lines.
the players were reciting. I fidgeted. I lit one cigarette, put
it out, shook another from my pack, touched the flame to the
tip, ground it out. Finally, in order to have something to do,
I stood up and walked to the men's room.
I was just drying my hands before the machine when the
door opened and Hitz came in. I nodded at him and continued
to dry my palms when he walked over to me.
Oh, oh, I worried. He's sore about the girl. Maybe she
told him something. Maybe she-then I smiled. Shook my
head. Mildred Davis, whoever she was, was not the kind of
woman who runs for a man's protection.
Without any preliminaries, Hitz stood closer to me. He
59
2.
:
W
stood with his legs apart, his hands in his pockets. He was
wearing an expensive camel's hair sports jacket, of light blue,
and dark navy flannels. His tie was also navy, a good string
job, tied in a Windsor knot.
"Milt tells me you like to fly," he said, looking down at
his highly polished shoes.
"It's a living," I shrugged.
"You still flying?" he asked, his voice, which was ordinarily
a little shrill, becoming sharpened. I felt antagonistic. What
was the idea of the quiz?
“Look,” I said. “I told you, I fly. I like to fly. I have a job.”
He still wasn't looking at me. "I know where you can
get a better one," he said softly.
I leaned against the wash basin. Evidently he had not come
in here to tilt lances with me over the girl or attend to a call
of nature. There was something else on his mind.
"What makes you think I'd be interested?" I asked, very
casually, but tight all over.
"Oh... I don't know." His hands bunched in his pockets.
"I just heard a rumor.'
""
"What kind?" I had straightened up.
"Oh." He waited. He let me sweat it out. "About Canada.
About a certain rabbi." As I stepped closer, he smiled in his
hatchety way. "I know some of the people Lesser was sup-
posed to know."
That did it. I swung on my heel. I started for the door. “If
you want to see your friend, Lesser," I called back, “bring
some noodle soup to him every Friday. He's in the pen at
Atlanta. Maybe you'll make a kiddush, for old times sake."
My hand was on the door knob but I waited. For what I
waited I do not know, not even to this day, but I waited,
hoping, fearful and yet hopeful. Leon Baker, first class sap!
There was such a ring of authority in his voice, edged with
60
such sharp command that, despite myself, I whirled around at
his sudden, sharp call: "Baker!"
I had not heard my named whipped out like that since a
general had done so in the CBI. One thing for sure, I told
myself ruefully, this guy is used to giving orders-the military
way. I turned all the way around and was about to snap out,
"yes, sir!" but stopped my tongue in time.
He was looking at me in a queer way. His hands came out
of his pockets. His fingers held a square card. He held it out
to me and I took it, holding it limply between my fingers as
I tried to read his face. I looked down at his card.
There was nothing on it but a phone number. Tivoli some-
thing. I didn't wait to read the numbers. Tivoli. A Bronx
exchange. What was a sharpie like Hitz doing up in the wilds
of Pelham Bay?
"Anytime you feel like flying again, really flying," he em-
phasized the word, "call this number and ask for me. It's my
father's phone."
I toyed with the card, looked down at it again, and then
carefully put it in my wallet. "Okay," was all I could say.
"Whenever I feel like visiting the Bronx, I'll go to Yitzchok's
house." My grin was feeble. I saw him nod grimly and then
start for the door. Our hands touched briefly on the knob.
"Look," I said, "About the girl . . . I . . ."
He looked soberly at me. "Forget her," he said. "She's not
for you. Or for anybody,” he added moodily for the first
time. “And she's not my date, in case you're worried. Or
yours, either," he added.
I let him walk out first.
When I came back into the room, the girl was gone. The
cast was having a break and I walked up to Milt. "What hap-
pened to her?" I asked. "That girl, Miss Davis."
“Oh. Her . . .” he shrugged. "She left."
61
"When?" I almost shouted. I felt like tearing after her. Per-
haps there was still time.
"Pull your flaps up," Milt said. "Some guy called for her
and you were in the john. They went out together."
"Oh."
Suddenly, the night did not come up to expectations. The
room inside was dingy and smelled of stale perfume and old
cigarette smoke. I looked at the corner of the room where
Hitz was gravely talking to the director. For a moment, I
considered walking over to him, then let the idea drop. I
looked at Milt and nodded my head. The cigarette didn't feel
very sturdy in my hand.
"Well," I said, "that's that."
"Yeah," Milt said sorrowfully. Then he brightened. "But
she wasn't your type anyway, Leon. I could see that right
away."
"I'll bet you could!" I tossed over my shoulder to him. “I
just bet
you could."
1
62
*5*
For two days I let the card burn a hole, first through my
wallet, then through my pocket. When it seared flesh, I
gave up.
I put the coin into the phone, my fingers shook a little as
I dialed the Tivoli exchange, made my call to meet Hitz at
the cafeteria on Westchester Avenue at Southern Boulevard
in the Bronx at ten o'clock.
When I hung up, I worried over my decision, wondering
if it was right or wrong, and whether I was letting myself into
something again I would never be able to finish.
All day long I pondered and worried over that night. A
thousand times I resolved to ditch the whole thing, to let
it go and not show up for the meeting. I told myself I would
only get involved with more phonies. What did I care about
Palestine? I bit my lips and shook my head and said I was
doing it for the girl alone, because I wanted to see her again
or find out where I could get in touch with her. And she was
63
not worth it; no girl ever is worth it. By five o'clock I had
deliberately made a date for myself so I could not possibly
show up. Nobody was going to make a sucker out of me.
Twice.
By nine forty-five I was seated at a front table of the
cafeteria.
Fifteen minutes later, I looked at the figure coming through
the door with a book under his arm. I snorted to myself.
Ralph Hitz. Mr. Ralph Hitz, or Colonel Ralph Hitz, what-
ever he may have been, strode toward my table. I fought
down an impulse to click my heels smartly, bow stiffly from
the waist and croak out, "Wie geht's, mein General!”
He nodded briefly at me and sat down, pushing aside the
cup of coffee I had bought for him. He looked around once.
Right out of Hitchcock! I sneered inwardly.
The cafeteria was jumping. The next-to-last shows on
Southern Boulevard had just broken and the place was filled
with people. Bizarrely-dressed kids, with long sideburns and
watch chains, seated at tables, their bright eyes not missing
a thing. Spanish-speaking couples hunched together. I saw a
hand stroking a woman's thigh. Older men, their faces hidden
by newspapers, and here and there a cabbie, grabbing a quick
one before putting the meter back on. Three middle-aged
women, looking bored and tired, having coffee and Danish.
Telephone operators, I thought, or maybe a couple of wives
out on the town, glad to get away from the old man and the
TV set for a few minutes of thrills watching Clark Gable
tickle Lana Turner with his mustache. A couple of non-
descript characters who looked as if they had no place to go
or anything to do, and who were enjoying it. An obvious
prostitute, no longer young, looking over potential customers.
And myself and Mr. Ralph Hitz.
A steamy fog hung over the white, gleaming porcelain
tables. There was a good, solid smell of sauerkraut and hot
•
64
dogs, pastrami, the tangy odor of hamburgers frying with
plenty of onions. And the sweeter odor of coffee permeating
deep into my nostrils. Plenty of noise, too, a jabber of lan-
guages, English, Spanish, Yiddish, and Bronxese.
"I'm sorry I'm late," Hitz began smiling slightly.
Late? I glanced at my watch. It was exactly two minutes
past ten. He must have come on the dot.
"All right,” I said, sipping my coffee. "Now what?"
"May I assume you are interested in flying?" he asked, his
voice lowered. "Or else you would not have bothered to
call."
"Flying for whom?" I demanded.
He smiled again and shook his head. "I asked first," he re-
minded me.
"Okay. I'm interested in flying. I always was. I am flying
now. Does that answer you?
""
"Not quite." His square fingertips drummed on the book.
"To be quite frank, Mr. Baker, I was reluctant to contact
you at all. But your friend Milton, and your past record kept
me interested. I knew of your unfortunate business with
Lesser. And neither," the icy smile came again, “did I disillu-
sion myself that your interest of two nights ago was entirely
free of some romantic adventure you might have had in mind
with Miss Davis.”
that you
Hearing her name again made me restless, feeling empty,
as if I wanted her near me and yet did not want her.
"I would advise . . . and most seriously so. . .
forget Miss Davis entirely," he said, lowering his voice again.
"It is
very much likely you will never see her again. In fact,
I can tell you that she's no longer in this country."
I did not know whether or not to believe him, but his
words had the desired effect. My face must have pulled down
several inches. As if to make up for my disappointment, he
added, more kindly now, "At any rate, she is not important to
65
us, now." I wondered what he meant by that "now." I looked
sharply at him. "What is important, Mr. Baker, is whether
you want to work for us.”
"I ask again, who is us?"
He regarded me for a long time. Then he shrugged. "At
the moment, all I can tell you is that I represent an organiza-
tion which needs fliers . . . fliers with war experience particu-
larly. If you are interested, you will be told where to go, and
what to do."
"On my own money?"
He looked positively shocked. His face came up and the
hatchet chin gleamed in the light. "We are not a phony
organization like the Lesser group," he answered stiffly.
"Here . . ." he drew from his inside pocket the familiar air-
line reservation and ticket envelope. Next to it he placed a
plain white envelope.
"Plane fare to Mexico City," he said softly. Then he tapped
the second envelope. "And two hundred in cash to tide you
over until further contact is made with you. You will con-
duct yourself as if you were an ordinary visitor to Mexico."
I looked from the envelopes to him, back to the envelopes
again. How much could I trust him? What if this were an-
other phony deal? I would be left stranded in Mexico.
But the way Hitz carried himself, his entire manner, erased
some of these doubts. I could use a little vacation, I told
myself. A leave of absence could easily be arranged and my
affairs could be in order in a few days. As for being stranded
in Mexico, that need not be. I had enough of my own money
to take care of that, should anything happen.
"Can't tell me just a little more about the . . . er
you
organization?" I asked.
"Not much." His tone had become more crisp. He was
sure of me, I thought, not without bitterness. He could sense
a sucker when he saw one.
66
"All that need concern you right now," he added, “is that
the organization is just that... an organization, with money,
men and plans. The only thing I can suggest is that you see
for yourself. We're not a picayune outfit."
I flipped a cigarette from the pack. "You seem awfully sure
about me," I said carelessly. "Who did the ground work on
me? Miss Davis?"
The sharp chin jutted out. He was really trying to smile,
I thought. "Miss Davis has nothing to do with our . . . shall
we call it, intelligence?"
"Do," I suggested politely. So they had probed my back-
ground. They must have a complete dossier on me, whoever
"they" were. Otherwise, this Hitz character wouldn't be
going around handing out hundred-dollar bills and plane
tickets to Mexico City so freely.
“Well?” he was asking now.
"I'll see."
"I have to know now." His hand was on the envelopes
again.
"I'll get in touch with you."
"No good." He shook his head savagely. "I won't be
around."
"Taking a trip to Mexico?" I asked lazily.
"Why don't you find out for yourself?" His blue eyes
seemed lighter than ever before. I smiled back at him, and
then reached for the envelopes, stuffing them in my pocket.
"Maybe I will," I said, rising from the table. "Maybe I
will."
67
*6*
I checked into the Reforma Hotel in Mexico City and the
clerk told me at once that a Mr. Hitz had left a number for
me to call. I grinned to myself as I dialed. He was losing no
time.
Over the phone, Hitz sounded as if that night in the Bronx
had never taken place. "There will be an additional two hun-
dred dollars for you, for expenses," he said. "It will be in
your box in the morning. In the meantime, I will also leave
a T.O. for a B-25.” I could almost see that frosty smile over
the wires. "It's been some time since you flew a B-25 in
China, hasn't it?"
I was surprised myself. B-25's? And Hitz was right; the
last time I had flown a B-25 had been nearly three years ago.
Was there anything about me they didn't know? And here
they were so sure about me that they were even furnishing
me with a tech order manual to refresh my mind about the
bombers.
"Well, well, well," I said. "B-25's."
68
I heard him hesitate. Then: "Our company is negotiating
legally for eight of the 25's," he finally said. I had to chuckle
at the phrase "negotiating legally"-especially the "legally."
He cleared his throat again. "Just study the tech order manual
and maybe you'll check some of the ships out later. In the
meantime, until I get in touch with you again, enjoy your-
self. See some of the sights. And . . ." he paused impercept-
ibly, "don't go looking for any girls you might have met in a
broadcasting studio. If it's that kind of talent you want,
there's plenty of the local variety, some equipped with their
own casting couches."
I hung up, still smiling. Hitz must be feeling pretty good
to let loose with some cracks of his own. Then I shrugged.
I could wait. In the meantime, there was nothing else for me
to do but to take in the town and act like a tourist.
It became pretty boring after a week and I was glad when
Hitz finally phoned me. He told me to come to his room . . .
he'd be at the Reforma now... at ten-thirty that night. There
would be a meeting there, I was told, and I'd also get a chance
to meet the rest of the boys who would fly the planes.
When I opened the door to Hitz's room, it was full of
smoke and the sound of masculine voices-a good, warm and
hearty sound, unlike that of a crowd of chattering women. I
counted about ten men, and not one of them had any outward
marks to distinguish him from a cab driver or a shoe salesman
or a soda jerk.
Hitz was not there yet, I could see that, and I was about
to resign myself to some more waiting when I heard someone
bellow out my name.
I whirled around. That voice could only belong to one
man, but to believe he was here, now, in this place, was to
believe in Santa Claus.
I guess I was still blinking with surprise when I saw his
blond head, on top of that bull-like six feet one frame of his,
69
bobbing past the others and making its way toward me. The
next minute my hand was being crushed by George Montburr
Hurley, otherwise known as Buzz Hurley, and for good
reason.
An RAF ace, Buzz had had more than thirty-three kills
to his credit when a wound had finally grounded him. Before
then, his name had become a terror to colonels and Germans
alike. Buzz used to think nothing of leaving his wingman all
alone and dipping down to find his own game. Chewed out
constantly, he still went ahead, knocking them down as fast
as they came. His camera guns had proven that he had conked
down eight Jerries one fine day over Malta. He had become
almost a legend, and I had not seen him since a last fling to-
gether in London. Now, big as life, and twice as loud, he
was pumping my hand.
We began talking almost at once, with Buzz winning out as
usual. He said he had just drifted down here, on his way to a
possible job in South America, where fighter pilots, merce-
naries, were being offered heavy payment. He had also, he
told me, refused a deal to fight for Chiang's Nationalists, who
had offered him fifteen hundred dollars a month to fight
the Reds.
"Then I hear the Jews are starting their own little war in
Palestine," he grinned at me, one huge and freckled paw al-
most completely surrounding his glass. "Jews pay well, so I
thought I'd investigate. I hear there's a deal on to fly planes
and ammunition to Palestine." He grinned again and poked
me in the stomach.
"How much are they putting out for your services, old
boy?"
I tried to smile back. I knew that Buzz's references to Jews
were not indicative of anti-Semitic feeling, but they still
grated on my nerves. "Buzz," I complained, "I'm a Jew."
70
"Then you should get more, old boy."
I shrugged. What could I tell him? That I was doing this,
not for money but because of an ideal, a dream, a hope, a
desire that Jewish kids the world over would have their own
country? To Buzz that would sound like double-talk.
"I'm not supposed to know anything about it yet," I con-
fided. “But I've made some pretty good guesses so far. I sup-
pose I'll settle for about seventy-five a month and a hundred
for expenses."
Buzz calmly swallowed his drink. "You're batty, old boy,"
he said. "Bloody batty."
"Maybe I'll get a ten-thousand-dollar insurance policy, for
my mother-just in case."
Buzz started to look around the room, searching for some-
one to serve him another drink. The room was getting noisier
and more smokey. "Leon, old boy," he said, slipping an arm
over my shoulder. "I wouldn't even think of fighting for them
unless I got fifteen hundred a month." And he winked now.
"And five hundred extra for every plane I shot down."
"Maybe you,” I said. You couldn't get angry with him.
Besides, he'd risked his life so many times without getting
paid for it. “But I can't. It means more than just getting paid.”
"Or laid," he grinned.
"That, too."
For the first time he regarded me soberly. "Pretty serious
about this?"
"Pretty serious."
He was about to reply, then changed his mind, got up and
lumbered through the crowd toward the drink he wanted.
I watched him as he crowded near the table with the bottles
and glasses. I could feel no bitterness against him. He wasn't
a Jew and if he wanted to risk his life and fly he was en-
titled to all he could get. What difference did it make to Buzz
71
Hurley whether the enemy was a Chinese Communist, a flier
from a Central American country or an Egyptian?
It might not make a difference to him, but it spelled out
something else to one Leon Baker.
Before Buzz could return, the door opened and Hitz came
in carrying a briefcase. He looked worried. Silence fell as
his presence was felt. When he had everyone's attention, he
minced no words.
"The B-25 deal is off," he said shortly. "The whole deal has
fallen through-fell through this afternoon at the main airport
when a DC-3, carrying spare parts and engines, piled up."
"Anyone hurt?" a voice asked.
"Three guys. They were in the back keeping an eye on the
parts; never knew what hit them," Hitz answered. "They're
still taking the nuts and bolts out of the corpses."
I looked down. The first three guys. Who were they? I
wondered. Why were they in the DC-3? It was beyond me.
I wondered with some bitterness if they, too, had asked to
fly for fifteen hundred a month. Well, wherever they were
now, the color of their money didn't matter.
"With the deal off," Hitz was saying, "we're hauling ass
out of Mexico-but quick. We're heading for Miami, via
Havana. We have another deal on with some C-46's, a couple
of A-20's and three B-17's. Now, I want you guys to come
down at once to Room 407 where I'll see all of you I want
and give you your plans."
There was a low murmur of voices as he stopped and left
the room, and then the murmur rose louder as we discussed
what had happened and what was likely to happen. Three or
four said they were dropping the whole deal, going to find
something else. Others complained that the pay wasn't high
enough.
I took my time getting to Room 407.
4
72
Hitz was seated at a table, with the briefcase open, and
a piece of fancy airplane luggage at his feet, also opened. My
eyes popped at what was inside the luggage.
Dozens of tightly-tied packs of bills, most of them C-notes.
How many of those little green slips carelessly stick to Hitz's
fingers, I wondered idly, without ever reaching another man's
pocket?
Hitz kicked a chair over to me and invited me to sit down.
He was frowning over a sheet of onionskin paper, which had
a lot of names on it. Some had check marks after them. The
sharp chin was sticking out aggressively when he looked at
me. The smile was still without warmth.
"I suppose you have a pretty good idea now of what's
what?" he asked, his eyes never leaving my face.
"Good enough,” I answered.
“You understand this cloak-and-dagger stuff," he con-
tinued, waving a hand around him. "American citizens
aren't supposed to be flying in combat for . . . er . . . other
countries."
"I don't need a diagram."
He nodded again, bending over the sheet. Then he looked
up. "Baker, I won't pull any punches. You're a good man, and
the organization can use you and wants to use you. We've
explored your background and it's okay. But there's one thing
wrong.'
I just kept looking at him.
"You're too goddam idealistic about this," he said calmly.
"And you should know better. Some of the boys have told
me you were sort of shocked at the idea of Jewish boys in
particular flying for money and not for dear old Israel. That's
all right," he went on quickly, "but we also want guys who
think quickly and coldly as they would in any business ven-
ture. Save the rah-rah stuff for your son, when he goes to
73
""
1
I
college. This is no football game, Baker. We don't want guys
getting so mad they won't fly right." He tapped his pencil.
"You still want in?”
All I could do was nod, although I called myself six dif-
ferent kinds of a fool.
"Okay," he said. And there was a cold grin on his face.
"Knowing your patriotism and your idealism, I'm putting
you down for a hundred a month expenses and seventy-five
salary." He leaned back. "Look, Baker," he said, and his tone
was more confidential. "You ought to know now that this
is no fly-by-night outfit. This is no phony Lesser deal. The
money is there . . . and more." His eyes half-closed. "When
this is over and Israel is a free state, who do you think will
get first crack at the commercial airlines? You guys. You
guys who did the flying. I'll see to that." He kept on tapping
the pencil. "It's a good country, and when it's all over, you
boys will be the first to get a chance at the commercial stuff,
maybe a private little airline. And the franchise goes to you,
as a sort of bonus appreciation. That's why it may not be so
important for some of you to get so much dough at first.”
I kept staring at him. The idea of remaining in Israel and
working there, especially at flying, had never occurred to
me before. But now, suddenly, it sounded good. Pretty good.
Despite myself, I felt myself warming to the idea. My own
little commercial airline, hauling supplies and maybe a few
passengers, getting a few planes, building up, working up.
Why not? It sounded good. Living and working in a country
where there would be no Jew-baiting, where the kids could
grow up without knowing what it was like to be afraid or
to be ashamed of being a Jew.
"I've been asked some fancy prices," Hitz was saying in a
sort of whimsical tone. "That guy you room with, that
Dave..."
"Gold," I said. "Dave Gold."
74
"Gold wants seventy-five dollars an hour to fly a B-17. So
does Rosen and Phil Meyer, your other roommate.'
""
"They deserve it," I answered. "If they can get it, more
power to them."
"And they don't want to fly in combat," Hitz was saying,
softly. "They want nice and safe transport duty, no more.”
"It's their privilege."
Hitz nodded absently. "How about you? If you sign, will
it be for combat or ATC?”
I stared him right in the eye. "Green is a nice color," I said,
"but sometimes there are other colors that are better."
"Red, white and blue?" he sneered.
"Those, too. And blue and white, with the Shield of David
on it."
He nodded again, reached down to the bag, pulled out a
hundred dollar bill and gave it to me. "Expenses,” he said,
"until we get started for Miami.”
Then I signed the paper.
"Okay," Hitz said, staring at the table again. "Here's the
plan. You, Dave Gold and Phil Meyer leave for the States in
the morning. Via Mexican Airlines to Havana, and then East-
ern to Miami. Once there, you will fly one of the B-17's
over."
“Over where?” I asked pleasantly. But he just looked at me
and shook his head. "We'll let you know in Miami.”
I left the room and returned to the room upstairs where
there was more confusion than ever. Some of the boys were
actually quarreling over who was getting to captain the
B-17's. There were heated arguments about crews, co-pilots,
flying time and checkouts. Three of the boys almost came to
blows. Dave and Phil approached me at once and demanded
that we toss a coin to see who would captain B-17 which we
would take out of Miami. Dave won the toss and Phil was
so disgusted that he walked out.
75
:
Well, well, well, I thought. Jealousy rears its ugly head
again. At this rate, all the fighting would be done on the
ground and between the crews themselves.
Dave walked back into our room. "That deal Hitz prom-
ised sounds pretty good," he remarked enthusiastically.
"What deal?" I asked, although I already had a suspicion
of what it was.
"That private airline deal. After the war. He said all of us
who would get in first, on the ground floor, would have first
crack at a franchise. That's where the real money will be!"
"If you are around to collect it," I told him mildly. In-
wardly, I felt a little sick. If Hitz was going around promising
private airline franchises to every flier....
Just before we dropped off to sleep, I heard Dave
murmur..
"How many American bucks in the Israeli pound?”
I didn't answer. I turned my face to the wall. I wanted
to ask another question, but I didn't.
How many Jewish lives is a B-17 worth?
The trip to Havana was an easy one, although the Mexican
pilot must have thought he was playing soccer when he
landed, hitting the ground hard and bounding like a goalie
all over the place. Eastern took us into Miami, where we regis-
tered at the Everglades, which was all right with me because
it was right next to the Clover Club where a chorus girl I
knew was currently working.
We lazed away a couple of days in sunny Miami, the
weather being made even warmer by the ever-developing
quarrel between Dave and Phil over the captaincy of the
B-17. I kept out of the fight, saving my strength for the
chorus girl who had thighs like iron and an insatiable ap-
petite for bedroom calisthenics.
On Sunday afternoon, I received a call from Hitz to come
76
I
to his hotel at once and bring Dave and Phil with me. At
Hitz's place we found two other men, both strangers to us,
whom Hitz introduced as Lee Fields and James Glendale.
Fields, an ordinary-looking man, was going to check us out
in the B-17. He had been a former instructor out in Cali-
fornia and had a lot of B-17 time.
S
James Glendale was in his early thirties, a pale, thin flier,
with blond hair and those very light blue
that tell you
nothing when you look into them.
eyes
The drive out to the field was pleasant, with little conversa-
tion. I was thinking that finally we were getting started, actu-
ally getting on the first leg of a long, long trip. Besides, I
thought, now I would see the men separated from the boys,
those who could really fly-and those who couldn't.
On the strip we walked up slowly to the three bombers,
good-looking G-types, without the chin turret. I was about
to walk closer when suddenly I stopped, refusing to believe
my eyes.
There, right next to the bombers, was sitting that same
old yellow PBY-5, the one I had checked out for Lesser and
his phony group. I had to grin. Was this a good omen or not?
The only thing I hoped was that this old Jonah was not
included in the flight to go over.
Carefully and soberly, we walked around the B-17's, not
missing a thing. Each one of us had to be satisfied that all was
well with the planes before entering them. The three B-17's
were lined up
beside the ship that would do the checking.
I loved the B-17... seventy-four feet of lady, every inch
of her, faithful if you were good to her, looking like nothing
on the ground, but assuming a breathtaking, lithe beauty of
her own once she was air-borne; she could be trusted to get
you where you wanted to go and then get you back home
again. She was stubborn, too; only a direct hit could stop
those four 1,820-hp engines from turning.
77
This baby was still girdled in her war armor. The bomb bay
doors were still working, the bomb control panel, racks,
wiring controls and fittings were all in tip-top order.
We hurried through, turning the props, about four turns
per engine, and then it was back into the plane. Lee Fields and
Hitz were going to do the takeoff, although Hitz was not a
pilot. An engineer for American Airlines, he could still check
out as co-pilot if need be.
Lee climbed into the left-hand seat, Hitz in the other.
All was ready.
I could sense what was going through their minds. I had
done it often enough so that it was routine, yet edged with
an excitement that was always there, no matter how many
times you performed the task. Mentally I counted off the
procedures:
Master switch on. Battery switches on. Invertor on. Unlock
flight controls. Open cowl flaps. Crack throttles, 1,000 rpm.
Start one. Start two. Start three. Start four. The low whine,
suddenly splitting into the barking, deafening roar. Run each
one up individually. Supercharger regulator set for 46″ at full
throttle. Fuel pressure, check oil pressure, check oil tempera-
ture, check cylinder temperature, check.
Taxi off to take-off position.
Lock tailwheel. Turn in all fuel-oil boost pumps. I kept
repeating the procedure in my mind, mouthing it silently. It
was sunny here but I could remember cold, gray mornings,
with dawn no more than a promise, when I had done this,
the concrete wet, the bundled figures of the mechanics hurry-
ing out of danger, the taste of the coffee coming up, brown
and bitter, in your throat. . . .
Retract landing gear. Reduce manifold pressure. Adjust
cowl flaps.
Engine one and two, okay... engine three and four, okay!
The pace increased now, the actions sure, hard and auto-
78
•
matic. The slow start, the runway falling back, back, back,
faster and faster ... the sudden, subtle lift. . .
Air-borne.
The check-out would consist of five landings, three touch-
and go's, one normal take-off and landing, one crosswind
take-off, crosswind component of 30-60 required.
Dave took over and flew with assurance and confidence,
going through the check without a hitch. Phil Meyer was
next, at first handling the controls with a little unease and
insecurity, breaking out into a sweat.
Flaps up, gear up, trim the ship, one quarter flap, half flap,
cowl flaps set for cruise, booster pumps off . . . supercharger
controls full on, prop controls in high rpm.
Then down landing gear, make sure flaps are lowered below
147 mph. Call off airspeed..
160 ... 150 ... 140 . . .
Lower flaps a quarter. Roll her out easy, nice and easy,
don't extend her, she's a lady, remember? Line her up and
set her down.
Nice going.
And so it went, with each one of us taking over Lee Fields'
seat, each of us getting the confidence, the sureness back. Each
one of us could handle the B-17-but who was to be captain?
That was another matter.
When Glendale, the last man to check out, doing it with
less trouble than I had expected, was finished, we crowded
around Fields. The latter said that he was satisfied and that
we would take off tomorrow if Ralph Hitz gave the okay.
That Hitz was ready to give his approval was apparent by
the activities of the mechanics who were installing bomb bay
tanks, each tank holding about 350 extra gallons of
dently, I thought, we were getting set to go....
gas. Evi-
But where ...?
We found out that night at the briefing in Hitz' room.
79
From Miami to Puerto Rico, lay over there for gas
and serv-
ice, then take off early the next morning for Santa Maria, in
the Azores. Then to Corsica. Then Czechoslovakia, to a place
called Zatec.
"Crew Number One,” Hitz announced, "will be Glendale,
Gold and Baker, Glendale captain. Two will be Booth, Meyer
and Jack Rosen. Two more crews will be made up. Your
navigators will join you later this evening, as well as the
gunners and flight engineers."
I admit I was surprised. One thing was noticeable at once.
Not all of the captains were Jewish. Glendale was the biggest
surprise of all; he had shown nothing that at all warranted
captaincy. Booth was an unknown quantity, although he was
a very popular figure around Miami. There was another non-
Jew to be captain, a flier named Charlie Summer, who had
purchased the three B-17's for the Israeli government for
$8,000 each and was selling them for eighteen thousand, a
nice little profit of ten thousand for each of the trio of planes.
Not only Jews would profit from this deal.
Evidently, Hitz caught the look in my eye. "I don't want
too many Jewish names thrown around here," he confessed.
But he said nothing about the fact that each captain was going
to get two thousand dollars extra expense money.
I was very thoughtful when I left the briefing room. More
and more, I thought, the color of this experiment was showing
more and more green.
80
*7*
;
The sun was just beginning to push its rim out of Biscayne
Bay when we stood before the bombers for the final check.
Chutes were one piece of equipment we had on, Mae Wests
another. Food, coffee and sandwiches were aboard. We knew
the list of men for each ship by heart.
Crew number four, James Glendale, first pilot and cap-
tain; Leon Baker and Dave Gold, co-pilots; Eli Bender,
navigator; Norman Kovak, radio; Jerry Wald, engineer.
In addition, about four other men, mechanics, gunners, com-
pleted the roster.
Glendale slipped into the left hand seat. I squirmed in next
to him, acting as co-pilot for the time being.
Again we went through procedure, calling the Tower for
taxi-ing instructions, Glendale reading off the check list, and
my terse replies. I felt good. I was back in business again.
Tower gave us the okay. I watched the groundspeed indi-
cator as we began to move . . . 50 . . . 60 . . . 70 ... 100...
81
110 mph. Gear and flaps up. Cowl flaps in trail. Still moving
forward, but not fast enough. I glanced quickly at Glendale.
He was looking out of the left window, his face working and
more pale than usual.
My heart muscles pulled hard against my chest.
What was wrong?
Glendale's finger jabbed outward. "Gas!" he said. "We're
losing a lot of gas. The gas is just pouring out of the tank!"
We were still moving forward. I shot a hasty glance out-
side; I eased up inside.
"The gas is just siphoning off!" I called back. "Nothing to
worry about. Too much gas was put into the tank when it
was serviced, and it's just the overflow. It'll level off and stop."
"Leon's right," Dave Gold echoed. "Give it a little time
and she'll be okay.”
But Glendale's face was working more than ever now. His
lips were drawn back, his teeth bared. He kept staring at the
speed indicator. When would he lift her? Dave and I ex-
changed glances.
Then we heard Glendale's voice, telling the tower he
was coming back in. Again Dave and I looked at each
other, giving one another that "you-can't-fight-City-Hall"
expression.
The bomber nosed around and rolled back, taxi-ing over
to where Hitz was standing, a puzzled expression on his face.
When Glendale climbed out Hitz snapped at him, "What the
hell's the matter, Glendale?"
"Ship's losing gas!" Glendale said, scurrying around the
other side for a closer examination. I followed after, catching
Hitz's eye and strolling over to him. "What's really up,
Leon?" he asked me.
"Glendale's reputation as a pilot," I answered. "Hitz, that
guy can't fly. There's no gas leakage, just overflow. Ask any
of the mechs, they'll tell you."
82
And from the way Glendale was already walking back, it
was evident his scare had been baseless. Suddenly, the old bit-
terness assaulted me. I was not going to fly with this joker.
Let him risk his own life. I began to walk away angrily when
Hitz stepped in front of me.
"You're nuts for making this Glendale captain," I said.
"Dave Gold is better equipped. Get yourself another co-
pilot."
"Maybe he was being cautious," Hitz began, but I glared
at him. "Cautious over what?" I demanded. "Some gas over-
flow? Let him fly without me. You know," I grinned without
feeling the humor, "I could get killed this way."
"Now, now, Leon." Hitz's hatchet face was trying to be
soft and understanding. "Cool off. Glendale's okay. I know
him. He'll be all right. Wait until tomorrow, and you'll see."
I still didn't see, nor did I feel confident, but I went back
anyway. This time the takeoff was without interference and,
all during the short hop to Puerto Rico I kept a sharp eye on
Glendale. But either because it was easy or because he was
determined to show us, me in particular, we landed on the
P. R. strip all right.
I thought my troubles were over, but hardly had we come
in when I saw that one of the other planes had already landed,
and walking up and down before the bomber like a sentry
was one of the crew with a carbine on his shoulder.
I stared. Ten steps to the right, then wheel and about-
face smartly, ten steps back, about-face again, real military
like. What in the hell did this self-appointed guard think he
was accomplishing, I wondered as I noticed the crowd flock-
ing around the plane as soon as we came to a full stop. The
closer they came the stiffer his back got, the longer his strides,
the smarter the set of his carbine against his shoulder. To
make things even more ridiculous, he was wearing a long
hunting knife encased in a leather sheath at his belt.
83
A mingled feeling of amusement and anger overcame me.
Another hero! Here we were, trying to attract as little atten-
tion as possible, and this joker is hard at work playing soldier.
I knew I had no right, and certainly no authority to repri-
mand him, but I felt it had to be done. In a moment or two,
the local cops or the soldiers would be noseying up, wanting
to know what an armed guard was doing before the planes.
And that's all we needed!
"You stupid jerk!" I yelled at him. "Where do you think
you are. . . on Fifth Avenue in a parade? What if someone
spots you from the tower?"
He turned surprised eyes on me, and I do mean surprised.
They quickly turned into pools of resentment.
"I'm guarding the ships," he answered defensively, pacing
away from me.
I fell in beside him. "Against what?" I hissed. "Some
maraca shakers? Get that thing out of sight and go back to
your crew."
He looked me up and down coldly. "I don't know about
you," he said stiffly and with pride, "but I'm doing it for
The Cause."
I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. The Cause! For a
moment I felt like yanking that carbine from his shoulder,
then I stopped. Who was I to judge? In a way I, too, was
marching up and down with a gun on my shoulder, playing
soldier for a Cause. Was I any better? I shrugged and began
to walk away, glad to see one of his own crew rush up and
tell him to get himself and his gun away from the plane.
This time he obeyed.
Kids with guns, I fumed as I walked away. Ideals, big
words, phonies, would-be fliers, adventurers, liars, profiteers,
professional Jews... mercenaries, fighting for a buck, idealists
... all mixed up in this. Where did I fit in? What was I
doing here?
84
It was strange, but at that particular moment, I thought of
Mildred Davis. I don't know why. She just floated into my
vision, looking as she had the last time I had seen her in the
studio, those breathtaking legs crossed, the pert nose lifted
up or crinkled in a smile, the cigarette grasped in such a
masculine way in her fist.
It's only a couple of days since the Clover Club cutie, I
thought. Maybe I ought to start thinking of getting married
and not go hunting after the stuff.
I was still thinking about Mildred when we took off for
the Azores the next day. I had tried to forget her, putting
the crew through ditching practice, giving them instructions
on the use of Mae Wests and the rafts. But now it was done
and there was nothing to do but sit and let the steady, almost
sleepy throb of the engines play background music for
my thoughts.
I thought about my mother and my sister, of the girls I had
known, and none of them were like Mildred. Would I ever
see her again? What had she been doing in the studio? Where
was she now? What was her connection with Israel? Was
she, herself, the one who had looked into my background
for Hitz? I hoped so. That way, I figured, she already knew
a lot about me and it might be easier when we did meet again.
When we met again! What a laugh! I wouldn't take hun-
dred to one odds on it. And chances were that she was already
married. Better not to think of her. Think of Dave up there,
as co-pilot today. A nice guy, Dave. Quiet and likeable.
What had drawn him into this Palestine mess? The money?
Ideals? Did he want a private little airline of his own after
the fighting? Or was he really and truly interested in having
Israel a free country, a place where the Jew could be a human
being, proud of his heritage, his culture, and his land? If he
had, I could pity him. I knew what it meant, what doubts and
85
!
sacrifices and uncertainties were involved. Only poor, helpless,
idealistic slobs, like all the Leon Bakers of the world, were
ready to tilt at windmills, in the hope they would do some
good. And usually, they got what they were looking for-
right in the neck!
In such a mood, I was not inclined to take the steaks and
señoritas of Isla Grande when we landed and decided to hit
the sack early and get some sleep. Dave, however, begged me
to come into town with him for at least a couple of hours and
I obliged. I felt like talking now, especially to Dave. Or
maybe he would like to listen to me.
Over a beer, I tried to explain my reasons for getting in-
volved in the Israel fighting. Usually I can put words together
in a fairly sensible way, but tonight they refused to come out
right. They got all mixed up somehow and I couldn't find the
ones to express the way I felt.
Dave finally shook his head. "Kid," he said, “you're a
dreamer. First class, number one, top drawer dreamer. I've
been listening to you talk for fifteen minutes without a stop,
and
you know what?”
"What?"
"You feel about this just as I do and you're in it for the
same reason. Dough! Good old USA folding money. Plenty
of it. Wallet-busting stuff. Sure, sure, I know something of
what you're feeling, what you're trying to tell me. Deep down
inside every Jew has the feeling he should do something to
help other Jews the world over. But hell, Leon, they've been
doing that for ages. You know what tz'dooka means,
don't you?"
"Charity," I answered, remembering the little blue boxes,
white boxes, brown boxes, gray boxes in our home, with my
mother dropping pennies in whenever she could, sometimes
a nickel.
"Right," Dave nodded. "Jews have been giving charity for
86
years. And so are we. Our services. But there's this difference.
We expect a return, not in heaven or in a life after death, as
the old Jews did, but now. Right now. The Present Indica-
tive. So we fly for Israel. We get paid for it. Maybe later we
make some money on a deal or two. Charity. One hand washes
the other, kid."
I looked at him. There was a tiny bubble of froth from the
beer at the corner of his mouth. "Is that why you joined?"
I asked.
"And for no other reason," he replied emphatically. “Kid,
I had a bellyful of war. You know that. Would I be risking
my neck again for the sheer fun of it? Hell, now I'm fighting
as a pro, where it counts, where the payoff is not in medals
but in hard cash. I won my Golden Gloves watch in World
War II," he grinned at me. "And a couple of watch straps,
ribbons, some of them a nice purple color. Now I fight as a
pro for the dough.'
It was true. Dave had been wounded three times in combat.
"I won't say you're wrong,” I said.
"You bet I'm not!"
"I'll also admit," I continued patiently, "that I like money,
too. As much as you do, maybe even more. And I hope I get
my share of it. I want it for my wife and kids, so they won't
have to grow up in a jungle the way I did. I want them to
know there is money to buy all the nice things you see in
shop windows. I don't want them to grow up warped and
hard and jealous and bitter. And," I held up my hand to stop
him, “there's another thing. More important. I don't want
anybody telling my kids they are sheenies, kikes, lousy Jew-
boys or Christ-killers. I don't want anybody making cracks,
telling them to go back where they came from."
"A biological impossibility," Dave smiled lightly.
“No. I'm serious. Maybe that's why I'm here. To see that
the Jews have a land of their own."
•
87
N
"Israeli Jews," Dave remarked. "Not American Jews.
Americans of Jewish faith already have their land. The good
old USA."
I nodded. "But even if the Israeli Jews get their own land,
won't that make things better? Won't Jews-the whole world
over-have more respect among the gentiles?"
"Jews are already respected," Dave answered mildly. "In
the arts, sciences, literature, music . . ."
"Not enough! I could go even further. Some gentiles even
have a sort of awe for Jews, think they are the 'chosen people'
right out of the Bible. Still not enough. Dave, Dave ." I
repeated urgently. "Can't you see what I mean? If there is
real respect for Jews there won't be this conflict between the
Star and the Cross."
From the blank look he gave me, I knew he didn't under-
stand. "The Star and the Cross," I repeated once more. "Every
Jew is caught between them. And every Christian as well.
Jews fear the Cross, and also suffer under the burden of
bearing the Star. Need this be? Must there be a no-man's land
between the two? Continual warfare? Doesn't the Cross come
from the Star originally? If Israel can earn its freedom and
the respect of all in the world, wouldn't that help? Those
Jews, like the Israelis, could have their own government now.
And other Jews, like the Americans, could help out with
money and know-how. They, too, could share in a new land,
although they actually don't have to live in Israel. It would
breed confidence and respect all around, would eliminate the
conflict between Jew and gentile. I'm not saying that a victory
against the Arabs will wipe out anti-Semitism. But it would
help. It's a step forward, Dave."
Dave was still looking at me. I knew he didn't understand.
"From the way you talk, about wife and kids all the time,
one might think you've knocked up about a dozen dames. You
and your kids!"
88
What was there to do? It was typical of Dave to laugh the
whole thing off by making a slightly smutty allusion.
"Yes, me and my kids. And kids the whole world over,”
I answered firmly.
Dave shrugged indifferently. "Bullshit!" he grunted. "Here
come our steaks. Let's eat, boy!"
I didn't hang around town with Dave who said he had a
couple of stewardesses lined up for the evening's entertain-
ment. I was not in the mood. I went back to the field, pushing
the door to my quarters open, and thinking ahead to the hot
shower, maybe a book reading session and then some sleep
until the dawn takeoff.
At the doorway I stopped.
There on his bunk, his pale face flushed, breathing heavily,
was my captain and first pilot James Glendale. I could smell
the liquor from where I stood. I walked over to him, but he
was out cold, dead to the world. Anybody could have come
in and grabbed up the money which was scattered over the
bunk, on the floor, and all over the room. It was the expense
money. I estimated that there must have been at least two
thousand dollars seeded over that place. A couple of the bills
were under the empty fifth of whiskey which was under
the bed.
I bent and picked up the bills, slipped a rubber band around
them, slid down to the luggage under the bunk, stuffed the
money into the suitcase where it belonged and shoved it back
under the bed with a kick. Glendale, another phony, I thought
to myself. What did he have on Hitz so that he was put
in charge?
As I began to undress, I knew one thing. I would keep this
to myself, to save for later, but I sure wasn't going to let
Glendale far out of my sight from now on. Not that I gave
a damn about him. But it was my life, as well as the lives of
!
89
all those others, he had under his control when he was flying.
But, as it turned out, on the next leg to the Azores, it was
not Glendale whom I had to watch but little Eli Bender, our
navigator.
I had liked Eli from the start. He was a jolly, impudent
little guy, who wore his Jewishness like a colored chip on his
shoulder. He made no bones about the fact that he was in
this Israel mess for one reason only-because he was a Jew
and wanted to help the Jews.
But that was all right for idealistic reasons. I still had to
find out how swift with a sextant little Eli was. There was
going to be a lot of flying, most of it over water, before we
got to Palestine, and Eli would be navigating all the time.
As I often had, I wished again I knew more about navigation.
But at least I could match wits with Eli in watching him take
his sun-shots, his Loren readings, shoot the stars in celestial
navigation, take the dot and dash transmissions from the
G.R.S. (Ground Radio Stations) to get a radio-position fix.
I was sitting next to Dave, watching his hands on the wheel,
not thinking of anything in particular. Dave looked rather
beaten up
after the previous night, and I wondered what the
stewardess felt like this morning. With his black hair, his
black eyes and his curved Roman nose, Dave was reputed to
be a demon lover. But now he looked like what he was, an
alert if slightly worn-out pilot.
I stirred uneasily. I thought I had detected some strange
noise. I listened again, but there was no break in the hum of
the engines, nothing to indicate trouble. Yet, I felt something
was wrong. Often there is nothing you can see or hear, or
even feel-yet your sixth-sense tells you something is amiss.
"Guess I'll have me a look around," I said to Dave. I gave
him a playful nudge as I got up. "Next time pick on someone
your size,” I said.
90
He looked at me and grinned. "Man, oh, man!" he breathed.
"They haven't made her size yet!"
I left him to his memories and worked my way backship,
opening the door that leads to and through the bomb bay.
Nothing there, but still I could . . .
I could hear it now!
A strange whistling..
I felt my back start to hurt suddenly. I winced but moved
ahead carefully, pausing every second or so to listen and
listen hard.
There it was again.
The bomb bay doors were tightly shut. Yet the sound was
like air escaping. Or, I thought, getting cold all over, air
rushing in.
I checked the cockpit. Windows closed there, too. Then
I bent down and picked up the bulkhead door that leads to
the navigator's compartment.
Now I could hear it more distinctly, a shrill, hissing, angry
whistle. I grunted and got down on all fours and stuck my
head through the small entrance that leads down to the space
where the navigator squats.
Then I saw it!
Half-way out of the plexiglass window, which was used
as a vantage point for the bombardier to watch the effect of
his eggs, was my little navigator, Eli Bender. Somehow or
other, he had stepped on that fragile plexiglass; it had broken
under the weight of his body, and now he was being whipped
through space, his lower body dangling outside, the rest of
him held only by the jagged, yielding teeth of the broken
plexiglass.
And, inch by inch, Eli was slipping out ..
I took one look at him. His face was gray, the eyes rolling
and popping at the same time. Above the now-screaming
91
whistle of the wind, coming through the broken window, I
could hear his voice, hysterical and cracking with fear.
"G-o-d! Don't let me die! Please, God, don't let me die!"
I took a hurried look around, grabbing him at the same
time. Merely holding him around the shoulders until help
came... IF help came, was no good; he was slipping out too
fast.
Slipping out, inch by inch, fifteen thousand feet high, and
at a speed close to two hundred miles an hour.
If I could only reach down to his pants belt and hold him
up by that, or find something to tie around his shoulders that
would pull back and keep him in place. But finding some-
thing was out of the question. If I let go of him now, he'd be
sucked right through. I groaned silently. In fact, the only
thing that kept Eli from being whipped out into space right
now was the fact that his flight jacket had become caught
on a jagged piece of plexiglass.
I plunged my hand down further, to get a firmer grip on
Eli's trouser belt. I felt something give, rip and tear, and
almost foolishly, I looked down at my arm where the glass
had slashed its way from elbow to shoulder. The blood
spurted into my face and I wondered if I had severed an
artery.
There was no time to think, no time to do anything but
hang on. To my own amazement, I heard two voices now
two voices screaming, mine and Eli's. Then I could hear
no more, although I knew I was still shrieking, the inrushing
wind taking the sound away almost as soon as it left my
lungs. I could see Eli's mouth open, too, but could hear
nothing. It was only when I bent closer that I could make out
some of the words ...
"Please, Leon. please don't let me die. God! Don't let
me die yet! Leon, save me, save me!"
I tried to say something, to smile, to shake my head, any-
•
92
202
thing. But the furious rush of wind ripped the words from
me. “Ma . . . mama!" I could see Eli's ashen lips form the
word. "Mam-MA! Save me, Ma! Oh, God, God... save me!"
My arm was getting numbed. And cold. The blood was
sticky inside my palms and between my fingers. I felt Eli's
body slide another half inch against me. The wind was hungry
now, merciless, refusing to relinquish the sacrifice it almost
had.
"Ma!"
Somebody had better show up soon, I thought, or both of
us will be out in space. I could feel the edge of the glass
cutting deeper and deeper into my arm, biting hard now, and
with pain.
Eli moved down.
The wind was hideous. Triumphant, evil, screaming in
anger and exultation. I began to pray myself.
Just what made radioman Norman Novak decide to come
forward at this moment and stick his head down into the
compartment, neither he nor I ever found out. Maybe God
knew. I don't know. But there he was, his little monkey-
face staring at us with disbelief, then disappearing.
Eli was crying now. The tears were ripped off his cheeks
by the wind. The sobs only made his body shake more so
that it slipped further and further out into the blue.
"It's okay, Eli!" I was shouting. "Norman's seen us. He'll
get help. Easy boy, easy. Don't worry. I'll hang on to you
until the others get here. You'll be okay..."
I closed my eyes as Dave, Jack Rosen and Jerry Wald burst
through the opening, each one grasping Eli at some spot
around his shoulders and hanging on and then starting the
long pull backwards.
We all pulled hard. In the meantime, Glendale-at the con-
trols now-cut back on the power and just about had the
plane on slow flight so there would be less drag on Eli.
93
:
Within seconds, we had the little navigator safe on the floor.
He was hysterical, still screaming and suffering from shock.
I brought blankets for him and wrapped them tightly around
him to keep him warm. And I found myself stroking his hair
and saying, softly... "You'll be okay, feller. Just relax, relax
and take it easy, boy."
I kept this up until his sobs became fainter and fainter and
completely stopped. His face starting to get some color in it,
he closed his eyes and fell asleep. It was not until then I
could hear anything clearly. It was Dave speaking:
"Let me help get your arm fixed, Leon."
I looked down at my arm. I had forgotten all about it.
But now the blood and pain became real again. I stumbled
a little as I followed Dave through the narrow compartment
way.
The Road to Israel, I thought.
94
*
8*
My arm didn't prevent me from taking over the controls
again, although I was quite shaken; the thought of what
would have happened to Eli when his body struck the ocean
was enough to make me shudder. Eli was in no shape to go
on navigating.
We had no choice but to keep flying. I tried to shake free
of the net of worries that encumbered my thoughts. After
a shot of rum and some sleep, Eli finally staggered back to
the cockpit. I didn't see him, but I felt his light tap on my
shoulder. I understood. It was his way of saying "thanks."
That touch signified everything.
Feeling somewhat better now that Eli was recovering, I
told Novak to try to get the Azores and see what the weather
was like for landing. Santa Maria reported-and what they
said wasn't good!
Ceiling two hundred feet. Heavy fog.
Oh God, I thought. Now this. The first trip, and trouble
95
}
seemed to be pursuing us. I was beginning to get really wor-
ried, when I felt another tap on my shoulder. Looking up,
I saw Glendale with a very superior expression on his face.
As captain and first pilot he was going to take over now, he
said, since the ceiling was so low.
I guess he heard my grunt of derision as I moved out of
the seat. Fine, fine, I was thinking, this I would have to see
-the great Glendale, who had bragged of being a full colonel
in the Air Force. Let's see you fly, fly-boy. I got out of the
left-hand seat, leaving Dave in the other one, while Glendale
took over the controls. I could see the radio compass swing
around, picking up the heading for the field.
I looked at Dave and he stared back at me, as if saying,
"Now what, boy?" Then we looked at Glendale. Was he
going to try to go in or not? The fog was getting thicker.
Santa Maria reported a ceiling now of less than two hundred
feet.
I caught Glendale's eye. There was a film of perspiration
on his forehead. Good, boy, sweat it out, I thought, sweat
out all the bragging words you dished out for us in the
States. Sweat out that bit of foolishness about the leaking gas
at the Miami field.
There's only one thing to do," I answered Glendale's un-
spoken question. "Work. Make an instrument approach."
Glendale grimaced. "There's no ILS or GCA at the field,”
he complained. He didn't have to remind me that Santa Maria
had no instrument landing system or ground control ap-
proach, and that a plane in the fog would have to make it
the hard way-alone.
I saw Glendale shake his head, heard him ask the tower
how the weather was at Largones. It was almost as bad as
at Santa Maria. The appalling thing, though, was that he
should think of Largones at all.
I put my hand on his shoulder. "Look," I said wearily,
96
"Largones is out. It's a British base. Once we put this ship
down, it'll be confiscated and the whole crew will be under
arrest.'
""
"So what?" he demanded fiercely. He rubbed a hand over
his sweating face.
My own anger made me feel like grabbing him by the
throat. I tried desperately to control myself.
"So what?" I echoed. "So what if we are all risking our
lives to get this plane to Palestine? So what if it cost a lot
of dough? So what if the Israelis need it? If you feel that way,
why don't you just ditch it, bail out and say the hell with it?"
He bit his lip. "How about Spain?" he asked hopefully.
I shook my head. "No dice. Spain is nearly eight hours
away. We've only got gas for six hours at the most.
>>
“Then maybe we can stay up here for about four hours.
until we find a hole and..."
"The only place you'll find a hole is in your ass!" I broke
out, "if you get your thumb out of it. Jimmy
" I had
started to plead again, "you know this stuff isn't going to
break up soon. Look at it!"
It did look bad-very dark, thick stuff that seemed to cling
and to be torn apart by the props, only to gather, like cotton
candy, and wrap itself softer and thicker around everything.
"Jimmy, you've got to make an instrument approach.
There's nothing else to do."
I watched him. New bubbles of sweat burst on his fore-
head as he wiped the old ones away. His face was yellow,
the skin drawn tight.
"Well, let me know what you're going to do," I said casu-
ally. "I'm going back to check on the boys, to see how they
are,"
They were kids who wanted to be gunners and mechanics.
in Israel. I found them staring out of the window, hoping to
see a little light. It was so dark now that we could not even
0
97
I
see the wing tips. I looked at the boys and felt as old as their
grandfathers. Had I been so young when I joined the RAF?
They asked me the usual questions, I assured them that every-
thing was all right and that we'd all be having supper on the
ground soon. Then I went back to the cockpit.
I heard them quarreling long before I saw them.
"We can't stay up here all night, man!" Dave was yelling.
"You heard the tower. It's going to be the same in the morn-
ing. We have no choice but to bring her in on instruments."
"Maybe it'll let up..."
"You're dreaming!"
"But I've seen it happen before. It'll let up, I tell
then I'll ..."
"And then you'll get out of that seat and let Dave and me
take her down, Glendale,” I said quietly, tapping him on the
shoulder. "Move, Colonel!"
His eyes narrowed so that the bloodshot streaks in them
seemed as big as ribbons. "You'll what?" he choked.
"Better call it quits, Jimmy... I beg your pardon, Colonel.”
"Listen, you.. "the words grated deep in his throat.
"I'm in charge here, I give the orders and . . .
""
"You'll get the hell out of here before I pull you out by
the back of your neck!" I shouted, losing all control. I felt
my fists bunch together. "Rum-pot! Boozer! I found you as
drunk as hell in Isla Grande, with all that money, for which
you were responsible, spread all over the room. Everyone
knows how scared you were on the first takeoff in Miami.
I put the money back that time, I went along with Hitz after
the takeoff. I went along just to watch you. I wasn't fright-
ened of what might happen because I knew that when you
loused yourself up-and I knew it would be soon-Dave or I
could take over. Now, get the hell out of that seat and haul
yourself to the back, and I don't want to see your face again
98
you, and
until we land. Then you're going back to the States. I've seen
kids fly kites better than you fly this plane."
"I'll tell Hitz, I'll let everyone know this is mutiny and that
you..." Glendale started to protest. But it was weak.
"Out!" I said firmly.
""
"I'll tell the papers everything, I'll see to it that you
"OUT!" I roared, beginning to move forward.
He looked up at me, his lips moved, opening and closing
once or twice, then he gave a little sigh and moved out of
the seat. I did not watch him weave his way to the rear.
"Now, let's see the damned charts," I muttered to Dave
who was staring at me.
I made my first approach, after a 180-degree turn to come
out over the sea, breaking out of the fog. I was both praying
and cursing inside. I made up my mind that once-just this
once-if God let me live, I'd never ask anything of Him
again.
I tried to appear calm. "Let me have one-quarter flap, gear
down," I told Dave.
"Watch out!" I heard Dave warn.
I saw that control tower coming straight at us, looking
wicked through the wisp of fog. I slammed the throttles
against the wall and then felt the breath leave my body.
Close. Too close!
As I began my second approach, I turned to Dave. "Look,"
I said, "Do you want to take it, Dave? Maybe you could do
better. I mean it. I'm liable to end up getting all of us killed."
Dave's smile was crooked but confident. "You're doing
okay, boy," he said, trying to make his voice hearty. "Go
out to sea for about five minutes. Then, when bringing her
down, get over a little more to the south. That should
put
her over the runway . . . I hope!" He smiled faintly.
99
When we broke out of the fog, we were over the far side
of the runway. I said to hell with it, now or never, I'm going
to hold it down on the ground.
I felt plane wheels touch earth . . . one wheel screaming
against the hard cement, the other biting frantically into the
wet sand. I held the wheel hard against the pit of my stomach,
cutting switches at the same time. . . flaps up.
flaps up . . . she's made
it! We're okay. Thanks, Lord, thanks so very much.
As the ship was finally parked, Dave and I just sat there,
saying nothing. I closed my eyes. I'm going to quit, I swore,
I'm getting too old for this.
The ground felt good under our feet. As we looked around,
I heard some of the mechanics say that an Air France ship
which had been above us, had crashed into the hills. I felt
sick again, hardly feeling the hand slaps on my back, barely
noting Glendale, who came up and wanted to say something,
but then turned away.
Funny, I thought, we made it, they didn't. Was it sup-
posed to be that way?
The hot coffee and soup were delicious.
100
* 9 *
The flight across Europe was easy.
Although the flight plans for the three B-17's called for
Corsica, all of us knew that the final destination would be
Israel after a stop in Czechoslovakia. Glendale was still flying
in my ship, although he would give no more orders and
would, when the last base was reached, be sent back to the
States, after getting his pay.
Over Germany, a couple of F-51's looked us over, stayed
with us a little while and then dipped away. The old mark-
ings on the planes probably saved us; the F-51's thought we
were from some bomber group in Europe.
On the way to Zatec, the base which was near Prague, we
again went over our orders to show our passports at the field,
and to give them to the authorities, who would return them
to us later and give us their own papers so that we could
stay in Prague for a time. None of us had any love for the
Communists who were in control, but the fact remained that
101
the Reds were willing to sell us arms and ammunition and get
our planes ready. We had the money, and they were willing.
That was as far as it went. The politics were of little or no
interest. Why an Iron Curtain country should want to help
Israel and not the Arabs was not our concern. None of us
had
any love for the Communists-but if they wanted to aid
us, that was their affair.
I had a chance to relax and think during that trip to Zatec.
I thought of my mother and all the troubles that had beset
her life. I remembered-vividly-and with the great love I
had always had for her, my sister Dottie. I wondered about
Dottie's kids. Would my fighting for Israel, helping to carve
a Jewish land, help them? Would they be able to grow up in
a world which would not make them feel inferior? There
was a land of Jews now, fully recognized as such, part of the
United Nations and all the peoples of the world. It was this
wish, this hope, that had prompted me to accept this assign-
ment to fight. Hatikva, the hope. The anthem of Israel.
But as for me, perhaps I would always be between the Star
and the Cross... between the problems inflicted on me by
the Christian world and those, more inwardly, of course, of
the Jewish world.
Thinking about my emotional future gave way to wonder-
ing what my actual future would be. Hitz had held out a
tantalizing promise. Maybe I really would have my own little
airline. Not much, I didn't dream of anything big or elab-
orate-just a couple of planes to be used for dusting, or light
freight or maybe a few passengers.
It would be pleasant, yes, a dream come true, I mused, to
settle down in Israel, have my own business, do what I liked
doing best-flying-and maybe be married and have my own
kids. Kids who would not have to go through the slum-life,
the poverty and hunger which had plagued and stained my
102
It would be nice to have a wife, someone to come
own years.
home to.
I stirred uneasily. I was restless now for something I could
not easily, or perhaps dared not, define. It had been several
weeks now since I had had a woman. Perhaps that was it. I
overlooked or neglected opportunities which seemed to prom-
ise only emptiness. I thought of all the girls I had known, of
the chances missed as well as the chance encounters which
had blossomed into rich and full experiences.
Mildred Davis' face suddenly swam into my thoughts,
coming out of nowhere. It surprised me. Consciously, at
least, I had not thought of her in weeks, but she was still a
part of me, her face as clear as if I had just left her, her voice
as familiar as that of a long-time close friend, that loveable
gesture of hers, the manner of holding her cigarette.
I sighed so heavily that Dave gave me a quick look.
"Me, too," I heard him say. "I hope there will be enough
in Prague. Or at least just one."
I didn't answer. Although Dave and I both had the same
thing in mind, there was a difference. I knew the name and
face of my girl.
The landing and arrival at Zatec were routine and normal.
We got on the ground without mishap, our passports were
collected by the grinning Czech guards and we were given
for them which would enable us to go into Prague
passes
with no trouble. I didn't linger long at the field. I was tired
and I wanted a hot bath and a week in bed. Besides, it no
longer was my responsibility to worry over the crew and
the ship. It was a load off my shoulders.
I was disappointed because Ray Todd, who would be in
charge of this part of the operation, had not met me. I had
known Ray in New York, when he had been a Brooklyn
103
cop, a big, rambling, good-natured guy. But I knew Ray
would check with me sooner or later, and this was verified
for me at the Stalingrad Hotel where I was informed that
Ray would check in about noon.
It was nearly ten in the evening now as I took a quick
shower and then fell into bed, to sleep until morning. When
I awoke I was feeling much better, and one look out of the
window assured me that this was a wonderful day to be
alive. The sun poured in through the glass, and the sky was
cloudless and blue. I could take a deep breath and feel re-
laxed all over. And I could grin while shaving... as I
saw the bidet in the bathroom. All the European hotels
seemed to have them, I thought, and I wondered which
American hotel would be the first to install that most useful
little appliance. I remembered how surprised I had been that
time in Paris, when I had seen my first one.
Shaved, showered and dressed, I strolled over to the town's
other hotel, where I had been told I could get a meal. As I
pushed open the heavy door of the dining room, I was almost
deafened by the roar of male voices inside. I could hear
French, German, Spanish and several guttural languages I
couldn't identify. I could hear English, too, spoken in a half-
dozen accents. There were Americans there-quite a few of
them. You didn't have to hear their flat, loud voices. Their
clothes alone labelled them.
Even though I knew it was money and not faith or ideals
that bound these men together, it still gave me a thrill to
know that so many of them were on my side-the side of
right, I thought. After all, they could have been fighting as
mercenaries for the Egyptians just as well.
After I had finished eating, I took the bus back to the
field, to get a better look at it and also to wait for Todd to
come in. I was the last one out of the bus, walking up the
side of the cement strip. I saw our three B-17's, so I knew
104
that Booth and Summers must have come in after us and
were now probably sleeping. I also noticed a number of
C-46's and DC-3's as well as an assortment of aircraft, rang-
ing from Spitfires, German ME-109's, through a Skymaster
and a couple of new jet jobs.
I drifted around, chatting with a couple of English pilots
who were doing the checkouts in the jets, until about noon
when a C-54 started to come in like some real hot rod. I
knew that only Ray could be at the controls, making a land-
ing like that, with the smoke coming from the tires as he hit
the cement. I figured he must have taken off a pound of
rubber.
Both Todd and I were grinning as we saw each other and
yelled. Todd was carrying a briefcase which looked like a
little leather change purse in his huge paws. He was one of
the biggest men I ever knew. A loveable bear of a guy, and
just as dangerous as a grizzly when aroused.
Todd checked his gun with little Levy-a character I had
noticed in the mess-hall and who had been appointed as the
liaison man for Palestine routine matters. Then Todd and I
got on the same bus and rode into town.
In his room, he asked me to give him the real lowdown on
the pilots and crews, and I told him my opinion of Glendale-
that the man was unfit to fly, citing his fears, his drinking
and his lack of flying knowledge in the fog. Todd took notes
on all I said. I also spoke to Todd about Dave, telling him
that Dave was a mighty good man, steady and reliable, but
that he was a bit peeved because he felt he wasn't getting
enough money. I added, sorrowfully, that I did not like to
see this but if Dave wanted more, he should be given some
consideration. Todd said he would see what he could do.
Then Ray told me about the rest of the plan. All the flying,
he grinned at me, would be done right from here, not from
the United States.
105
"We'll fly everything from small arms and bombs right up
to crated Messerschmidts," he smiled. "You know what an
ME weighs? About 35,000 pounds, so you'll be flying a crate
that is about four tons overloaded. The fighter boys are in
Prague right now, getting their check-outs on the ME's.
They will be ready when we are ready to leave for Palestine.
We want the planes ready and assembled for the fighter boys
when they get there. Your time of arrival in Palestine will
always be at night, so none of the UN members will know
what is going on. Remember, there's an embargo against
shipping arms into Palestine. There will be times, Leon, when
no sooner are you unloaded, than you get gassed up and fly
right back here!"
He added that at times we might have to make stops at
Ajaccio, Crete, or in Athens, or in Rome. In all those places,
he assured me, there would be a liaison man who would take
care of things for us, see that the right people were paid off,
and so on. The names of these liaison men would be given to
me. As a captain, I would also be given five hundred American
dollars for emergencies. What I did not spend of this money,
I was to return, either to him or the omnipresent little Levy
at this field. Then Todd told me to take a week off in Prague,
enjoy myself and take Dave Gold along with me, to see if I
could talk him out of his eagerness to fly for the big dough.
I listened intently and then, I don't know what, but some-
thing made me ask, "Have you ever heard of Mildred Davis?
Is she one of the liaison men, or women?”
Ray shot me a quick, odd look. He tapped his briefcase,
glanced at me once or twice, shrugged and then said, “Okay,
Leon. I won't lie to you. I've heard of this Davis gal. But
Leon, lay off. Not for you. She's pretty high up.
I heard you
met her in New York with Hitz, but that's all I can tell you
for the time being."
I lit a cigarette to hide my face. "Hell,” I said, inhaling
106
deeply, "you make this dame sound like a real Mata Hari or
something. I was just curious."
He was staring at me. "Curiosity is a funny thing," he
said, giving me a long look. "It is very contagious and gets
people into trouble. She was curious, too. About you." He
sat back and grinned at me. "Aren't you interested in know-
ing where I saw her?"
“No,” I said, knocking some ash off my cigarette. It was
one of the biggest lies I ever told in my life.
"Okay." His smile looked as broad as the blade of a wind-
mill I had seen in Holland. "Sweat it out, you old bastard. If
you're not interested, I won't tell you. And maybe it's for
your own good," he added earnestly. "Look," he continued,
putting a hand on my shoulder. "Go to Prague and grab
yourself a free piece and forget all about this Davis. She isn't
for you."
"Why not?" I challenged. "I have leprosy or something?"
His lips tightened and the humor left his
eyes. "When
meet her,” he said, "she'll tell you herself, in person."
I stubbed my cigarette and rose.
"I'll look forward to it," I said. "Especially that 'in person'
deal. I like her person. I like it
very much."
Ray was shaking his head. "Tell you one thing," he said.
"With her, it'll always be first person singular. Never plural."
you
107
*10*
.
1.
Dave and I caught the morning train to Prague. We knew
that about a two-hour trip faced us, but we didn't at all mind,
because we wanted to see as much of the Czech countryside
as we could. So we sat in silence, busy with our own thoughts,
watching the beautiful, green land go streaming past our
windows.
About an hour later we got unexpected company when a
young lady entered our compartment. Dave and I gave her a
quick look. Dave dismissed her at once. But I found myself
studying her, liking the way she wore her hair in a long
braid which was entwined over her head and the soft, limpid
look in her dark brown eyes. For a while she just sat. From
time to time our gaze met. She was rather heavy by Ameri-
can standards, but I was pleased to see that everything was in
the right place and in ample and exciting proportions.
From time to time, we would shyly smile at each other,
the way strangers do who are forced to share part of a jour-
::
108
ney together. I decided to break the ice, asking her if she
spoke English and delighted with her answering nod and the
quaint accent of her words.
The rest followed naturally. I asked her if she knew of a
hotel where my friend and I could settle down for a week or
so, and she recommended the Ambassador. She also suggested
some of the tourist sights.
She was not surprised to find out we were Americans. I
guess it was no secret here that many American boys were
stopping over here on their way to fight for Palestine.
The trip and the conversation were the same, smooth, light
and interesting. It was made more exciting by a sort of inner
feeling that more would come from this chance meeting. She
told me that her name was Alena Lozima, and she politely
accepted my invitation to show me the city after work, but I
would have to wait for the weekend.
At the station in Prague Alena gave me her address and
promised to wait for me when I'd call upon her. She also gave
me directions, giggling a little when she added that I might get
lost.
After she had gone, Dave winked at me. "You'll have your
hands full-literally-with that one," he grinned. "Maybe she's
got a girl friend for me."
Rather stiffly, I told him to find his own girls, which he
should have no trouble doing. If this town was anything like
Rome or Paris . . .
We hailed a cab for the Ambassador, looking out at the
streets of Prague now, seeing the avenues, the sidewalk cafes
with people sitting at the little tables over coffee or wine. It
looked like Paris, except that there seemed to be much more
poverty and unhappiness here. The men and women, although
neatly dressed, still seemed threadbare, careful of their clothes,
as if they were all they had. Dave remarked that the broad
streets reminded him of New Orleans-Canal Street-and the
109
:
זי
trolleys added to the illusion. I got a great kick out of seeing
one of these trolleys, an American job with the "S" sign for
Southern Boulevard in the Bronx still on it.
Our first stop, however, was to see a Dr. Alex, another con-
tact man, who gave us some advice, handed us some money
for expenses and changed the
and changed the currency for us. We received
about fifty dollars each, which, Dr. Alex said, would be more
than enough for a round of entertainment on the black market
exchanges.
Once established at the Ambassador, a nice clean hotel,
with the usual lounge, barber and beauty shops, men's store,
and so on, I decided to give myself a real treat, to have a
real Kosher meal, something which I had not had for months
and for which I longed. In asking my way around, Dave and
I discovered that such a repast could be found in the Jewish
quarter of the city.
It didn't take us long to find one; indeed, we were led there
by the delicious and familiar smells of cooking. More than
anything else, at that time, I had a yen for potato pancakes,
made just the way I like them, fairly large, fluffy, golden-
brown from the frying fat and with just a touch of onion in
them. My mouth was fairly watering as we entered that little
second-floor cafe, and the Yiddish chatter of the diners fell
comfortably on our ears. We felt at home immediately. We
were no longer strangers. Here, thousands of miles from our
childhood homes, we were back in the old and beloved atmos-
phere. These were our people around us, the young men,
looking fit and determined, talking vociferously amongst
themselves, the quieter old men, with the alpaca coats and the
long payehs, or side-curls, sitting in a corner, reading their
yellowed books, their skull-caps pushed over their grey heads.
They rocked to and fro as they read, their lips moving, but
no sound to be heard.
I felt the old thrill racing through me. I couldn't help it.
110
These were my people. For ages they had been thus, driven
into exile from land to land, anywhere and everywhere, and
yet able to keep living. On what? On faith alone. They had
nothing but faith to keep them going. I knew what many of
them had seen; that many of them had been victims of Hitler,
and yet, phoenix-like, they had risen from the ashes of their
martyrdom to keep going. And when I realized that I was
going to fight so that these people of mine never need wander
again, never know the whip, the pain of torture, the smell of
death in the concentration camps and crematoriums, when I
relished the thought that these horrors would be no more, I
felt good and proud.
Not so Dave.
From the very start, he stared curiously about the cafe, see-
ing the diners as strangers, aliens, unable and not wanting to
understand them. True, to Dave they were Jews, but they
were foreign and not a part of his life. He was an American.
What were these people to him? Nothing.
I could still see the look of derision, of bafflement, even
scorn in Dave's eyes, although he said nothing at first. I could
not blame him. How could he understand? He had not been
brought up to think or act as a Jew, and by that I mean, he
knew nothing at all of Jewish history, customs, or culture.
Not that I was a religious man. My God had always been a
personal one and I would frequently call upon him and ask
divine guidance. But still, I could feel for these people. Like
myself, they had been pressed and torn between the Cross and
the Star. For them, there had been no middle ground of safety
and security, and there would be none until they had a land
of their own. But Dave was utterly incapable of understand-
ing this, and I did not-and could not-hate him for it.
"Look at them," Dave almost whispered, as we waited for
someone to take our orders.
"Take a better look," I said angrily, "because if it hadn't
111
been for your father and mother having the guts to leave
Europe and go to America, you, too, might be here. That is,"
I snorted, "if you had had the strength and courage to live
through Hitler's camps and stuff like that. They did. That's
why they're here."
I guess I was pretty mad. Dave looked at me queerly.
"You're nuts,” he finally said. “What have I got in common
with them?”
"Unzip your pants and take a good look," I said. "You'll
soon find out."
He looked shocked.
"That doesn't make us the same," he said defensively.
"Everybody's circumcized nowadays."
My fingers were flat against the white tablecloth. "If you
knew anything about Jewish history, you'd realize that it's a
bond, a considered covenant... the cut that knifes into you as
deeply as into them.”
"That's primitive stuff!" he said indignantly.
"There's this difference," I told him. "There's a deep religi-
ous significance in the circumcision of Jewish babies. Prayers
are said, the mobel is present. For Jewish people, it represents
something special, a reminder of who they are and what they
are.”
But Dave shook his head. "They're strangers to me," he
muttered. "I can't help it. That's the way I feel."
"Dave," I said, leaning forward, "of what are you
ashamed?"
"I'm not ashamed of anything," he said apologetically. “You
know that. Let any son-of-a-bitch call me a dirty Jew-
bastard, and he'd be swallowing his teeth for a long time."
I looked right at him. "Why?" My voice was soft. “Why
you feel that way, Dave?”
do
He shrugged. "I'd feel the same way if I were an Italian
112
and somebody called me a wop, or if I were Irish and some-
body made a crack about my being a potato eater."
It was getting hot. "Speaking of potatoes," I said lightly,
"here comes the waitress.'
""
The "waitress" was a bustling, cheery, obese Jewish woman
about my mother's age. Her hair was gray, her eyes a still-
snapping black and her face, oily with sweat and heat from
the stove, shone at us kindly.
She took one look at us and guessed, or sensed, who we
were. "Amerikaner?" she asked eagerly. Since Dave couldn't
understand or speak a word of Yiddish, I took over.
"Ladkes," I said. "Kartofelen ladkes."
Her face beamed. In a rapid burst of Yiddish that almost
overwhelmed me, she broke into a happy conversation of how
glad she was to see us here, that she was happy we had come
to fight for Palestine from America and that, with her own
hands, she would make the potato pancakes just the way I
wanted them done. Then, to my big embarrassment, she took
my face between her hands and kissed me soundly on both
cheeks, doing the same to Dave, who flushed and looked ill at
ease.
"Zul Gott eich benshen," she said, and I nodded. We would
need God's prayers and blessings to see us through. Then,
very proudly, she hustled back into the kitchen.
I looked quizzically at Dave. "It isn't every café where you
get a blessing for your entrée," I smiled. "These people
know; they understand why we are here, and what it means
to them."
Dave shrugged again. “They're not my kind of people," he
said. "I don't feel Jewish. I'm an American," he insisted
stubbornly.
I nodded. "You're an American," I said, “and at this
moment I'm not sure I'm so proud of that. A real American
113
:
..
wouldn't feel so superior, especially one whose parents came
from around here." I felt anger start to pound at me with hot
and heavy strokes so that my hands started to tremble. The
old wounds in my back began to ache; I thought I was going
to get a headache. "Brother," I said, "you may have gone
through a couple of wars and fought bravely, but I still say
that your parents and these people have more guts in their
little fingers than you have in all your body. You sneer at your
old man and old lady. Why? Because they had the intestinal
fortitude to leave their homes in Europe, come to a strange
land, where they couldn't even read the street signs, for God's
sake!" I almost shouted. "And they got jobs and married and
raised kids and worked their fingers to the bone so as to send
for
you to school and make an ‘American' out of you. . .
what? So you can go around sneering at these people here?
American, my ass. The only real difference between them and
you is that you have a green passport that says you're an
American. Hell, if it hadn't been for your parents, you
might be dead now in some concentration camp!" I snorted.
"American!"
Dave looked around uneasily. "Not so loud," he said.
"They're beginning to look at us."
"So what?" I taunted. "You make cracks that they are un-
able to understand unfortunately, because they are inferior to
you."
He glared at me and made a move as if to get up. Suddenly
I was ashamed. It wasn't his fault. He did not, could not
understand. Perhaps I was too keen on the subject. I reached
out my hand to stop
him.
"I'm sorry, Dave. I got kinda carried away. I always do.
I just can't understand why one Jew should feel superior to
another. The German Jew used to think he was cock of the
walk, looked down on the Polish Jew. But did that make any
difference to Hitler? The hell it did! The Polish Jew looked
114
down upon
the Litvak, the Lithuanian Jew, the Litvak looked
down
upon the Galizianer, the Austrian or Roumanian Jew,
and the Spanish Jews, the Sephardics, still think they're God's
only chosen creatures and wouldn't spit upon a northeastern
European Jew. But when the time comes for concentration
camps and crematoriums," I added, "see if it makes any differ-
ence whether your name is Rabinowitz or Robinson."
His eyes were round in pretended innocence, but I could
read the mockery in them. "Do you mean to tell me that
they'll put Jews in concentration camps in America?"
"No!" I said fiercely. "I could never believe that. We're
Jews, sure, and we'll find prejudice and anti-Semitism. But
there's one thing you forget, Dave . . . We're not alone!
We're Jews, but we're also Americans. We just happen to be
Americans of Jewish faith. Hurt one of us, and all Americans
are hurt. You can't separate us any more,'
>>
"Oh no?" Dave said bitterly. "That's what the Jews in
Germany thought, too."
"Germany was different," I snapped.
"How, Buster?" Dave was getting mad. I could tell by his
ever-increasing drawl.
"They've had a lot different history than America. They've
had feudalism, and a lot of it carried over as far as the Jews
are concerned. They had a Kaiser. We never did. They never
had a real republic."
"The hell they didn't!" Dave almost shouted. "What about
the Weimar Republic? I thought it was one of the most
democratic constitutions in the world."
"Which was sold down the river by the Reds."
"And those Jews who happened to be Reds or Socialists
and whatnot," Dave said savagely. "Hell, Leon, you know the
Jews took sides, just like any other people. When Hitler came
on the scene, he said 'Either me or the Reds, which do you
want?' and those rich Jews sided with the big industrialists
115
:
and bankers and so on. While the poor Jews, the proletariat,
took opposite sides. If the Jews were so all-fired against anti-
Semitism in Germany, why didn't they get together, kick
Hitler out and then get rid of the Reds as well, to preserve the
Republic? Hell, Leon, you'll never get the Jews to stick to-
gether, because they can't. Each Jew will fight on the side
where his money is best represented. Look for the money
angle, Leon. Cherchez le buck . . . and you'll find a man's
true political and religious feelings."
"Now you're getting down to cases," I said. "Money."
"You bet!" Dave agreed heartily.
"And that's why you're fighting in Israel now?" I probed.
"Is there another reason?” he grinned at me. He made that
gesture, which I always considered obscene, of rubbing his
thumb against his forefinger. "For dough. The buck. The
zloty. The shekel, pound, lira, frank, mark, peso. The long,
folding green."
But I shook my head. "That's not the reason, Dave, and
deep inside you you know it. You can't make me believe that.
Not in a million years. And, in a million years, how many of
your ancestors fought for money alone? Judas Maccabee?
Joshua? David? Bar Kochba? Haym Salomon? Did they
ask for five hundred bucks per mission? The hell they did!
They fought for the same reason you're fighting now. Be-
cause you're a Jew. Because being a Jew means being a born
fighter for rights and justice. You can't help it, boy. It's in
your blood, in your guts. Despite centuries of assimilation,
indifference, neglect, let there be a cause for justice in the
world and the Jew is there."
He was staring at me and, for the first time, I saw his eyes
drop. He'll be okay! My heart began to pound. I'll be able
to tell Ray Todd that Dave is not one of the money-boys.
Finally, Dave looked up. "I'll not say you're entirely
116
wrong," he admitted. "You're got something. But the money's
important, too."
"Sure," I said. "Just like gravy. But the real meat is Israel's
freedom... and you know it."
I saw him slam a big fist on the table. He growled, "You've
got me all mixed up now."
"No, I haven't, Dave," I said gently. "You're on the right
path. Only sometimes you stumble and need someone to lead
you on. But you know where you're going, you . .
""
We were interrupted by the reappearance of the motherly
looking waitress, weighed down now by an immense tray of
potato pancakes and chicken soup. This she placed in front
of us, bustling around us like a mother hen.
"Ess gezunter heit," she said, seating herself at the table
and watching us. We didn't need her blessing, although it
was appreciated, to pile into the food.
She must have spread the news about us around because
other people began to drift over to our table, asking us if we
knew any Goldbergs from Brooklyn, any Strausses from St.
Louis or any Moskowitzes from Los Angeles. She had to shoo
them away to allow us to finish the meal. I asked her what the
Jews did for a living here, and she shrugged.
"We twirl and twirl and gyrate and whirl to make a living,"
she answered in the Yiddish idiom. "Some peddle, some deal in
black market. Some"-she shrugged, sort of helplessly-"We
are all waiting for one thing," she finished, her chin lifting,
"Eretz Yisrael.”
The Land of Israel. The hope. The dream. The salvation.
The sanctuary.
When she had mentioned peddling I had an idea, asking
her if I could get a Leica camera. At once, she nodded and
called over a man with a large leather briefcase. She told the
peddler what I wanted and, sure enough, he brought out the
117
camera. It was a beauty, although it was of Russian, not Ger-
man make. I asked about this, and the peddler told me the
Reds were losing no time in copying the German product.
We bargained for a time and I finally got the camera for
thirty-five American dollars.
Curious as to what else he had in that briefcase, I asked
about it, and the peddler, smiling shyly, opened the bag wider
and let me peer into its contents.
It was filled with cherries. Wild, red cherries.
Cherries, I thought, a lump in my throat. For God's sake!
Cherries . . . and he's selling them for a living! Perhaps be-
cause I was full, perhaps for another reason, I couldn't eat any
more, not even when our "waitress" brought over a little
sponge cake on the top of which had been stuck two small
American flags. They were tiny things, made of cheap paper,
but they seemed to fly and flutter with a life of their own.
"Hatikva," she said in Hebrew, smiling. The hope, ex-
pressed in two cheap little dime store flags. God alone knew
where they had obtained them for us especially.
"The land of the free and the home of the brave," I said to
Dave. I arose. “Come on, Dave, let's go.
""
I paid the bill, said many goodbyes and then was out on
the street. We paid a visit to the old Jewish cemetery, looking
over the ancient stones, and then we headed back to town
where I was supposed to pick up Alena for our date.
She was on time, and she looked really pretty and neat. We
ate at my hotel because I didn't want to drive all over the city
looking for a place to dine. We chatted lightly and informally
about everything and especially Palestine. She was most inter-
ested in that, thought it wonderful that I was doing what I was
doing, asked if there was anything a woman could do over
there, but I could not answer because I had no knowledge of
actual conditions there.
After dinner, she suggested the P-5 Club and we went
118
there. It was a most unusual place, I thought, with the usual
noise, music and laughter-plus something else. At each table
there was a telephone. Alena explained to me the purpose of
the phones.
"Boys and girls down here come in to dance and... how
do you say it?" she asked in her charming accent... "to lift
each other up, to ..
""
"Pick each other up?" I suggested, delighted by her quick
nod. She was very pretty, I thought, although she could have
used a diet. However, it didn't matter now. She was good
company.
"To pick each other up," she echoed. "If a boy sees a girl he
likes, sitting at another table, all he has to do is pick up the
phone, ask the operator for her phone number-which all the
phones have-and just start talking to her. He can ask her for
a dance or anything." Her slow smile was lovely. "Sometimes,
it is just the opposite. Sometimes a girl asks a boy for a dance."
She cocked her head prettily at me. "Do you think it is a
naughty thing?" she asked, her eyes sparkling with laughter.
"I think it's a terrific idea," I answered. I meant it. Leave
it to the Europeans to be honest and practical and sincere even
in those things. "Why, back in America, the first nightclub
owner who thinks of this idea could make a fortune," I smiled
at her.
She looked surprised, even a little scared when I stood up.
"Just wait here," I assured her. Then I walked to another
table, an empty one, about ten yards away. There, I sat down
and dialed the number of the phone on our table.
"'Allo?"
Her voice had a slow, exciting quality. "Hello,” I said. I
glanced over to her table. She was hunched over the phone,
not looking at me. "I am a big American movie producer.
I am looking for a beautiful new star in my next picture. I
saw you... and you're just the type I want."
Her laugh was delicious. And she caught on right away.
119
:
“Oh,” she answered, the laughter thick in her voice, “but I
can't act a bit. Besides, my husband won't let me. He's a big
rich manufacturer of atomic sports cars
and he's very
jealous!"
"I thrive on jealous husbands," I answered, "especially
when they have beautiful wives. Your husband must be so
jealous of
you that he's probably watching you by television
tonight. Or are you alone tonight because he's out with a
Geiger counter, looking for fuel for his sports cars?"
There was a pause. She didn't quite get it; maybe Geiger
counters and TV were too much for her limited English.
"The girl must also be a good dancer," I said, to cover up.
"Are you telling me, or asking me?" she laughed.
"Both," I said. "I'll be right over to find out."
She was a good dancer.
She came into my arms lightly and yet with confidence.
The lights dimmed, and the orchestra struck up one of those
off-beat, sensuous tangos, half Central European, half Spanish,
with a zither adding its soft and erotic little slashes and
caresses to the music. When I tightened my arm around her,
she did the same, moving closer. We were dancing as strang-
ers no longer; our bodies were getting acquainted. Nor did
she show any signs of embarrassment. In a few moments, she
was letting me know, without saying a word, that it would be
all right between us. Her body was answering all my ques-
tions, and answering them fully, without shame or pretense.
She widened her thighs so I could slip my own knee between
them. I let my hand slide slowly down her back, and I heard
her catch her breath.
I didn't kiss her, however, until we were back in my hotel
room. I didn't want to wait, but she made me, getting un-
dressed first, doing it slowly and deliberately, I thought, to
make it more tantalizing. She wouldn't let me touch her until
120
she was on the bed. I undressed hurriedly and then stopped
suddenly as I leaned over her. In the half-light which came
from the bathroom, she looked utterly feminine. The deep,
swelling curves of her lips, full, ripe breasts, centered with
darker disks intrigued me.
Then I saw it! I gasped. Stared . ..
stared at the golden crucifix which encircled her neck
and which just reached the points of her erect nipples. I was
both surprised and shocked . . surprised because I had
thought she was Jewish, shocked at the sight of that religious
symbol in the erotic surroundings.
The Star and the Cross.
"Take it off," I said, still looking at her. I could not look
at the crucifix. I suddenly felt that it was an obstacle, almost
an enemy, something I had to overcome with force. It was as
if by taking her violently, I could be victorious over the
crucifix.
Slowly she slipped the slim strand of gold over her head and
placed it under the pillow. Then she smiled lazily and once
more held up her arms to me and took me against her. I held
her close, feeling her tremble, hearing her breathing be-
coming louder and harsher. Suddenly, she shifted away from
me, turning over on her side, I with her. And then, before I
realized it, she was moving over me. Her braids were now
brushing my face. She was very strong. I couldn't feel a
single ripple in her strong arms as she supported herself and
then slowly lowered herself onto me.
She was instantly impaled. She did not move for a time.
"You like?" she finally asked. "You like?"
I liked.
In the dark, my cigarette made slight arcs and punctua-
tions to her story. She was half-Polish, she told me, which
accounted for the crucifix. Married to a Polish flier at the
121
start of the Nazi invasion, she had quickly become widowed
when her man was shot down by the Luftwaffe. She had fled
to Prague, living there with a grandmother who was Jewish.
Because of her half-Polish origin and through some friends
who had procured papers, she had managed to live through
the German occupation, working in a shoe repair factory
until
peace came, and then the Reds.
She was curious about me, and asked why I had come from
America to fight. I didn't give her much of an answer, and
she didn't press it further. She said she had never known an
American before and she asked many questions about Israel,
in which she seemed very interested. I answered as well as I
could, became drowsy and fell asleep until, around dawn, she
awoke me again and gave me more furious pleasure.
In the days that followed, I kept seeing Alena, even though
I knew it was unfair. She was falling in love with me, some-
thing I did not wish to see happen. I wasn't in love with her,
and I knew that, within a day or so, I would have to be
leaving, probably never to see her again. If she was aware of
this-and I am sure she was-she never let me know, or gave
any sign.
So the days and the nights followed each other swiftly and
full of excitement. There was one time when we went to a
sort of shooting gallery and, to her delight, she knocked down
a large, stuffed clown. This, amidst much hand clapping
and good-natured banter from the crowd, the proprietor
handed her with all the decorum and dignity of a king be-
stowing a knighthood. She immediately named the clown
Petrouchka... and gave him the place of honor at the foot
of her bed. Petrouchka was discreet, however, and never let
a word escape from his little sewed mouth as to what he saw
or heard.
And then, it was over. I had to go back. I told her not to
122
come to the train with me and she promised she wouldn't. But,
as I suspected, when I was already on the coach, I saw her
walking near the window. Petrouchka was in her arms. With-
out a word, she lifted up the doll and handed him to me, and
then, just as swiftly walked away without a backward glance.
I stared after her until the train started, and she disappeared
as we curved away from the station.
*
123
*11*
:
Back at the field I checked in with Todd, who was very
pleased about a new development which had just come up, he
informed me enthusiastically.
From our Italian contacts in Rome, Todd let me know,
there were fifteen P-51 fighter planes available for us. We
were to fly them back to Israel, as soon as the ships were
inspected and we checked out in them. The aircraft also had
wing-tanks, thus enabling them to carry enough fuel for the
flight to the Holy Land.
I had not flown a P-51 since 1946, but I knew that a few
hours with the TO manuals would get me briefed on all I had
forgotten, and I shared Todd's enthusiasm for the deal. I was
told to go to Rome at once, check with the contact man
there--Archie Gurinsky- and then, with the rest of the fliers
get the ships out of Italy, fast!
Todd looked at me. "By the way," he said casually, "did
you run into Jim Glendale in Prague?"
124
ì
...
"No," I said. I was not going to tell Todd that I had spent
most of my Prague leave in the hotel room with Alena.
"Unhuuh." Todd's fingers drummed against the table top.
got rid of him as you suggested," he said. "He's going
back to the United States." He looked up. "How about this
other pilot-Dave Gold. Did you talk to him?"
"I
"I did, Ray."
"And?" His voice was sharp. I knew that one word from
me and Dave would also be sent packing. But I felt that Dave
was good, even if he didn't understand fully.
"I think he'll be okay, Ray,” I said.
"Think?" Ray's lips hardened. "Boy, I have to know. This
is a big deal, Leon. We can't afford to have any F.O.'s in it.
If the guy isn't satisfied, if he feels he isn't getting enough
dough, if dough is all he wants... Leon, you remember back
in the States, when the training commands used to put all
those washed-out kids, who wanted to be single-engined
fighters into four-engine or two-engine bombers? You know
what happened. They were dissatisfied. Their minds weren't
on their work. What was the result? Crackups... dozens of
innocent crew kids and instructors killed just because these
would-be hot-rocks were pissed off because they couldn't
fight in fighter planes. I don't want any accidents to happen
that way." Todd reached for the phone. "Dave should be
back now. Suppose I call him, and we both hear his answer?"
I kept quiet. What could I do? Todd had to be sure, and
Dave alone could make him feel that way. I waited until
the connection had been made and Todd winked at me,
telling me to wait, Dave was on his way down.
As soon as Dave entered the room, Todd gave him a drink,
helped him to light a cigarette and then, with no more pre-
liminaries, sprang the sixty-four dollar question.
"Dave," Todd said, "Leon tells me you're okay. But I'm
not completely sure. Now we got a deal going with P-51's.
125
We need every good pilot we can get. But if you
feel you're
not satisfied, if you want more money, we'll get somebody
else. Now. How do you feel about it? I've heard cracks that
you want seventy-five, eighty dollars an hour for flying, and
crap like that. So let's get it straight."
Dave looked at me, then at Todd. He stared thoughtfully
down at his cigarette.
“Well?” Todd asked impatiently. "I'm not going to beg
you, even if we do need you. Seems to me that because you
are Jewish, it should be enough. Leon here isn't getting any
fancy dough."
Dave licked his lips. Once more his eyes strayed to me,
then to Todd. "Okay," he said finally. He still kept looking
at me.
“Okay, what?” Todd's voice snapped.
“Okay, I'm in,” Dave answered in a hard voice. I'll take
whatever Leon is getting. I must be nuts," he muttered, finally
looking away. "Getting my ass in a sling, for nothing!"
I heard Todd's breath escape. He must have been as anxious
as I. As Ray started to smile, Dave looked up in a surly way.
"Now, get this straight," he said. "I'm not doing this be-
cause I'm Jewish or because I want to make Palestine a safe
place for a lot of European mockies, so they can have some-
where to live. I'm just doing it because I . . . well, because
I...
در
"Yes?" Todd's voice became very soft.
"Because I . . ." Dave was on the defensive. "Oh, hell,
because I'm nuts, because I like Leon and because I'm just
currazzy about potato pancakes!" he finished savagely, getting
up and storming out of the room, slamming the door behind
him.
Todd smiled at me and winked.
“You're right, kid,” he said, “Dave's okay.”
126
Once in Rome, we made contact with Gurinsky, got the
dope on the P-51's, met some of the other boys. While at the
Excelsior Hotel, I received another surprise when I beheld
the burly giant at the bar. Buzz Hurley! The last time I had
seen him was in Mexico, where he had drifted away from the
project, saying he was going to fly for Chiang's National-
ists for more dough. Now he was here. A small world all
right!
When we got through with all the shoulder-pounding and
obscene greetings, Buzz told me he was finally going to join
with us. “I'll show you Jew-bastards how to fight a war!"
he grinned. “It's goddamned lucky for you that I'm on your
side."
"Yeah," I said. "I'd sure hate to shoot you down and think
of all the women who would be deprived of
your stud serv-
ices. The birth rate would go down about twenty points."
Buzz roared with laughter. You couldn't help but like the
guy. There was no yesterday, no tomorrow, for him. He
lived for the hour. He was never completely sober, never
fully drunk. Loud, boisterous, rough like a prickly pear,
lovable, dependable-that was Buzz Hurley.
He pulled me over to the floor where there were some
people seated at a table. "Hollywood," he confided in my
ear. "Big shots. Here to make a picture or something. Notice
guy in the middle? I'll introduce you to him."
that
I noticed the guy in the middle at once, and recognized
him. His face had graced the front pages of the papers for
his many love affairs, as well as the usual Hollywood gossip
columns. He was always playing swashbuckling roles, and
his profile and mustache had become as famous as his alleged
prowess with women. I almost expected him to be dressed
in silk tights and have a sword on a sash when he stood up
to shake hands with me. His name was Ted Fleming.
127
As soon as we had pulled up our chairs and had ordered
drinks, Fleming began.
"Look, fellows," he said, flashing that famous glittering
smile, "it's none of my business, I know, but I know who
you are and what you're here for. I want in on this. I think
it's a grand adventure. I'll pay you anything you want, even
ride piggy-back on the planes, but let me come in with you
on this."
Buzz and I looked at each other blankly.
"Adventure, planes?" Buzz lifted his eyebrows. "Do you
know anything about this, Leon?”
"No," I said. "I've just come to Rome for a little vacation.
Tourist, you know. St. Peter's, the Coliseum, you know,
stuff like that."
Mr. Fleming uttered a very much used word which cer-
tainly none of his script writers had ever put into dialogue.
He repeated the word again for emphasis. "This is Buzz
Hurley," he said solemnly, "a World War Two ace-and
Buzz isn't here on vacation, or for business or anything else
but for one reason. He's going to fly for the Jews, and I
want in."
I leaned forward and tapped him on the arm. I wasn't
sure whether he was drunk or just tight. "Look, Mr. Flem-
ing,” I said. “You've been seeing too many movies. Even if
what you allege were true, we couldn't take you with us."
"Why not?" he challenged. "I can fly a plane. I have
dough, all you want. I'll be on your side. And I've been
mixed up in such things before. You know that."
But Buzz shook his head. "Leon's right, Mr. Fleming,"
he said. "There's nothing else to this. Besides, would it be
fair to your fans to leave them? Think of
your obligations.
Think of your options."
Fleming stared at him, then shrugged his shoulders. “Okay,
okay," he muttered. We really felt sorry for him. There was
128
no doubt he was sincere. The guy was a true adventurer, but
he was also out of Hollywood, and Hollywood people, I
long suspected, lived for so long in a world of make-believe
that they could no longer tell reality from fantasy. We liked
him-everybody did-but he would be about as much use in
a plane as an extra prop in the tail.
So, we had one more drink with him, talked about pictures
and then said goodbye. He looked rather sorrowfully at us
as we departed. In another time, another place, I thought, Mr.
Ted Fleming could have made a wonderful mercenary. But
not today.
Not in a P-51 or a new jet job.
Buzz firmly and loudly announced his intention of stay-
ing up all night. He leered at me. "Can't take any more drink,
eh, Leon? Got all peckered out in Prague, is that it? Well,
the day hasn't come yet when Buzz Hurley couldn't stay up
all night, drinking and screwing, and still be able to fly at
the crack of dawn. Cheerio, bucko! Have fun in bed. I'll
have mine, too, but in a different way." And with a great roar
of laughter he staggered off, seeking his own entertainment.
It seemed that I had hardly put my head on the pillow
before my phone rang from the switchboard for my three-
thirty wakening call. Before I realized it, I was dressed and
having coffee with the other crew men. We could not be
mistaken for business men or tourists now, not with our
helmets and flying gear and suits.
We piled into the waiting cars, in front of the hotel, and
then drove to the field. I was jubilant about the P-51's. I
knew the Gyppos had Spits but I figured our 51's would
bring the war to a screaming halt in no time at all. Up to
now, the Israelis had been going up in Piper Cubs against the
Egyptians. But now, I grinned, the picture would be dras-
tically changed.
129
The ships looked good in the pre-dawn shadows, and it
felt good to get back into the familiar cockpit, adjusting
shoulder harness, tightening the safety belt. Then the few
shots of prime, the starter, and the ship purred and hummed
with lazy power. Fuel on. Check. Hit the starter switch. She
purred louder now.
Fuel mixture.
Prop pitch.
Oil pressure.
Cylinder head temp
And, as the man says, off we go, into the wild blue yonder.
Climbing high, all of the way.
•
Buzz Hurley didn't climb all the way.
How it happened we'll never know. Todd had already
taken his flight off. We were waiting for Buzz to lift his
plane off the ground in the lead. What fate had in store for
him that dawn came to pass. His P-51 got about a hundred
feet into the air and then suddenly burst into flames. It
stalled, rammed into the ground, a great pyre of fire.
Buzz didn't have a chance. We wanted to get out of our
own planes, make a dash for it and attempt to haul him out,
but it was no use. Alex Gurinsky, the contact man, kept
screaming for us to cut our engines, get the ships off the
runway and make a new start.
One after another we took off, the smoke from Buzz' plane
hitting us, drifting across the plexiglass. Once, I looked back
when I was airborne. There was a great pyramid of fire-
nothing else. No sound. Nothing. Just the flames.
I swallowed hard. That's the way it was. Some got it, some
didn't. Less than five hours ago, Buzz was probably cuddling
some blonde and a bottle in bed, roaring out his pleasure.
Now he had died without a sound. He would have his day
in the press. The papers would scream out their headlines
130
that a World War Two ace had crashed while smuggling
planes out of Italy for Israel.
My lips murmured the old, sacred words . . . . the last
kaddish for a departed one. "Hear, O Israel, the Lord Our God
is One." Rest forever in peace, my friend, my companion,
Buzz Hurley, fighter who has died for a people he never
knew, for an alien land he could not understand.
As the planes headed out to sea, I could see their running
lights . . . red, green and white. They seemed to form a pat-
tern before my eyes.
First a Star...
Then a Cross....
i
.
131
*12*
In a sober mood, we made the landing at the airbase in Aquir,
trudged wearily to the busses and checked in at the Park
Hotel. There, saddened and tired, I climbed into bed, falling
asleep at once.
And sleep was a wonderful bed-mate. When I awoke, I
grinned, remembering the words of the poet who said that
sleep was the poor man's bath. I felt refreshed now, and
Hurley's death was no longer touching me as fiercely as it
had the night before.
Shaved, dressed, with a solid breakfast-lunch under my
belt, I went out into the streets to get my first good look at
Tel Aviv. The city amazed me. It was a clean, bright-almost
dazzling in the sunlight-metropolis. The place seemed full
of hustle and bustle, people elbowing each other in the streets,
hurrying about their business. If war was near, it seemed that
nobody was frightened or worried. Certainly there were no
signs of panic. The shop windows glittered, the walls of the
houses gleamed a pure white. I liked the smiles I received,
132
the greetings in Hebrew... "shalom!"-peace. Peace! I won-
dered. Here the country was about to be plunged into war
and still the watchword was peace.
There was a good-natured air about the populace, even
when they packed themselves and piled into the busses, shov-
ing and shouldering their way, but without anger or frustra-
tion. I liked the signs written in Hebrew and English.
Best of all, I liked the kids.
They were everywhere, running, shouting, carefree. They
seemed strong and healthy, unafraid. I remembered the years
when I had been their age, lurking through alleys, fighting
on rooftops, clawing and tearing my way through the world.
Look at these Israelis! I marvelled. Nobody was going to tell
them what to do or what not to do. They were growing up
in safety and without fear. This land was theirs. They be-
longed. There were no second-class citizens among them.
They wouldn't be blackballed in clubs; there would be no
quotas for them in medical schools, no smirking hotel clerks
would ever tell them that there could be no reservations for
them.
It felt good. It felt so good that I could sense the joy of
it coming right out of the sidewalks, into the soles of my feet,
spreading upward into every sinew and fibre of my being.
Around three o'clock, I had to check back at the hotel
to have a meeting with Todd and find out what assignment
we were to have next.
I knocked on Todd's door and was told to come in. I
opened the door, stepped inside, raised my hand in greeting
to Dave Gold, who, rather stiffly, nodded back. Then I
started to walk to the end of the room where Todd was stand-
ing near a window. Then I stopped dead!
Mildred Davis was standing next to him.
She was like a sunburst. She seemed to fill the room with
light, a glow of her own. At first I thought it was that linen
:
·
·
133
suit she was wearing, a bright jonquil color, the collar up-
turned around her throat. The cutaway effect of her jacket
gave her hips a full and exciting outline. I saw that I had been
mistaken about her eyes. They were blue-but I had seen
them under lights. Now I realized there was more purple
in them than blue, or perhaps the yellow of the suit brought
out the highlights clearer. But her nose had the same, saucy
tilt, the cheeks still looked as if she had not shed her baby
bloom.
"I suppose you have met Miss Davis," Todd's voice was
not questioning. But he was not smiling, either.
I started to walk forward to her, ready to shake her hand,
but she merely nodded. Her eyes passed coolly over me then
swept back to Todd.
"I can't say hello, Miss Davis," I said to her, smiling
slightly, "because we did not even say goodbye the last time.
I hope you got your part at the broadcasting studio that
night," I added politely. "What were you playing in, The
Disappearance Of Mary Blake?"
She sniffed haughtily and sat down next to Todd. I liked
the sound her nylon stockings made as she crossed her knees,
a sort of sibilant whisper. She looked at Todd. "Why don't
you tell him?" she demanded in that husky contralto.
Todd sighed heavily. "Bad news, Leon," he said. "More
work for all of us. Maybe in the long run, it won't be so bad,
but for the present . . ." His voice faded.
"Okay," I said, stiffly. "Let's have it." I suddenly felt tired
and very angry. What now? Someday, I vowed, I would get
out of this mess, leave the Jews in this country, go back to
America and never get involved again.
"It's Glendale," Todd continued, rubbing a finger along
his nose. "When he got back to the States, he was sore as hell.
He told reporters the whole deal.”
134
4
"Everything?" I asked incredulously.
"Everything," Todd nodded sourly. "Not only to the re-
porters, but to government officials as well. It got to the
United Nations, and they know about the whole set-up, about
the Czech airfield, how we got a lift going there--the works.
The UN informed the Russians, and now they are sore and
worried stiff. So . . ." his smile was weak, "we got to get out
of Zatec, fast. With everything we can get out before it's too
late."
As I stared at Todd, Mildred arose, looking at him, then at
Dave, and finally, quickly, at me. "I told you," she said to
Todd bitterly, "not to have anything to do with these Amer-
ican fliers. I warned you. I fought against bringing them here.
They're not the kind we want. They're only interested in the
money. Once that is taken away, they're no better than the
Arabs." Angrily she crushed out her cigarette. "Mercenaries,
all of them," she snorted. "Now look at all the trouble they
have caused us."
I looked at her, at Todd, then at Dave. The latter was sit-
ting hunched over in a chair, fiddling with the buckle on
his belt, not saying a word. Todd appeared as if he, too,
would say nothing. It would be up to me.
"Now, just a second," I said. "I'll admit that Glendale is,
if you'll pardon the expression, a first class son-of-a-bitch. He
couldn't fly. He's a drunk and a coward. But just because of
him and his actions, that is no reason to accuse all of us."
"No?" She had whirled upon me. Her head was high and
her eyes narrowed. She looked ravishingly lovely. "No?"
she grated. "We got along very well without you great
big heroes of the war. Big-shot pilots," she snorted again.
"Fighters . . . for money. Well, we didn't need you before,
we don't need you now and we shall not need you in the
future. We can get along all right without you dashing, color-
*
135
2
.
ful, money-mad heroes. This isn't a dress parade but a war
for freedom. And mercenaries have never won a war yet.
For anybody."
"Davis..." Todd interrupted wearily. "Look-maybe Leon
is right. Maybe he ..."
"Is just like the others! This kind look on fighting as a big
adventure. Big money and not too much fighting. A new
country. Lots of girls. A chance to masquerade as heroes and
saviors. We... we don't need them. If they want to fight let
them join the ground forces at the borders, with other men
and women," she added scornfully.
I fought for my self control. "Look," I said, trying to keep
my voice normal. "If you don't need fliers, how come there's
such a big recruiting campaign for Jewish war veterans in
the States? Who will do the flying for you here? You have
no trained pilots, no mechanics, nothing. For God's sake,"
I almost shouted with anger, "you haven't even got planes,
except those that we, the mercenaries, bring in."
"Leon-" Todd was looking mighty unhappy.
"It's about time that somebody put these people wise!" I
said, not caring any more. "If they don't want us here, why
the hell do they ask us to come over here and fight? What
is this, anyway? Sure, a lot of the boys are asking for money.
Why not? They're entitled to it. They risk their lives, and
Israel is not their country. So what's wrong with that?"
Mildred had walked very close to me. Her hands were on
her hips as she faced me defiantly. "We'll drive the Arabs
out without you, with or without planes," she said, her voice
very low. "We'll do it. Somehow we'll do it. All we ask
for is money, not men. We can train our own fliers." She
turned back to point a finger at Dave. "Ask him!" she
stormed. "How much did he want to fight? Seventy-five
dollars and more an hour?" Contempt was thick in her voice.
136
"Well, wars aren't won that way. Not here, anyway. And
you!" she glared at me. "How much are you getting?"
"Leon's okay," Todd broke in sharply. "He's just getting
his expenses, and nothing more."
"Except a promise for a private little airline franchise all
his own when it's over," she scoffed.
"Dave's changed his mind," I assured her. "As for me,
well, I guess I'm a fool. I guess I was mistaken. I came here
because I really believed in something. I wanted to see the
Jews have their own land, so they wouldn't be world out-
casts any more. But if this is the way they feel about
us . . ." I let the sentence go unfinished. Stiffly, I walked to
the door. "Todd,” I said, with my hand on the knob, “All I
want is
my fare back to the States."
Todd rushed up to me. "Leon," he said, placatingly,
"You're mad. She's mad. We're all mad. We've had a bad
break. Let's cool off."
"Nothing doing. Let her . . . let the others. . . get some-
body else.'
""
"Let him go,” Mildred was saying. "The less we have of
these fly-boys, the better. Who wants them? Coming here
with their own ideas of money, money, and more money. All
alike. The Zionists, the Americans, all of them. Just the
money."
,,
I shook off Todd's arm from my shoulder. "Look, lady,"
I said to her, "I don't know who you are, or what your posi-
tion is here. And, frankly, I couldn't care less. But I know
when I'm not wanted. Okay. It's okay with me. Maybe you're
afraid you won't get your
get your own little cut after the war, scared
stiff that we mercenaries might take it away from you.”
Todd was again gripping my shoulder. "For God's sake,
Leon," he was saying, "cool off. Davis has already lost a
brother and her father in this fight. Her father was a well-
137
known colonel in the army who got it from the Gyppos.
Her brother was murdered by Arabs. Okay, she's a Sabra,
brought up here, a native. This is her country. You can't
blame her, Leon.'
""
But I had swung the door open. "All I want is my fare
home," I said, and stormed out.
I had two fast ones in the lounge, then brought a bottle
back with me to the room. I sat there and drank, feeling
numb. The liquor did nothing for me. Neither did the cigar-
ettes. I finally pushed the bottle and glass away and lay on
my bed, just staring at the ceiling, surprised when I heard
the quiet knock on the door.
"It's open," I growled. Fine! If that was Todd again, com-
ing to crawl around me, and beg me to stay on, if...
"Hello,” she said. “Got one for me, too?"
I sat up staring at her. She was smiling as she walked into
the room. I waited, waited to see her leave the door open,
but she carefully closed it behind her. She stood looking at
me. "The least you can do, Mr. Baker," she said, "is to offer
a drink to a lady who comes to your hotel room.
""
I poured the Scotch into a clean glass and gave it to her.
"Sorry about the soda," I said. "But when I left I wasn't in
the mood for anything effervescent. I didn't feel exactly like
bubbling over."
She nodded, poured a swallow of her drink down her
pretty throat, then stood looking at me. "Sit down,” I said,
indicating one of the chairs.
Mildred seated herself carefully, took a long sip at the
Scotch again, her eyes never leaving my face. When she had
finished, she ran a finger along the rim of the glass.
"I suppose you think I came here to apologize?"
I shrugged. "It makes no difference."
138
"Well, I did," she continued, taking another long swallow.
"Why? Because Todd asked you to?"
"No." She snapped out in a staccato voice. "Because my
own conscience demanded it."
I sprawled in my chair, my legs thrust straight out lazily.
"Conscience and Emily Post are often confused," I smiled.
She stirred uneasily. "Perhaps," she admitted. "Perhaps.
And if it is an apology you want . . ." She made a helpless
gesture, utterly feminine, with her hands, arms and shoulders.
"It's not an apology that interests me, Miss Davis," I said,
"but why are you here?"
"I told you, my conscience."
"At such a late date?" I smiled at her. "And speaking of
dates,” I added swiftly, "suppose we have one tonight. For
dinner?"
Her eyes regarded me gravely, intently, as if she were
really seeing me for the first time. She took another swallow
and nodded briefly, then stood up. I came quickly to my own
feet.
“Fine,” she said. Carefully, she placed the glass down on
an end table. "At eight?" she asked.
"Okay,” I said. "I'll be there, in the dining room." I grinned
at her again. "But how will I know you?”
For the first time, she smiled back at me. "I'll be clothed
in remorse," she laughed as she walked out of the room.
When she had gone, I went back to the bed, still staring
at the ceiling. I was not thinking of anything except her
lovely face, that inviting, intriguing body, the alluring laugh
and the hard, cold anger in the purple-blue eyes. Before I
allowed my thoughts to range too far in anticipation, I swung
off the bed again and was about to go out when a loud knock
on the door stopped me. I called out and Todd came in.
Without speaking he helped himself to a drink. He gulped
139
it down fast, shook his head rapidly, then smiled at me.
"You're seeing her tonight?" he asked.
""
"Okay," I grinned back. "Thanks for fixing it up for me.'
"Me?" His grin was wider than ever. "One thing I don't
do is provide entertainment for my men. She did it all on
her own, without any help from me.”
"You're kidding," I said slowly, my heart suddenly beat-
ing harder and faster. "Why should she do that, after chewing
me out like that in front of you?"
Todd grunted and lowered himself into a chair. "I don't
know," he said. "I never saw her get so mad before. She's
a pretty cool customer most of the time, but it seemed to me
that as soon as you started to talk, she let you have it."
"Look, Ray,” I said, “just what is she? What's her connec-
tion with all this?" and I waved vaguely.
He shrugged. "There's nothing mysterious about it at all,"
he said. “She's very good contact for us and for them. She
knows a lot of moneyed people, both in the States and in
Europe. She fixes us up with the liaison guys and the money
guys. That's why she went to the States that time. For that
and another reason."
I looked at him. "Who was the guy?"
"Her husband,” Todd answered slowly. “Or rather, her
ex-husband. He divorced her in the States. She went back
hoping that maybe they could still make a go of it, but . . ."
"Then she still loves him?" I asked, my eyes carefully
averted. Todd shrugged.
"I don't know. Nobody really knows much about her,
come to think of it. Mildred was born here but her father-a
famous architect-knocked around all over the world with her
when her mother, also from Palestine, died. That's how the
girl knows so many people all over. She met this guy when
he came over here as an engineer. They became engaged. But
when he sensed trouble, he scrammed. Didn't want any
140
+
part of it. Got a job with Eastern. He designs planes. She
wanted him to stay on but he said he was an American, had
no interest in Israel, took the job. When she refused to go
with him, he divorced her. I can't blame her for feeling sore
about Americans, although I don't think that's what's really
bothering her. So, she does the best she can, talking and
meeting people who have the contacts and the money to help.
She thinks dough alone can do it, and wants no part of Amer-
icans. Funny-English, Canadians and South Africans, okay.
But nix on the Yanks. She has a right to be bitter, especially
when her kid brother and her father both got it from the
Arabs not long ago."
I was silent for a long time.
"Anyway," Todd said, "I think she's sorry about all the
cracks she made. Otherwise, she wouldn't have come here
and agreed to see you."
"Fine," I answered. "I can look forward to a couple of
hours' confession."
His grin was crooked. "They tell me it's good for the soul."
"That's what I'm afraid of. All soul and no sex.'
>>
""
I saw his face harden at once. "Leon," he said seriously,
leaning forward. "Lay off that. None of that. Don't even try.
"Warning me, Ray?"
"Yeah." He shook his head. "Let's say rather, advising
you. Why she wants to see you, I don't know. None of my
business. But don't make a pass at her, not a single one. She's
too valuable. Besides, she's pretty hurt. I don't know if her
husband is still on her mind or not. Anyway, she's got no
man on her mind other than him. . . seriously, that is."
"Why?" I challenged. “Did you try, too?”
He shook his head again. "Brother," he answered, half-
smiling, "you sound real jealous."
"Okay, okay," I muttered. I took a long time now before
speaking again. "What's next on the deal?"
141
"We fly back to the Czech air field. Tomorrow. We load
up everything and scram out fast. Some of the boys will fly
the 47's back. The Skymasters will take off, too. We still have
the use of a field called Nisic, in Yugoslavia. Montenegro. So,
you take off tomorrow. And I want you to be fresh, and not
with her, because it won't get you anywhere."
"Ray," I grinned at him. "I hope you turn out to be a
lousy prophet."
142
* 13 *
The dinner was good, the wine mellow, the music soft and
tuneful, but she didn't want to dance. Instead, we just sat and
talked. It wasn't as bad as I had thought it would be. She told
me she had known of my record before and, although she
still was against the idea of using Americans as mercenaries,
she had no personal grudge against me. "I just became angry,
that's all," she smiled at me, and that was the closest she
came to an apology.
I knew it was getting late and I had to be up early in the
morning for the takeoff to Yugoslavia. Still, curiosity kept
me glued to my chair. That, and her beauty. I didn't have
to see the other men in the room staring at her to know she
was a genuine knockout.
Unlike other women I had known, she made no attempt to
find out more about me, seemed to have no desire to have me
talk about myself. And she was just as taciturn about her
own affairs. Our conversation hovered lightly about Tel
✩
143
Aviv, its culture, a little of its history, the weather, the
Bible, and movies.
"You know, of course," I said lightly, hoping that I could
swing into some lead or cue to a more personal discussion,
"that you look a lot like Elizabeth Taylor, the movie star."
She actually flushed a little. Unwittingly I had paid her
a compliment. Or maybe, I thought with a sinking heart,
she felt insulted by being compared to a movie star, and
she was getting angry again.
"I don't know if I should be pleased or not," she finally
said.
"You mean nobody ever told you?" I asked.
She looked down at her coffee cup. "No," she finally
admitted, "I don't believe so."
"Of course," I said casually, "your nose isn't as sharply
tilted as hers. But still I might have thought that some man,
like your husband, would have noticed it."
Her head came up swiftly, challengingly. "Todd?” she
asked.
I nodded. "It just came out. Forgive me, I didn't want to
be curious. Nor did I ask him. He just mentioned it."
Mildred picked up her spoon, turned it over and over in
her fingers, then placed it on the tablecloth again. "I suppose
it's no big secret," she said. "Nor is there any good reason
for it remaining a secret. No, Ted never told me."
"Ted?" I asked, feeling the name strange and stiff on my
tongue.
"Ted Hirsh," she said. "An aircraft design engineer." She
shrugged. "Just one of those things. It didn't work out. He
had one idea, I another. And when I finally saw the light..."
"From the torch you're still carrying?"
She looked at me for a long time. "No," she said slowly.
"No. Not any more. I admit I was quite broken up about it.
At first, that is. I wasn't used to being sued for divorce. It
144
should be the other way around, shouldn't it?”
"I don't know," I answered carefully. "I've never been
married."
“Oh,” she said, dropping her eyes. She flashed me a quick
glance. "Got anyone in mind?"
"Nope." I felt my breath quicken. She was interested in
me. I leaned closer to her. "Look," I said, "I'm not asking you
anything. You understand that?"
She nodded. "I know it, Leon," she answered, and I guess
I allowed the naked surprise of her use of my first name to
show in my face. “And I appreciate it. There was nothing to
it, really. He didn't want to get involved in a war. He said it
wasn't his fight or his country. We could have used him. But
he didn't want to stay-especially after Metropolitan Airlines
offered him twenty-two thousand a year to start," she
finished bitterly.
"But he was Jewish," I protested. "Seems to me that every
Jew should want to get into this, especially if they already
live here and earn a living here."
"Ted Jewish?" she mused, a faint smile on her lovely
mouth. "I can't think of him that way. He was no more
Jewish than the man in the moon! His family came over to
America from Vienna in 1800. Almost one hundred and fifty
years of assimilation. They weren't religious or anything.
Judaism meant nothing to them. The only reason they never
changed their faith was because they didn't believe in any
church or religion."
I nodded. "I was wondering how a Jew could
Jew could get into
Metropolitan so easily," I said. "I know it's pretty tough."
"Oh," she answered, "that had nothing to do with it. Ted
was good, really good. He had a couple of ideas which might
revolutionize plane construction. He worked up some new
metal process, as well as a few other ideas in aerodynamics.
All the airplane companies were after him."
145
"And so?" I prompted.
"And so, he went back, got rid of me and has what he
wants. At least," she finished, "he didn't want anything out
of Israel. Like the others."
"Who?" I demanded. "Who wants anything?"
Her laugh was very sharp and scornful. "Who?" she
mocked. “Everybody. Just everybody. The Russians let us
use Czech and Yugoslav airfields and supply us with arms, for
a price. You know why? Because they hope to get Com-
munism into Israel."
"And if they don't?" I asked, "they'll start playing footsie
with the Arabs?”
She looked at me sharply. "Of course. Zionism is a middle-
class philosophy, deeply rooted in capitalism. The Russians
would want nothing better than to combat this, lick it, and
get a foothold in the Near East. And not just for the oil
alone." She narrowed her eyes in emotion. "Why do you
think the Reds sold you arms and planes, and let you use
their airfields in Czechoslovakia?"
Before I could answer, she looked at me scornfully. "Be-
cause they want freedom-loving nations? Because they want
democracy? Not on your life! Russia will help anybody who
gets rid of England, or who tries to drive Britain out. There's
your real reason! And when Britain is out for good, just
watch the Reds. If we in Israel won't have them, know what
they will do? They'll make a deal with the Arabs. And why
not? The Reds will do anything to offset any Western
Alliance, even if it means arming the Arabs. Keep the pot
boiling. And where will we be? Right in the middle, as
usual. So, everybody wants a cut here. The Zionists, the
refugees, the United States, the Russians, the Arabs. Even
fliers who want airline franchises," she flashed her eyes at me
again. "Well, we'll win anyway. With or without help.
We'll run our land the way we think it should be run. I'm a
146
Sabra, native-born, and I'll die native born. We'll have our
own land, the way we want it, not the way strangers want
it. Israel for the Israelis."
"That,” I said softly, "is no new idea. Couple of guys
named Hitler and Mussolini beat you to it."
"You forgot Stalin," she said hotly.
"Okay, Stalin," I agreed.
This time the spoon was picked up and remained clutched
in her hand, and she stabbed at the air with every word she
spoke.
"So you think we Sabras are nothing but chauvinists, is
that it?"
I shrugged. "I'm not here to worry about your politics," I
said. "I came here to fight, remember?"
She placed the spoon down again. "Leon," she said, and
her voice was very earnest, "Why don't you go home? I
mean it. Go back to America, find yourself a good job and
a nice girl, have children. Why get mixed up in this when
you don't understand a thing about it? We really don't need
you American boys. We've got plenty of ex-RAF men, South
Africans, Irish, Canadians, even French and Italians. They
can teach us all we have to know. Before long, we'll have our
own air force and our own instructors, and enough planes.
So, why don't you go back to New York, where it's nice and
safe. Maybe," she finished acidly, "you might get a job with
Metropolitan, too."
I made no answer to that, just stared at her until she
dropped her gaze. "I'm sorry,” she said.
"For what?" It was my turn now. "Because I came over
here to help you out? Mildred Mildred," I continued,
finding her name sweet on my tongue. "You don't know. You
just don't know. Tell me, do you know what the word kike
is? Or sheeny? Has anybody ever called you Christ-killer?
Were you ever kicked out of a hotel because you were
147
Jewish? Did you ever want to go to school and be told there
was a quota for Jews? Did you ever try to get a job, knowing
you were qualified, and being refused because you were
Jewish? Did you ever see a crematorium, or a concentration
camp? I tell you, there's no need for these things. Christians
and Jews can get together-must get together. Otherwise
there'll never be a true peace. It's all in the Bible. The blue-
print is there. All we have to do is follow it, not give lip
service alone to it. That means both Jew and Christian. Why
should there be such a conflict between Judaism and Chris-
tianity? Need the Jew or Gentile forever be torn between
the Star and the Cross? Because I believe that this conflict can
be ended, I am here. I happen to be an American, sure, but
I also happen to be an American of Jewish faith. And that's
the whole thing. I'm not alone and, eventually, we'll eliminate
the differences. Wait and see. Getting freedom for Israel is
only one of the first steps."
She was staring at me, her lips parted, her eyes big and
round. Unable to help myself, I leaned over and kissed her
lightly. Not a lover's kiss, but the way I would kiss Dottie.
She made no move, neither resisting nor yielding. "I've got
to go now. A little trip to make, one I'm sure you know
about," I grinned at her. "But if you want me to take
you home..."
With her eyes still fixed on me, she shook her head. "No,"
she answered in a low, troubled voice. "It's all right. I've
got to meet Todd here, and he'll," she paused. “Leon,” she
said, "Leon, I . . . well, I didn't know. Maybe I don't know
a lot of things. Maybe I . . ."
"What?" my voice was tender.
"Nothing,” she answered. "Nothing. You wouldn't under-
stand anyway."
148
* 14 *
The flight to Nicsic in Montenegro in Yugoslavia was un-
eventful, but almost from the moment we landed we were
thrown into a maelstrom of work and more work. The place
was a beehive; planes were taking off for Israel, loaded with
small arms, grenades and bombs. We had little time to think
or plan, just follow orders and working around the clock. We
had orders to get out by a certain time, and the Yugoslav
guards were getting edgy. I also noticed that there were
regular Red Army officers around the field, and I didn't
have to be told that the sooner we got out, the better for
all concerned.
After a hectic week, we were ready to move. Todd called
the final briefing, introducing us to still another liaison man
called Dov Fieldman.
“Our work here is finished," Todd said flatly. "We're
closing down operations for good. When you boys take off
for Israel, you'll not be coming back and you'll take part in
149
the effort there. I'll now form the groups so we'll be all set.
Once the groups are formed, I want each of you men to
hang on every word Dov Fieldman will say to you."
Todd formed three groups, A, B, and C, assigning all the
men to the trio of organizations. Then we crowded around
Dov, a tall, saturnine man with rimless glasses.
"Men," he began, in a very quiet voice, "as you know, up
to now the Arabs have been sending their aircraft over our
cities and not meeting much in the way of anti-aircraft fire
or fighter opposition. This was due, of course, to the simple
fact that we had none, or very little. But now, thanks to you
boys, we've built up a pretty potent force, and we will be
able to carry the war right into the laps of the Gyppos.
"Each one of the three groups will hit a different city."
Dov paused, waiting for the stir and hum of excitement to
die down. These were our first actual combat orders.
"I know that you are all thinking of your crews, gunners,
bombers and so forth. They will be supplied to you to-
morrow. There are only three B-17's left in Zatec, and they
are armed. I don't know if your gunners will be happy about
this, but the best we could get were the 30-calibers, not
fifties. But each B-17 is loaded with twelve 500-pound
bombs. There will be no belly turrets, and I know you will
find a few blind spots on each ship, but that can't be helped.
Besides, the Gyppos might think you're carrying all your
guns, so it won't be too bad. Now, for the targets."
We were silent, waiting.
"The operation will be called Nabut. NABUT. In the
ancient Hebrew that meant 'to look at' or 'to look upon.'
Well, we'll give them something to look at, all right!"
Dov's smile was tight and grim.
“Now, I'm here to act as liaison officer, briefing officer. I
will also go along as second navigator on the lead ship. I have
been over the target area many times and I know it well. The
150
three hammers will bomb strategic targets in Cairo on the
evening of Friday the 9th, if technically possible. The target
area is encompassed by the red line on the maps you see in
front of you. This area comprises Government ministries,
offices and the Abdin Palace, and railway installations.
"The following alternative targets will be bombed if the
weather or other conditions make a change necessary. This
will be entirely at the discretion of the flight leader. These are
the alternative targets.
"One. El Arish air field, if it can be done before first light.
"Two. Rafa.
"Three. Gaza.
"Navigators, pay special attention to this. The following
routes are suggested. From Zebra to Point A. From A to B.
From B over the Cattera Depression and a range of mountains
to point 0 on the Nile. Reason: It is considered to be safer
flying inland than to approach from the sea, because of
radar installation.
"The attack on Cairo is specially dealt with. From Cairo,
fly due north out to sea, to avoid opposition from the Canal
area, El Arish and Gaza and Alexandria. From point D to
Tel Aviv and thence landing at Aquir. Reason? The diversion
out to sea is because enemy Spitfires are very loathe to fly
over the water, and to date have not flown at night.
"Now, the location of target.
"Cairo. The green Delta shows out in strong contrast to
the yellow desert. The islands of Rhodes and Gezira are
excellent pin points. El Arish is a difficult target to locate and
bomb, but is of great strategical value. The air field is ap-
proximately five and a half kilometers in the southerly direc-
tion from the town of El Arish. It consists of one strip, dirt
runway, with two buildings, the hangar and administrative
block. Spitfire aircraft are expected to be lined up on either
side of the runway, with gasoline tanks adjacent.
151
"Rafa. There is little information on the pin-pointing of
this target. It is a railhead junction and a base grouping area.
It has up to now been fully lighted at night.
"Gaza. Fairly easy to locate by day. It has large green
patches around it. May be partially lighted at night. Beware
of dummy lights. Has an auxiliary airfield to the southeast of
the town. Is a headquarters area and a transport center, an
important supplementary port for the Egyptian Army. Great
care should be taken, due to the proximity of Jewish lines,
as shown on the
map.
"Now, as for defense."
We stirred again. Defense must mean the guns that would
be shooting at us. It was still hard to realize that this calm,
dry voice was speaking the language of war.
"Cairo," Dov went on, "probably has serviceable radar
stations. Anti-aircraft unknown, probably a number of 88's
and 105's. Some Spitfires stationed at Almaza Airport to the
east of town.
"El Arish has approximately twenty Spits, Marx IX. Radar
unknown. AA is about a minimum of five gun emplacements
in the sand dunes on the sides of the runway. Caliber un-
known, but we can assume that they're either 20 or 40 MM's.
"Rafa. Defense unknown but presumably very light.
Probably .5 machine guns.
"Gaza also 37 and 40 MM's, five searchlights in area,
candlepower unknown.”
Dov concluded by telling us that our alternative return
base would be Ramat David, describing its facilities. Time
over the target, we were informed, would be forty minutes
after last light. We were also instructed to fly echelon
starboard formation to destroy the clarity of enemy radar
readings.
All the time that Dov had been speaking, I had been staring
at him, trying to locate the origin of his English accent. Then
152
I had it. He was a South African. I shook my head. What had
he to do with Palestine? What was it Mildred had said...
that there were enough South African boys and that Israel
didn't really need the Americans? But that was just her
opinion, I told myself. She's prejudiced. She's bitter, just
because an American-her husband-gave her a bad time.
American boys make the best fliers, navigators, engineers and
gunners. They have that mechanical knack, the slick know-
how, the best technical training in the world. Let's see how
far the Israelis could get without the Yanks!
Thus, righteously and rather indignantly, I went back for
sleep, telling myself that Mildred and her ideas meant nothing
to me, and smiling at my own lies.
Over the Alps our three B-17's, loaded with bombs for
Egypt, ran into snow; over the Adriatic, flying between Italy
and Yugoslavia, we ran into a brief flak from the Albanian
shore batteries. Thus we felt our mission thoroughly baptised
by the elements and by man-made hazards.
I was confident of my crew. In addition to Todd, I also
had Jerry Wald and Eli Bender, the same little Eli who had
almost met his death over the Atlantic.
As we neared our destination, Todd took our Fortress up
to 23,000 feet, levelling off there. We increased the oxygen
flow. I noticed that something was the matter with Todd; his
actions had become slower and uncertain, his speech thick
and slurred. At first, I was puzzled. Todd was acting as if he
were drunk, and there couldn't be a more incredible sus-
picion. Then I understood. Todd wasn't getting enough
oxygen, or maybe he wasn't getting any at all.
Ray suddenly collapsed against the wheel and I reached
over and pulled him back, slapping his face a few times to get
him revived. It was useless. Todd was out like a light.
Quickly, I checked his oxygen hose, noticing that it had a
153
huge rip in the line. No wonder he had fainted! He wasn't
getting enough oxygen to keep alive, let alone fly. I turned
to Jerry's anxious face and asked the engineer to get me a
portable oxygen bottle, which I slapped against Todd's face.
I saw the color coming back to his cheeks, heard him murmur
something, his voice getting stronger and he was finally out
of it, thanking me and saying he was fine now.
We were getting close to target now.
"Okay, Eli," Todd called over the inter-com to the crew-
man. "You'd better take over now. She's going to be all
yours. We're just along for the ride."
Our chute packs were on. The armorer had already worked
in the bomb bay, getting the arming pins on the bombs,
hooking the pins by wires to ring clasps and bulkheads. Thus,
when the bombs fell out of the bay, the pin would be pulled
out by the wire, setting the fuse to go off at contact or a few
seconds later, all according to the time set on the fuse.
The two other ships had already flashed their Aldis lights
through the astrodome, signalling us that they were breaking
out of the tight formation to go on to their own targets.
Somehow the sound of engines, the steady drone, seemed
to grow louder. It always happens this way, I thought, at this
moment. You hear more, see better, every sense is working
faster and overtime. Every nerve becomes razor-sharp and
they cut into you so hard that the sweat breaks out all over
your body. Everything becomes an enemy; even a star might
be the light of an enemy plane.
Our radio was set on the Gyppo frequency range, over
VHF. We could hear the Cairo tower calling for us to
identify ourselves. Todd answered at once, saying that he
was TWA, and would they please turn on the runway
lights for him.
"They sure feel safe down there, and very confident,” I
thought.
154
The city lights twinkled before us, with the green and
white flash of the rotating beacon slashing its way through
the night. Eli's voice was crackling on the inter-com, and I
could hear the hum of the motor opening up the bomb bay
doors. The door behind us was also left open to check and
see if any bombs might be left and hung-up.
Now the air was whistling shrilly through the open door
of the bomb bay. Looking behind me, I could see the bombs,
fat, sleek and deadly 500-pounders, a dozen of them. I stared
at them, suddenly realizing the death and destruction they
held, the suffering, the blood and agony they would soon
cause. I felt sickened as I always did, and turned my head
away.
Why must man fight?
Eli had taken over, and the plane was now on a dead-level
bomb run. As we came over the city, I heard the click of
the bomb shackles as they opened up.
One by one, the bombs began to fall.
Each bomb left a groaning protest of its own as it left its
wired nest. As they began to fall on the targets, I could
feel the low but steady puff-puff-puff of concussion. The
ship lifted a little each time as the concussion spiralled
upward and hit it.
Death dropping from the skies, death encased in metal,
hard and relentless, in its scream-whistle as it hurtled through
the night, then splashing and spewing forth into flame, yellow
and red, orange and blue. Death, the great leveller, his finger
wiping out lives, innocent and guilty alike.
It was over. In a few seconds, it was all over.
We winged for the sea as the searchlights began to stab
for us and failed to find us, as the AA guns began a hasty
and inaccurate fire.
We made our 180-degree turn out to sea. Too late! I
thought. Too late! Too late for what? For peace? For an
end to warfare?
155
יד
I was suddenly very tired. I looked at my watch. It was
7:55 p.m. Back home, I would just about be finishing dinner
and getting set to go out. Here, I had finished something else,
or had it just been the start? I shook my head. I'd have to
snap out of it. Today we bomb them, tomorrow they
bomb us.
We made Aquir safely but there still was no rest for us.
We had to make our briefing report. I could never fully
understand this. What could they possibly ask us? All we
did was drop our bombs and get the hell out of there as fast
as we could. But at the long table, the questions were pounded
at us. How about fighters? Lights? From where were the
guns firing, north, east, west, south? All we wanted was to
just go to sleep.
We got sleep. Some. A few hours on the floor, because
we were just too tired to find beds. Then, we were awakened
again that same night, with a new mission and a new target.
Damascus.
And this time they were waiting for us.
The lights welcomed us, pencilling us against the black,
and the hated 88's began knocking their death-dealing fists
at our door. We flew, we levelled off, we dropped the load
and we headed back, and the fiery tattoo of the guns never
let up.
This time we were to land at Ramat David. It meant Hills
of David but it could have been Timbuctoo as far as we
were concerned. We were dead tired, out on our feet, our
minds numbed. All we wanted was sleep. Nothing else
mattered. Twice that night, our sinews and nerves had been
stretched quivering for combat, twice released. Now, they
were still jangling, like the bowstring after an arrow had
been shot from it. We worked like robots, automatons, doing
almost everything by instinct and training, mechanically. We
just hoped that these "Hills of David" would not raise their
J
156
..
jagged edges into the air and, with a snarl, bite into our
planes and tear ragged holes into us.
Somehow, we staggered through the briefing and intel-
ligence reports, somehow we waited for the trucks to take
us to the barracks. The trucks lurched through the grounds
and, even in my fatigued state, I thought there must be
planes and parts of planes scattered all over.
When we entered "the barracks" we blinked in surprise
and protest. The windows were broken. The floor was un-
swept and dirty. A couple of weak bulbs, hanging from
ungainly ropes, gave a fitful flicker of light. The latrine was
a mess; the broken toilet bowls were the least. There were no
beds, and loose boards of the building kept slapping against
the sides of the walls.
But there was nothing we could do now. We were just
too tired. In our suits, some with boots on, even with helmets,
some using their flying jackets for pillows, we flopped to the
floor. Sleep, just sleep. Tomorrow would take care of itself.
Right now, sleep was the important thing.
I suddenly felt ashamed of myself. There, in the dark, on
that dirty, hard floor, I suddenly wanted Mildred. I wanted
her badly. I wanted to hold her, to lie against her naked
belly, to cup her breasts in my hand, to run my lips over her
hair. I longed for her, felt every muscle quivering for her.
In the darkness, she became vividly, painfully alive for me.
I could see every feature of her face, hear every intonation of
her voice. Silently, I cried out for her.
But only the regular breathing and the creaking of wood
and the stir of restless bodies on the floor answered me.
157
*15*
:4
In the morning the camp looked even worse, a shambles, a
havoc of what had once been an airfield. Weary, sweaty,
grumbling, we regarded the scene around us with incredulous
eyes. They really didn't expect us to live here, let alone run
an operational base?
By luck, we found several kibbutzim, the cooperative
camps, where we cleaned up as best we could with cold water
and no soap or heat. Then, we staggered over to the field for
breakfast, a horrible meal of fish, tea, hardtack and cucum-
bers. The kitchen consisted of no more than a field-kitchen
stove in an old, broken down building. The letdown in morale
was terrific. Several of the boys decided to leave right away
for Tel Aviv where at least better quarters could be found.
There the fliers in the ATC had it much better than we, who
had already been in combat and were soon to have more
combat flying.
158
"Look, Ray,” I said to Todd, after our "breakfast," looking
at him and then at the shambles of the field, "I know the
British wrecked everything deliberately when they pulled
out of here. But things should have been fixed up for us by
now. Look at the planes and parts of planes scattered all
around. Why, if we were to have a raid tonight, they would
lose half their air force. Ray, the guys are ready to quit, and
I don't blame them. The ATC boys are living like kings in
the best Tel Aviv hotels, while we . . ."
Todd nodded glumly.
"Then what are we going to do about it?" I asked fiercely.
"We can't live like pigs here and fly combat as well."
"As soon as I can get a jeep," Todd said, "I'm going to
Tel Aviv and see if I can get something done."
He left me then for other business, and I went back to the
wreck of the barracks. There, more grumbling met me.
Several of the boys had already departed, others were grimly
and angrily packing, saying they'd had enough. There were
threats of leaving Ramat David en masse, of going up to Tel
Aviv and telling the ATC boys to do their own flying, since
they had it so good. If there ever was a healthy mutiny
brewing, this was it.
Out of desperation, I called a makeshift meeting. Standing
before the men, wondering if I'd have to apologize for some-
thing I felt was wrong and unjust, I tried to put my thoughts
into words.
"Look, fellows," I began, "Just give me a couple of hours.
That's all I ask. Todd won't let us down, and I'll take a Cub
and fly to Tel Aviv myself as well. I'll tell them what's what,
and believe me, if things aren't done, I'll be the first to say to
hell with it all and reject the whole thing. All I ask is for a
break-just a few hours."
I looked at their faces. Some were suspicious, others filled
with scorn, all were obviously skeptical. But nobody moved
159
away. At least, I breathed with silent hope, they were willing
to listen.
"I'll stay," said Dave Gold. "Fellows, give him a break.
Give him a chance. I'll stick with Leon until he has tried
at least."
I thanked Dave with my eyes. He had turned the tide.
Some of the other boys put down their gear and mumbled
they would stay, too, until at least an attempt had been made
to do something. Others joined, and finally all decided to
hold off.
I inquired about Todd and was told he had already left for
Tel Aviv. I managed to secure a Cub and flew there in a
short time, making my way to the Bristol Hotel.
There, I saw at once how the ATC boys were fighting the
war. They were seated in a sidewalk cafe, their feet up on
the tables, laughing and drinking and having a wonderful
time. Among them I saw Melvin Irving and Norman Rock-
man, two of the first of our men who had quit that morning.
I noted also that they weren't alone-they were well equipped
with female companionship. In back, I saw the dining room
of the hotel, with its clean tablecloths and sparkling silver-
ware, and I compared this to the havoc and dirt and disorder
of the field at Ramat David.
The hotel clerk told me that Ray Todd could be found
at Room 1053-Mr. Hyman Stickman's room. I paused. I had
heard about Stickman. He was also an American who had
come over early enough to ingratiate himself into the right
party, with the right politicians, and now had a title as chief
of something or other in the new Air Force. Trust
guys like
Stickman to line their pockets before anything else, I thought
bitterly, as I made my way to the hotel room.
When I knocked and was admitted, I stood stock-still. In
the room with Todd and Stickman was my old colleague, Mr.
160
Ralph Hitz. Well, well, I thought, the carrion are really
gathering, even before the corpse is laid out.
Hitz nodded coldly at me, Todd introduced me to Stick-
man. I took a long look around the room before I sat down.
"Real nice set-up," I murmured. "I even noticed that some
of the boys got their wives and kids with them. I bet that
between you, you've got all the civil airlines and franchises
all dealt out . . ."
Hitz glared at me, Stickman blinked in protest. Only Ray
said, “Take it easy, Leon.”
"Why should I?" I flared. "Here we come back from two
combat missions, and what do we find? A decent place to
sleep? A good meal? Like hell! We find a pigsty while you
guys are taking it nice and easy here. One more day like
this and you won't have any fighters or crewmen at all.
They're quitting, and I don't blame them!"
"Now, Leon," Todd began again.
"He was always a hot-head," Hitz said, shrugging.
But Stickman was looking at me. "Let him talk," he said.
I bowed mockingly. "Thanks," I said drily. "I really came
up here to have a drink with you gentlemen, but if I may
say a word or two
>>
"So talk," Stickman insisted.
"Okay," I said. "And what I'm going to tell you isn't
pretty. They talk about Jewish mercenaries, and by God
they're right! We've got them, right in this room. The Israelis
don't know what this Air Force is all about. There's a curtain
around it, a nice, thick green curtain. Is there a genuine
Israeli in this room? Like hell! All Americans, all Jews, and
between you you've got the profits split up. What do you
care about fighters and bombers? All you can get is the fair
split. All you see is the dough in the future. Well, let me
tell you this, gentlemen: first, you have a little war to win.
161
V
Then you'll be able to make plans. Last night we bombed
Cairo and..
""
"If
you want to see the papers," Stickman began smoothly,
but I caught his words in my hand.
“No, thanks. I know what they say. They always say the
same thing. We bombed innocent men, women and children.
We're killers and murderers. As I said, last night we risked
our lives. But you gentlemen didn't care. No wonder the true
Israeli thinks we're all a bunch of money-hungry Yanks."
I stopped, remembering what Mildred had said. I wished
she could be here now. Where was she this day? In Rome?
Athens, New York?
"That's just your opinion," Stickman said. "I grant you
we did not have time to fix up Ramat David and . . ."
"Time?" I jeered. "Why, back in Yugoslavia we were told
that one of our emergency bases was Ramat David. I thought
it was ready then! I don't blame the Israelis much. You
promised them an air force and they let you have full rein.
They didn't know that you were going to sit around on your
fat asses and plan how to cut up the nice fat pie. Hitz . . .
how many airlines are you going to get? And you, Stickman
... how much will you make after the contracts are signed,
if they are not already?"
“Leon,” Todd said unhappily. "I know you're sore, but
you're wrong, you . . ."
"Have they got you on their side, too, Ray?"
"Just a second," Stickman was running a finger along his
chin. He looked at me. "What is it you want, Mr. Baker?
More money? I heard that you and some of your boys are
asking as high as five hundred dollars per mission.
""
I stared at him, fighting for control. "I'll tell you what I
want," I finally said. "I want Ramat David fixed up to be
the way an operational base should be. I want the barracks
made a liveable place. I want the toilets fixed, showers put in,
162
the runways cleared, hangars repaired, kitchens and mess halls
built, a club for the guys to relax in. I want a hospital with
a flight doctor. And until we get this... not a goddamned
plane leaves the ground! I'll see to that. Not an engine turns
over! And meanwhile, my boys move into the Zion Hotel
in Haifa. At least we can live like human beings until the
base is repaired. Here, all along I was ready to blame the
Israelis, but they don't know what pirates you guys are..."
Hitz was staring icily at me; Stickman shrugged his pudgy
shoulders and sighed. Ray looked very unhappy.
"Anything more?" Hitz asked finally. His tone was
sarcastic.
"You're goddamned right there's more! There are seven
squadrons on the field. Each will fly between seventy-five
and a hundred hours, between fifty and sixty sorties or three
months' combat flying on the squadron. At the end of that
time, each crewman will be examined by both an Air Corps
doctor and an Air Corps psychiatrist, grounded and be given
compulsory rest periods within the discretion and upon the
recommendation of the flight surgeon and psychiatric de-
partments. At the end of the rest periods, another examina-
tion will be given to determine whether the men are fit
to fly."
There was complete silence in the room. Then Hitz looked
up sharply. "And who," he asked, "is going to pay for this?"
"Who?" I drawled. "Why, you, Mr. Hitz. In fact, I'm
going to send you the hotel bill for my boys when we move
in. Gentlemen," I continued, knowing I was being hammy
and corny but unable to help myself, "now that I've outlined
the plans, good afternoon!"
I almost clicked my heels as I wheeled and marched stiffly
out of the room.
I was still burning, so much so that I almost forgot my
163
promise to pick up the mail for the boys in the city. Months
had passed before anybody had even thought of making
provisions for forwarding our mail. Now, I had been in-
formed, mail was waiting on Ben Yehuda Street. I found
the post office with little trouble, looked around the stopped
short at what I saw. I might have guessed. The "postmaster"
sitting at a desk, his feet very comfortable on it, was none
other than Steve Cohen, whom I had seen last in "Rabbi"
Abe Lesser's room in New York. Steve had walked out on
the assignment then, but here he was big as life and in charge.
I growled at him that I wanted the mail and quick.
He just stared at me. I took a step closer. "Stevie, boy," I
said dangerously and sweetly... "the mail. Mail!”
He was frightened. He got up swiftly. I saw the glitter of
his wings on his tunic. "Do a lot of flying around here?” I
asked, pushing him aside and going to the boxes myself. I
started to go through them, seeing that many of the letters
bore old postmarks, many months old. Lots of the envelopes
were covered with dust.
"I'm sorry you were so busy flying . . . at the bar . . .” I
said, "that you didn't have time to forward the mail. Boy,
you really must sweat here."
And, with the letters clutched in my fists, I stamped out
of that room, too angry to wait for his answer.
Once back at the base, I told the boys to pile into a truck
with their gear and that we were going to stay at the Zion
Hotel in Haifa until the field was made liveable again. There
were a few cheers, a lot of good-natured joshing and jibing
as we rocked off into the road.
When we stopped at the hotel, we were carrying our
Tommy guns. Our .45's had their butts open on our
hip-
holsters or shoulder sheaths. Like an army, we marched into
164
the lobby, to the desk, confronting the open-mouthed
manager.
"We'll be your guests for a time," I said carelessly. I
gestured to the back with my gun. "All of us."
The boys began to register, crowding close, joking, making
a big thing of the guns at their sides. The manager swallowed
a few times and finally squeaked, "You'll have to pay in
advance, we don't have a policy of . . ."
"Oh, you needn't worry," I assured him. "Mr. Ralph Hitz
and Mr. Stickman have kindly agreed to pay all expenses,
even meals. You just send the bills to them, sir."
The manager opened and closed his mouth like a fish. He
took another look at me, then at the boys, then at the guns.
He bowed. "Very well, sir," he said.
In the room, after a hot shower and some sleep, I looked
out of the window, not seeing the streets or the people. I
wondered if I had not overstepped my bounds of authority.
I even wished that Todd might call.
For two days it was pleasant.
I had not heard from either Todd or Hitz. I tried to tell
myself that everything would be fine; the base would be
rebuilt and we could go back to work. I walked the streets
entertaining the idle notion that I might run into Mildred
somewhere. I knew it was foolish, but I could not help it.
And I was still too sore and too proud to ask Todd, if he
ever called, where she might be.
During those two days, I learned that there was fighting
in Jerusalem. I began to learn some of the names that were
strange to me . . . Irgun, Zwei Leumi, Stern Gang, Haganah,
Gahal. I learned of the friction between Palmach, Haganah
and Irgun, and the Sterns and I was sickened at the thought
of Jews fighting Jews while an enemy was threatening them.
165
It was all politics to me, I did not understand it and, to be
frank, I had my own worries. One of the letters from my
mother said that my beloved sister, Dottie, was sick again, her
husband indifferent. I also worried about the base being fixed
up, whether the bills would be paid or we would be held
accountable for them. There were reporters to be dodged.
They had such silly questions as, "Are the Communists
training you?" Nothing could be more ridiculous. Just be-
cause we had used Commie bases to smuggle planes, bombs
and small arms, the word had gone around that the Reds were
training us. For what? What could they teach us about
flying? We also had to avoid the UN brass, who were always
ready to ask a lot of questions.
At the second day's end, I received a brief, terse call from
Todd, to hurry to Tel Aviv for a big conference; I asked
Todd how things were going along at the base, but he would
give me no information. I was just told to get going.
Two hours later I was in a room filled with smoke and big
brass of the Air Force. We were meeting in the Air Force
offices. Todd, Hitz and Stickman were there, of course.
Stickman did the introducing. Then he also apologized,
saying he knew I was angry about Ramat David but all
efforts were being made to get the base fixed up for opera-
tional work. I wanted to know more details but then I
decided that they had not called me here to talk about
Ramat David.
"Okay,” I said to Stickman. "Let's have the real reason
why you want me.'
""
Stickman took a quick look at the others, then at me.
"Right!" he said with what I thought was forced enthusiasm.
"Did you ever hear of a ship called the Altalena?"
"The one fixed up and bought by that Hollywood big-
shot?" I asked.
Stickman nodded. "The same. On June 11th, the Altalena
166
.
sailed from Marseilles, loaded down with all kinds of arms
and refugees."
"Swell," I said. "We can use every bit of ammunition and
arms. The more arms the better."
I saw Stickman look over to where a young chap, dressed
in a uniform I did not recognize, was sitting.
"There's more to it than that," Stickman said. "There's a
truce on now. The Israeli government promised the United
Nations that it would not do anything to rupture this truce,
that it would not try and run arms into the country."
I smiled at him. "Now you know better than that," I
answered easily. "Every night stuff is run in illegally, truce
or no truce. You know it and the UN knows it. So what's
the fuss over?"
"The fuss," Hitz said unexpectedly, "is that the UN offi-
cials don't know about the junk coming in, but they do know
about the Altalena. The ship is going to come in broad day-
light, in full view of the city of Tel Aviv. This will show
and prove to the UN that we do not keep our promises, that
we cannot keep law and order. That ship must not land.”
I turned away from Stickman and Hitz, looking at the
young man. "I don't get this," I said. "Why does the ship
have to come in during the day? There are lots of places it
could dock and be unloaded with nobody the wiser. Why all
this brave, open stuff?”
"We told them that," Stickman said patiently. "But no.
They want to make a big show of it. To show their power.
To defy us."
I ran my hand through my hair. "I still don't get this. It's
all politics to me," I answered. "Who are 'they'? Who told
who what?"
“They,” answered Stickman, "are the Irgun. We told them
to do it quietly, on the run, in the dark-but no, they want
to make a big tsimmis out of it. Lots of publicity about their
167
power and influence, so we know it will embarrass the
whole government.”
I hitched up my trouser belt. "Who is the government
here, anyway?" I challenged bitterly. "I hear so many names
Irgun, Haganah, Palmach and the rest. God Almighty,
can't you stop fighting among yourselves for a minute?
There's a war going on! I want no part of your politics. I
came over here to fight Arabs and Egyptians. That's all I
know and that's all I care about!"
"Leon."
It was the young man in the uniform. He had been very
quiet up to now. But when he spoke, his voice had a quiet
authority that made you listen whether you wanted to or not.
"Leon," the young man continued, "you are not getting
into politics. I understand how you feel. You came here to
fight and that's perfectly understandable. A soldier is sup-
posed to obey orders and not get involved in politics, just
as you said. So, these are orders. We want your B-17's to go
out and sink the Altalena. No politics. Just an order. We'll
take all responsibility."
I looked at him. He was smiling slightly.
"Let me get this straight," I said, rubbing two fingers into
my scalp. "You want me to lead the B-17's out and bomb
the Altalena? Just like that?"
"Just like that," the officer nodded brightly. “Just follow
orders, and don't worry about politics which, as you correctly
said, are not a soldier's concern."
I kept staring at him. He was clean-shaven, his hair slicked
back, his eyes were a light brown, intelligent.
"One more thing." My voice had become very soft. “Are
there Jews on that ship?”
"Of course," the young man answered almost indifferently.
"Why? What difference does that make to you?”
I stood up facing all of them. "Only a slight difference,"
168
I pointed out, feeling my whole body getting rigid. "I happen
to be a Jew myself. I know that this doesn't make much
difference to you here, maybe you're not Jews at all—but
to me, it does. So much difference in fact, that you can take
your goddamned orders to sink a ship with Jews on board
and shove them. All of you! You bastards! You sons of
bitches! Do you think I came over here to kill Jews?"
I was screaming now.
Stickman and Hitz also stood up. Todd was already at my
shoulder. "For God's sake, Leon!" he was saying. "Don't
blow your top here. They just asked you .
I threw off his arm.
""
"I've heard some lousy things in my life," I stormed, “but
this is the lousiest, the stinkingest, the most brutal cold,
calculating act of murder I ever heard of! Boy, Hitler could
take lessons from you guys! Bomb a ship... filled with Jews!
Just like that..."
"Only you and your group can do it," Stickman was
saying lamely. "You are the only ones who know how to fly
the B-17's."
"And it isn't too bad," I said. "Think of it. Nobody else
to fly your pretty little bombers for you, to kill kids and
old men and women . . . Jews! No dice, gentlemen. Get
yourself some others to do your murder. Not me! You can
fire me right now. But that's the way it stands. I don't kill
Jews. And if-”
The young man stood up. He was quite tall, taller than
Hitz or I. Only Todd towered over him.
"When you come crawling around for a franchise," Hitz
was saying, "I'll see to it that no one forgets this, Baker!"
With set lips I moved over to Hitz, my fists raised. I would
have clobbered him right then and there had not Todd pushed
his big, bulky frame between me and Hitz.
"That's enough!" The young man's voice crackled over
169
the room. "Remember who you are and where you are,
gentlemen!" He turned to me. Although there was rime in
his
eyes, he nodded shortly. "Baker... no one's forcing you.
I know how you feel. If I didn't, I could have you court-
martialled and sent out of here fast. Real fast. But I under-
stand. So, go. We'll handle it our own way. We'll get some-
body else to bomb_”
"If a single one of my men volunteers for this, he gets a
bullet in his throat before he steps into a plane," I said. “I
mean it. It'll be the best thing I've ever done in my life."
The young man nodded wearily. "You won't have to do
that. Go, now. As I said, we'll find another way."
"You'd better go, Leon." It was Todd.
I nodded, whirled on my heel and walked out of that
room. Three times I had walked out this week. Maybe three
was a lucky number, I thought.
Maybe.
170
* 16 *
FS:
It wasn't.
I sulked a while, a day and night, in my room, telling
myself I had had enough, that I was through and going back
to America. I argued with myself that it wasn't the fault of
the Israelis, that they, like me, were being torn apart between
the Cross and the Star, between the United Nations and the
factions of Judaism that raged in the land. I told myself that
the American know-how boys, the go-getters and Main
Streeters, the Babbits, were trying to get hold of Israel and
make their own use of it. All night long I was unable to
sleep. The pain in my back did nothing to help me.
In the morning, after a few hours of restless and tormented
dozing, I was awakened by gunfire.
After hurriedly dressing I ran out into the street. I saw
other citizens of Tel Aviv rushing to the beach, waving
their arms in excitement, their shouts barely heard above the
sound of the guns. Since my hotel was right on the beach
171
front, I ran back to get my camera. Then I ran up to the roof
where the whole scene lay before my eyes
and my lens.
Now no more than half a mile away, heading directly for
the beach was the Altalena, the ship I had been asked to
bomb. Other people, visitors, reporters and UN officials on
the roof with me were saying that if the Altalena were sunk,
it would mean a real revolution and a blow to the cause
of Israel.
My face pale, I beheld the incredible scene before me, the
Palmach soldiers, using trench mortars, firing upon the ship,
the bursts of smoke and water near and on the Altalena,
little figures on the vessel vainly trying to get off.
the
God in heaven, I moaned silently to myself, why do you
let this be. Your children fighting each other. For what?
Why, why, WHY?
But God didn't answer me. The shells did. Now the firing
had increased. The Irgun, whose ship the Altalena was, were
running down the beach, shooting at the Palmach boys. A
cross-fire, I thought, Palmach versus Irgun, and Palmach
versus Altalena, loaded with ammunition and refugees.
Men on the beach were being hit, falling down. The mor-
tars were also taking their toll of the Altalena; the beached
ship was listing, on fire, and life rafts and life boats were
scabbing the sides of the doomed vessel.
Although my eyes seemed blinded with rage and shame, I
continued to grind away at the camera, taking the final
shots of what seemed a great betrayal to me, the surrender
of the out-numbered Irgun soldiery to the Palmach, the
final end of the Altalena.
I was glad to leave Tel Aviv, thankful at least that God
still must be keeping an eye on His children, having pre-
vented His jealous and stiff-necked sons from breaking into
open and bloody rebellion.
172
Back in Haifa, I told the boys all that had happened, the
request to bomb the ship, my refusal and the shooting on the
beach. I was bitter and accusing. I said that if this fight
flowered into a civil war between Jews, I was washing my
hands of the entire mess. I also added acidly that Todd, Ray
Todd, had gone over to the side of the ATC boys and those
who smelled a buck in the green hills of Galilee-after the
fighting. For the present, I finished heavily, there was nothing
for us to do but wait. Perhaps there would be no revolution.
We could pray for that. And also hope that the airbase at
Ramat David would be fixed up
for us.
None of my fears materialized.
There was no revolt and, most surprising of all, the work
at Ramat David went ahead faster and more efficiently than
I had thought possible. We checked the base from time to
time, and we were pleased with the progress made. The
runways were cleared, the junk removed. Furniture, radios,
fresh sheets, blankets and cots were being put into the rebuilt
and reconstructed barracks. Girls from the Women's Army
Corps were assigned to the field, to help get the camp in
smooth running order and form part of its permanent
personnel.
Fighter ships, Spitfires and P-51's began to arrive. DC-3's
joined them, and the men who were to make up the squadrons
came in. Most of these, I was happy to discover, were top
pilots, boys who had come in to fight, not for money, but
for a cause.
As I waited, I had a chance to go around the country, to
tramp the hills of David, to thrill at the thought that the great
Biblical figures, the fighters and dreamers, had also trod this
same earth as I now was. It gave me a feeling of satisfaction,
foolish perhaps, that an ancestor of mine might have walked
*.
2
173
this very earth, clad in a loose-flowing mantle and sandals,
and armed with a sling or a spear, instead of blouse, khaki
trousers, leather boots and a .45.
Dave and I had a chance to talk with the people. Not many,
I thought, felt the same as Mildred. They were not so proud,
so stubborn. They wanted more and more Jews to come and
settle in Israel, and they wanted to know why more Jews did
not come. We tried to tell them that American Jews (those
were the ones that the Israelis wanted most to come) con-
sidered America their home. And besides, we asked, how
could Israel absorb so many people? They were having
trouble already with the influx of refugees and DP's.
Once we met a naval officer attached to the UN, who, in
a nice and quiet way, wanted to know what we, Americans,
were doing here, fighting for a land of which we were not
even citizens, nor cared to be. He just could not understand
it, no matter if we did try to tell him that it was good and
necessary for the Jews to have their own land, that sometimes
a man will fight for the underdog, because the underdog is
usually in the right. It was the old argument, but to the navy
man it sounded new, puzzling, and utterly incomprehensible.
I had a hunch that the truce would not last very long. At
Ramat David, the tower, operations room, dining hall, and
kitchen were completed. There was an officers' club. One of
the boys, a photographer, took pictures of all the pilots and
placed the photos on the walls. We built a nice, if small bar.
Mail came in regularly. The WAC girls took care of the
office work. Gun crews, with ack-ack guns, were set up in
strategic places around the field. On my most recent inspec-
tion tour, I was deeply satisfied that Ramat David was
beginning to look, sound and even smell like an AAA base.
The ground mechanic shops were going full blast, with both
American and Israeli mechs working and learning there.
Naturally some of the boys who were the best mechs were
174
non-Jewish boys from Texas, from Fort Worth and Dallas.
More and more men flocked into the base. We had a
hospital now and a flight surgeon. Our complete wing would
have three squadrons in it.
Everything seemed to be working out all right, even in
the choice of a C.O. for the field. This chap was an English-
man, sent down from Tel Aviv, with orders. I never knew
whether he could fly or not; he was content to take care of
the paper and administrative work and leave the flying to the
pilots, which pleased all of us. There was a rumor that
Lester Duane had been a navy flier who had cracked up so
many times that he was no longer fit for flying duty. Only
one incident served to mar the emergence of Ramat David
as an active base.
One afternoon, I received a hurried and worried call from
Duane to come to the ramp at once. By the time I reached
there I noticed a lot of fliers milling around three strange
Piper Cubs on the runways. Shouldering my way through
the crowd, I came face to face with Duane and several
strangers, headed by a Swedish officer in uniform. Behind
me, several more jeeps loaded with fliers roared up and
came to a stop.
I did not wait to hear the core of argument. With no pre-
liminaries, no saluting, I accosted the Swedish officer.
"Are these your planes?" I asked, indicating the Cubs in
back of me.
He nodded happily.
I placed my hands on my hips, pressing so hard that I
could feel the leather of my belt cutting into my flesh. “And
just what," I asked, deceptively sweet, "in hell do you think
you are doing, Sir?"
"Ay take over the field in the name of the United Na-
tions,” he answered in a Swedish sing-song.
I pretended to do a double-take. I looked around me, very
175
T:
glad to see all my boys pressing closer. "He wants to take
over the field in the name of the United Nations," I para-
phrased. "Just like that!”
"Ya," he beamed. "Yoost as you say..."
"Then listen to some more I have to say!" I began to
shout. "Don't you know we could have shot you down as
you were landing? Where were your orders to land? You
were unidentified aircraft, trying to fly over a military air
base, an active, operational air base, belonging to a free and
independent country called Israel. Which is not under UN
control. Which has not been admitted to the UN. What
right have you got to 'take over'? Where are your orders?
Who sent you?"
"Ay... ay yoost . . ." he began, looking bewildered as
we crowded closer.
"You yoost get yourself away from here in a big hurry,
buster. We've got a fine jail, never been used before.”
His face got very red. "Ay call Haifa," he threatened.
"Fine," I said smoothly. "You go right ahead and call—
the phone is at operations. You call right-quick, too, or else
you and your pals will find yourselves military prisoners."
The officer glared at me, turned to look at Duane, who
nodded. “You'd better call your people at Haifa,” the C.O.
said. “You can use my phone."
"And one more thing," I added. "Tell them to send jeeps
or cars for you. You're not flying back. The planes remain
on the ground, right here. We're considering their confisca-
tion because you had no permission to fly over or land on
a military air base.”
"Come on, Captain," Duane was saying. The Swedish of-
ficer hesitated, looked at his men, then at us, then at Duane,
and with lowered head began to shamble over to the jeep.
He got in and was driven to the C.O.'s office. There he made
176
his call, informing us rather smugly that a very high-ranking
UN officer would arrive in about an hour.
We waited.
Sixty-five minutes later, the UN official was admitted to
the field, driving up to the office and jumping out of the big
limousine. He demanded to know the facts from Duane, who
told him what had happened. Then the UN officer turned to
me for verification.
"We don't mind the UN people coming here," I said,
slower now and trying to control my temper, "if they would
give us word ahead of time. This way, they could have been
shot down, and as for taking over the field, you know that
cannot be done. If the Cubs hadn't come over so low, if our
gunners had seen them in time to adjust their elevation
sights..."
The UN man looked at me and then at the others.
"Americans?" he asked.
"Yes, sir!"
"Americans," he repeated slowly. "I won't ask why. I
think I know."
"Thank you, sir," I answered, my voice very low. He was
the first man I had met who seemed to understand, really
understand. Feeling that we had his sympathy, I looked at
him and smiled. "We'll always welcome the UN,” I said.
"In fact, if you'd given us a little advance notice-why we'd
love to have you as our guests for dinner."
His smile was friendly and rugged.
"Fine,” he answered. "I'll take a raincheck on that. Now,
as to the planes..."
"I know I told this officer that we intended to confiscate
them," I broke in, "but, since this matter seems to be now
straightened out, his men can take their planes back.”
"Fine, fine," the high official nodded. Then, he looked at
L
177
"
the Swede. "The next time you decide to land on an active
and operational base without orders," he said swiftly, "you're
going to get sent back with a minus report so fast
you won't
even be able to read the rule book." He spat disgustedly out-
side the door. "You'd better come back with me," he ordered
harshly. "There's some more I want to say to you, but not
before these officers and gentlemen."
The Swede's face turned very red. His head seemed to
creep between his shoulders, as if it wanted to hide there. He
and his colleagues trooped unhappily out of the room. The
UN man shook hands with us, reminded us again of the
promise to have lunch and dinner, and then stalked out.
Duane and I looked at each other.
Then I had to sit down.
Two days later the truce ended when an invading Arab
army ruptured the peace, and we got our combat flying
orders. Our task was to break up enemy troop concentration
and a tank convoy at Mishmar Hayadin.
"Okay, boys,” I told the fellows in my squadron. "We're
aviating again. Now. The three B-17's will carry a full bomb
load of 250-pounders. The Forts will have a 51-umbrella
cover. We'll fly at about 18,000 feet. The meteorology report
is clear and visibility good. The 51's will have a double job,
as cover, and also to break up any enemy interlopers. The
bombs will be all anti-personnel eggs. We'll clobber all hell
out of them. Dave, you'll be my wingman."
I looked at the two Irishmen in the squadron. "And you
two goyim," I grinned affectionately at them, "will fly 2 and
4 position. Dave and I will be 1 and 3. Raid is at first light.
Okay, scramble!"
Funny, I thought, as I hopped out of the jeep to draw my
chute, how all wars seem the same. You have a bunch of guys,
178
..
nice guys, but that's all you know or care. Then suddenly
you go into combat and each guy becomes an individual,
someone separate and yet a part of a whole, a friend, a com-
rade, his blood your blood, his fears your fears, cemented
by the hot lava of warfare. Suddenly, nothing seemed serious
anymore, at least not that which had appeared so serious
before. We might be laughing and cracking jokes, but none
of us would dare say or even think that perhaps he might
not be coming back. The mask of warfare, I was thinking,
always wears a crooked grin. If Mars was shown in a hideous
smile, it was not because he felt like laughing, but because
he did not want others to know the fear that writhed and
cut within him.
Right now it was cutting me until my bowels were com-
plaining. It never failed. Just before combat flight, when it
was difficult and I was all zipped up and ready to go, Nature
made her demands. Why, I wondered. Was it her way to
preserve me, so that my blood, my fibres, my nerves, every
muscle and bit of strength be used to keep me alive instead
of digesting food?
As always, the girls who handed out the chute packs to us
looked at us with those mournful eyes, half sad, half wor-
shipping. I suppose, to them, we were heroes. If they only
knew how scared we were. Who said it . . . "There are no
cowards, only men who are a little less afraid"?
The ships were coughing, then roaring into life as we
approached them. Dave and I and Kelly and McDonald, the
two Irishmen, walked together. As one of the 51's coughed
louder, almost like a sneeze, Kelly remarked, in very bad
Yiddish... "A gezunt uff dir!"
It was the traditional blessing given to anyone who
sneezes.
“Nexten yuhr,” McDonald quipped. “Zul mir zein in
179
Yerushilyim." Where he had picked up another hoary Yid-
dish Hebraic hope, that next year we should be in Jerusalem,
I don't know. But we thought it was uproariously funny.
“Okay, you potato-eaters," I said affectionately. "I only
hope you fly better than you can talk Yiddish.”
"There isn't a Jew-boy living that can outfly a son of the
Ould Sod," Kelly grinned, getting into his cockpit.
I had to smile again. Here we were, calling each other
names that would have drawn blood on the New York streets
of my boyhood. But here on this field, preparing to fly off
into battle, religion meant nothing, names meant even less.
We were men, united, the same, brothers.
If there ever will be a true Brotherhood of Men, I pon-
dered, it will have been forged in combat.
I walked around my own 51, inspecting it, giving it a fond
pat on the nose before climbing in. This was my girl friend
for my date. May she be good to me! I prayed.
There was an excitement about combat, a feeling that no
other sensation could rival, not even that of entering a
woman for the first time. It was a heady, light, intoxicating
feeling, making everything seem clearer and brighter. You
could get quite poetic about it, if you wanted to. Two men
meeting, in death-dealing, complicated machines, against the
big field of the open sky. One would lose, the other would
win. For a time not even that was important.
There was no more time to think. There was work to be
done.
For a time, the pattern was the same. The clouds, then the
first sight of the target area. Then the bombers starting to
drop. Down. Farther, gracefully, 10,000, 9,000, 8,000. Level
off, Mustangs hanging right above them, watching, alert.
Then the puff-puff-puff, the breaking black mushrooms of
the AA fire.
180
1
Way off.
Forty millimeter stuff, but off. Way, way off.
Then the breaking pattern of the bombs below, the spurts
of flame and dirt and earth and smoke.
"When the bombers get well out of the target area,” I
said over the radio, "and are on their way home, we'll stooge
around here for a bit. Hit everything that moves."
The bombing was over, the B-17's were high-tailing it
home. But we hung around, waiting, knowing that there
would be opposition. It was Kelly's voice that sang out:
"Spits at six o'clock!"
"Ours?" I demanded.
"Can't tell. Too far away."
“Okay, I'll take a look," I said, making a sharp turn and
breaking away. Dave was right behind me. Dave! Good old
Dave! I thought. And he's the one who wanted seventy-five
dollars an hour!
Then I heard an excited voice over the radio.
"Break, break! Wolf, wolf, wolf! Break . . . three bandits
sitting right on top of you. Twelve o'clock high! Break!
Wolf!"
There were four Spitfires above Dave and me. And two
more under us at six o'clock. Kelly and McDonald would
take care of them. The four Spits were Dave's and mine.
And they were coming fast at us. I could hear the enemy
voices over the radio...
"Here come the Jew-boys!"
I grinned, wondering what Kelly and Mac would think of
being called Jew-boys by the Egyptian pilots. Evidently,
they didn't like it, for the two Irishmen tore into the Gyppos
at once. Dave and I split up, each of us going after one of
the enemy.
My Egyptian seemed either foolish or inexperienced, flying
straight ahead for the deck. How green can you get? I won-
181
J
way,
dered why this Gyppo made no attempt to get out of the
but flew straight, with me on his tail, my 50-calibers
ripping him to pieces. Two more short bursts and the end
came in a vivid explosion of flame and smoke.
It had been so easy that I felt ashamed of myself. Evi-
dently I must have hit his tank. They were sending green
kids against us, I thought, seeing the other Gyppo plane
spiralling down, the flames licking him hungrily.
"... and the shame of it!" I heard Kelly say over the
radio, "him calling me a Jew-boy, and me a fine broth of an
Irishman!"
That was all there was to the fight. With two of their Spits
shot down, the other four Gyppos headed for safety behind
their own lines. I had spent harder and more dangerous
moments in training than in this fight.
As soon as I landed, the back-slapping started. "Leon, you
got the first one! The very first one to shoot a Gyppo down
in this war!" One of the ground crew ran up with the paint
and brush and the wooden frame, painting the first red fez
on the nose of my P-51.
But to me, once I was back on the ground, it was a dull
and familiar business. I had lived through it before, gone
through it hundreds of times. But for Kelly it was different.
It was his first kill. A former test pilot (later, in the United
States, he would be one of the few ever to fly a jet and try
to break the sound barrier), he was exulting. With his Van-
dyke beard and his loud sport shirt, he looked like a Holly-
wood version of a flier.
Then, as it always does, the war became mechanical. Even
the technique of killing can become routine and business-like.
It was fly, fly, and fly again. Three missions a day. Some-
times four. Sometimes for two hours, sometimes for three
hours. Shipping, railroads, and troops. Ground support. Places
182
like Majdal, Rafa, Gaza, Faluja, El Arish, Beersheba and
Damascus.
Fifty missions a month. Sixty.
Three fez-insignia on my plane. Then four and five. Four
men lost to the squadron. Sweet and Leich got it coming in
for a low-level job at the fort of Faluja. Willie Cannon got
it from ground fire. The Israeli ground troops later found
his body and brought it back. The Arabs had mutilated it,
disemboweling it and savagely castrating the corpse as well.
It was sickening. Willie had been the lovable clown of the
outfit. I had to write the letter to Willie's folks. What could
I say? I told them that Willie had died like a hero.
That was the way of war-you had to cover up. The
whole truth was too stark.
But there were some things which could not be hidden or
ignored. There was the time when I was lucky enough to
shoot down three enemy fighters within sight of all of Tel
Aviv, all of them going into the sea. One of the Egyptian
fighters was rescued and the first thing he demanded was to
meet the fighter who had downed him. This Gyppo was
supposed to be their "ace."
This made us all smile. The Gyppo fighters were, to put
it bluntly, lousy. Not a man in my group had ever been shot
down by an Egyptian; most of our losses were from flak or
groundfire. The plain fact was that the Egyptians were badly
trained and inexperienced, no match for our men who had
been seasoned in combat. It was like shooting ducks in a
rain barrel.
This Gyppo pilot demanded to meet me, and raised a big
clamor and fuss in Tel Aviv, which the papers recorded. The
Israeli brass found themselves in the embarrassing position
of finally being forced to recognize the men at Ramat David
and the work they were doing. The name of Leon Baker
began to be known. I was asked either to come to Tel Aviv
183
and get my pictures taken with the downed Gyppo or at
least to talk to him over the phone, with the reporters
listening in.
I agreed to the latter; it was better than going to Tel Aviv.
In the C.O.'s office I heard the Egyptian's voice; he
sounded like a young, confident fellow. And he was speaking
with a refined British accent.
"Mr. Leon Baker?"
"Yes, that's right."
"I'm the Egyptian Air Force officer you shot down outside
Tel Aviv."
"Okay. Glad you weren't hurt.”
"You're an American, aren't you?"
Here it comes, I thought ruefully. Into the phone, I said:
"That's right. Born and bred in the USA."
"Then why do you Americans come over and fight my
people?" he demanded, his voice rising with indignation.
"This is no fight or concern of yours. Your people and my
people are not at war. Why do you do it-for money?"
"But your people and my people are at war,” I said. "It's
true that I'm an American. But I'm also a Jew."
There was a long silence. "Oh," he finally said.
"Yes, oh," I mimicked. "I saw some of your people's work.
When you were shot down, you were rescued and you're
nice and safe now. But what happened to Will Cannon, one
of the Canadian boys in my squadron, when he was shot
down? Do you want me to tell you?"
"Please do," he said politely.
“Okay, you asked for it. His fingers were broken off at
the knuckles. A brass spike was driven into his anus. His
guts were cut and drawn. His testicles were ripped off with
a pincers, red-hot, because they found burned flesh around
his groin. Then his throat was cut. And Willie Cannon
wasn't even Jewish! He was a Canadian!"
184
There was a longer silence. Then . . . "He deserved it! It
was none of his business, and none of yours either, to come
over here and fight us. I am told that you were also one of
the pilots who bombed Cairo. I want to tell
you that
you
missed your targets. You did little damage to the government
buildings. Instead, you hit a slum area, killing hundreds of
innocent men, women and children. You hit the slum district
of El-Baramony. You butcher! You killer! You.
I hung up on Lieutenant Thotmos Salem.
All he meant to me was that I could add another of the
funny little Egyptian hats to the nose of my plane.
""
Fly. Fly some more. Fly again.
My eyes were bloodshot. Fatigue burned into my marrow,
weariness weighted every muscle so that I could hardly
walk. Doc Solomon, the flight surgeon, began to look at us
suspiciously and cluck over us in his South African patois.
The missions began to pile up and take their toll of us. There
were no rests, no replacements. Solomon went up to Tel
Aviv to ask for a relief for us, but the brass turned him
down cold. There was a fight, they said, and the flying must
go on.
Doc told me of his visit, warning me that neither I nor
the men could keep up this pace much longer without some
rest. "I told them, goddamn it, I told them!" Doc said bit-
terly. "But all they would say was, 'They have to fly.'
""
"In a way, Doc," I said wearily, "they're right. There's
no one to fly the heavy stuff and the fighters for them. We
haven't time to teach Israelis to have their own Air Force.
And, in the meantime, they're so scared that we might take
over all their commercial airlines, all their flying, that they're
incapable of doing anything. That's what worries them most,
that the Americans will take over aviation after the war.
That and their politics. . . this jockeying for
this jockeying for power, with
185
·
each
party wanting to be in the driver's seat when it's all over."
Doc nodded sadly. He shuffled back to his beds and bottles.
But for us it was hit the cots for a few hours' wretched
sleep, which was coming harder and harder to us now. The
pictures, the images refused to leave me alone. I would try
and sleep, but a mocking memory would taunt me about past
missions, about the close calls, about the men and ships shot
down, the looks on the faces of the Gyppos as they came in
low for you, their guns barking like mad dogs... the sight
of a Gyppo doubling up and writhing as the 50-calibers tore
him to shreds. The blood, the flames, the thud of bombs, the
whistle of wind and shriek of a blasted prop.
And the fear that soon, brother, soon enough, you'll get
yours. Your turn will come. You'll be next, Buster.
More flying.
There was that day when, coming back from a mission
behind Arab lines, we saw the three Spits below us. Easy
targets. So easy. We were tired, and all we were looking
forward to was to land, have a meal and a drink, sit around
the bar for a time, then get some sleep. But three planes. And
so easy
easy!
Dave and I, and Kelly and Bob Arons, got after them.
In about three minutes the planes had been shot down. They
didn't even know what had hit them. I shot the prop off one.
Dave got another, and Kelly the third. We made our report
automatically, almost asleep on our feet. Railroads blown up.
Ammunition dumps blown up. Air strip strafed and raked.
Three fighters downed.
The next day all hell broke loose.
The three planes we had shot to earth and sea had been
official British RAF planes, out of the Suez area. And, to
make matters worse, when the three failed to show up at
their base, two more Spits had gone looking for the missing
186
ones. And the two searchers had also been knocked off by
another squadron. Five in one day!
The resulting uproar was terrific. You might have thought
that we had killed Winston Churchill. The fact that the RAF
planes had no business where they were, that they had failed
to identify themselves, that they might have shot us down
first, made no difference.
But we kept on. There was no end. I kept wondering when
my time would come. Death and I were old friends, but I
felt his hand upon me more than once, if lightly. There was
the time the top of my canopy was shot away and the lines
of the tracers whisked by me inches away. Thanks to Dave,
who came down over the over-confident Gyppo on my tail,
I managed to get out of that alive. But, crawling home, I had
another brush with the guy with the scythe when Israeli
groundfire over Haifa opened up on me.
It was my fault, of course. I should have used the regular
approach from the sea. But I was so tired now that I couldn't
think fast enough or act with the proper reflex as I should
have been able to do.
I had two more close calls, and Doc Solomon said he was
grounding me; I'd had it. Enough was enough. But, for
reasons I cannot fully understand even now, I asked for two
more missions before I quit for a time.
Of course, one of them turned out to be a job I always
hated, a night mission. Then they use the lights on you and
if the searchlights ever pick you up, you're like a fixed mark
in the sky, with the 88's below bellowing joyfully as they
spit fire and death at you.
This time the lights caught me.
I slipped, weaved, turned, trying to get out of their finger
of rays. But the pencilled paths all pointed at me, outlined
me, blinded me. In desperation, my stomach in knots, I kicked
187
the plane over on its back and then plunged straight to earth.
Thus I lost the lights.
The other mission was even worse. I had just loosened my
rockets at Fort Faluja, the Gyppo headquarters, when a piece
of flak hit my engine. The engine began to heat up, the
coolant started to leak out, and from my rear I could see a
Gyppo closing in, getting ready to climb for a pass. The
only thing left for me to do was to hit for the deck and fly
low and wide open, thus making a hard target to hit. I was
indescribably tired, almost to the point of not caring what
happened any more. My mind screamed for rest. It would be
No more flying. No more shooting. No more politics,
Irgun, Haganah, America, Jews... Star and Cross, Cross and
Star. No more worrying about my mother and my sister,
Dottie and her kids. Let somebody else carry on. Enough
was enough. Let the end come quick, though.
so easy.
Clean and quick.
I began to think about ramming the Gyppo. That way
I'd
sure get him, and my own end would be as swift as I wanted
it. What was the use? A time for living, and a time for dying,
as the old Hebrew prayer went. What was keeping the
Egyptian? Why didn't he start to shoot?
Then I saw what was on his mind. He wanted to force me
to the ground, to land, to take me prisoner. I thought of
Willie Cannon. I thought of Thotmos Salem. What a feather
in their caps if they could take me! What a prize catch, an
Israeli plane with seven red fezes on the nose!
Already I could see the face of the Gyppo pilot. He was
using his hand to point straight ahead, to the Gaza air base.
His meaning was clear-I should keep going and then
surrender.
Well, I grinned sourly, I'll do as he says, but why shouldn't
I do a little shooting as I came in? If I had to go out in "a
blaze of glory" as they say, this was the best way.
188
**
I obeyed the Egyptian. I put the nose of the P-51 down
and headed for the Gaza strip. There were planes lined up
down in the field and they made a beautiful target. I put
the ship into a steep glide and then squeezed my buttons of
the fifties. And what was I thinking then? That it was a hell
of a way to die, six thousand miles from home, among
enemies, for a cause which still could be lost. Of Judaism, of
Americanism? Of ideals?
No.
It was Mildred's face that shimmered before me now. Her
eyes, her hair, her mouth. It was her voice I heard, not that
of my guns or those from the ground. If my plane shud-
dered, it was her quivering body in my arms, not one of
iron and aluminum and wood.
I raked the field. The gunners on the ground were so
surprised that they started to shoot back of me. They shot
well for a change. They hit the Gyppo right in back of me
and knocked him from the sky.
And when I finally came back to the base I stepped care-
fully from the plane, and the ground came up and hit me
square in the face. When I came to, I was on my cot, and
Doc Solomon, his bald patch gleaming like a little lake in the
middle of a sparse forest, was saying:
“That's all for you, Leon. From now on, you're grounded.
You're through, until I say you can fly again."
1
189
* 17 *
With Kelly taking over operational command at Ramat
David, I allowed myself a two-week rest, obeying Doc
Solomon's severe order that it was either a rest for me or he'd
ground me for good. Thus, along with Dave, Jerry Wald,
Jack Nadel and Al Fisher, I decided to see something of the
country and take it easy for a time, just hiking or riding
around.
On our first night, we went to a nightclub at Mt. Carmel.
It was December and rather cool. The place was dismal, with
a small dance floor and an old iron stove for heat. We were
the only customers in the room, but we didn't mind. We
were resting, there were no flights about which to worry, and
the drinks, at least, sent warmth and relaxation through us.
Al Fisher was feeling particularly happy, drinking more
than he should. He left us several times, going into another
room in the back, which also had a small bar. We figured he
was just restless and curious.
After a few moments Al returned, weaving over to me,
190
clapping me on the shoulder, grinning broadly. “I want you
to know I'm your real pal, a real pal," he told me. "Know
what I just did for you?"
"I know," I smiled, "you got Betty Grable to fly over for
an exclusive date with me."
He blinked owlishly, and then I realized that he was much
more tight than I had thought. "How did you guess?" he
asked in a sulking tone, as if I had spoiled his surprise.
"Oh," I said easily, "those things happen to me all the
time. All the women are crazy about me.'
››
He nodded. "That's what she said, too..
"Who?" Dave asked. "Grable?"
"Nawh." Al steadied himself against my chair. "Sylvia.
That telephone operator in Tel Aviv. I just called her for a
date later on and she asked me about
""
""
you.
"You better watch your girl, Al," Jerry broke in. "Leon
will take her away from you."
"Leon's got his own girl. That's what Sylvia told me. She
said that this Miss Davis is back-made a couple of calls for
her-and she asked Hitz where you were, Leon. So I told
Sylvia to tell Miss Davis that you were at Ramat David, and
she did! And Miss Davis told Sylvia that she would come
and see you. How's that, Leon, old boy, old pal, old pal?”
I was standing up, then allowed myself to sink back into
the chair. Mildred here? Now? I could not believe it. I
looked up at Al. "Are you sure that's what your girl friend
told you? You're not making the whole thing up?"
"Of course not!" Al said indignantly. "Would I double-
cross a buddy? Sylvia said that Miss Davis asked about you,
and that Hitz told her you were at the base and that she's
going to see you. Sylvia called a jeep for her."
"When was this?" I asked, "just now?"
"Nawh." Al hiccupped loudly. "Couple of hours ago. I
wanted Sylvia as soon as I could see her . . ."
191
Two hours, I thought. She would have plenty of time to
get here, or reach the base and then perhaps be told where I
was. A new excitement seized me. Mildred would be here!
And she had asked about me!
"Why are you wandering in and out?" I asked Al.
"What's the big attraction back there? Somebody doing
a strip?"
I saw his face change instantly. "I was coming to that," he
said. "There's a couple of guys at the bar getting funny.
Making cracks. I wanted to be sure, so I came back a few
times. Now I guess I'll go back again."
We looked at each other. "What sort of cracks?" I asked
quietly.
"Aw, nothin', nothin'," he said. "I can handle it myself.
I'm going back right now." He started to walk away. At a
nod from me, the other boys stood up. "Guess we'll all go
and take a look, hunh, Al?" I said, putting my hand on his
shoulder. "Won't hurt. You know what they say
'In
Union Is Strength.'"
Al nodded and the five of us walked into the next room.
There was a smaller bar there. Five husky Marines, most of
them young kids, with blond crew-cuts, were standing or
seated before the slab of wood on which drinks had been
placed. We could see from their insignia that they were
part of a detachment assigned to the United Nations.
Quietly, we took a table and seated ourselves. The Marines
still had not noticed us. One of them, the tallest of the group-
they called him Timmerman-was just finishing a joke.
،،
... so this Jew rabbi says to Kelly, 'Da only vay you can
tell if a Jewish goil is still a voigin iss... you leeft da dress,
an' if you smell honions, hokay. But if you smell honions and
ham, den vatch out!'"
There was a roar of laughter. The bartender, wiping some
glasses, looked uneasily from them to us. Al shifted uneasily.
192
"See what I mean," he whispered. "Dialect stories about
Jews." He took a deep breath. His eyes appeared very
bloodshot. "If there's one thing I hate it's Jewish dialect
stories, or dialect stories of any kind. Let me go over to these
Gyrenes and give them a little of their own Semper Fi!"
He struggled to get up, but I shoved him down. Al was
drunk, angry and spoiling for a fight.
The Marines had now spotted us. They stared for a time
and then the same one-the one they called Timmerman-
spoke up, his voice very loud.
"I see Abraham has returned," he said to his comrades.
"With four members of the Tribes. But where are the other
eight Tribes? Probably screwing the Jewish WACS at the
field."
They laughed again. Al turned fiery red and once more
struggled to get up, and I had to use my force to keep him
down. It was obvious that the Marines, all teen-agers, were
feeling every ounce of their liquor and eager for a fracas.
They were bored and routinized and looking for excitement
of any kind, even if it meant taunting us into a free-for-all.
"Let me shut those sons of bitches up," Al pleaded,
whispering.
"Sit here,” I said. "I'll speak to them."
"If
any help, Leon," Dave said, "we're right
here. Five to five. Even odds."
you need
"There won't be any fighting," I said firmly. "These kids
are bored, don't know how to drink and are looking for a
little excitement. I can calm them down. Remember, we're
on furlough, and we don't want any trouble."
I pushed my chair aside and walked over to the bar. As
soon as they saw me coming, the Marines shoved aside their
glasses and hitched up their trousers. The waited expectantly,
hopefully waiting.
"Hi fellows," I said. I got no response. I looked at Tim-
193
merman, the tall kid, who was sneering at me in a sort of cold
smile. I thought he could not be much more than nineteen.
Kids, I thought, assigned to a man's job with the UN. To
promote international peace and understanding. I suddenly
felt weary and sad. The Star and Cross again weighed me
down heavily.
"Look fellows," I began again, "we're just having a quiet
drink. One of my boys has had a little too much and he
doesn't appreciate either your humor or your Sunday School
lessons. So how about easing off, hunh?"
Timmerman leaned close to me, so close I could smell the
liquor on his breath. When he spoke, it was with the Jewish
dialect again. "Vots da matter, Abie?" he asked, his voice
shrill falsetto. "Vy are you gettink zo hexcited for?”
I stiffened. This had gone beyond a joke, beyond dialect
and nuisances. This youngster hated Jews, was a symbol of
intolerance and anti-Semitism. And the alcohol he had con-
sumed only gave added fuel to his courage and his flaming
hatred.
"Look,” I said. My voice had become very cold and low.
I was struggling with my own rage. "Look, Buster. I asked
you in a nice way to cut it out. But you won't have it that
way."
Timmerman turned in mock appeal to his grinning com-
rades. "Look who is tucking about cutting out!" he said.
"Abie, you should know. Wasn't yours cut off ven you a
leedle baby vus?"
They snickered loudly, moving closer around me.
"Maybe dot's vot vurries you, Abie? You ain't got enuff
left for your Jew broads."
I stepped closer to him. "Now I'm telling you, Buster. You
and your buddies get your asses out of here, quick."
I saw the icy film come over his eyes, making them look
a colder, paler blue than before. His lashes were very short,
194
and angrily I thought again, a kid! He had a slight razor cut
against his lower lip. A kid who couldn't even shave properly!
"And you listen to me, Jew-boy." Timmerman's voice
was without accent, flat in its Mid-Western tone. Where did
he come from, I wondered. Iowa? Indiana? "Nobody, but
nobody tells us what to do. We're United States Marines!"
he said haughtily.
I let my eyes scornfully rake his blouse. Aside from the
sharpshooting medal, he had no decorations. This was prob-
ably his first tour.
"I respect the United States Marines," I said. "But you
should also respect other branches of the services." I jabbed
a thumb to the back of me. "See these men with me? Each
one of them has more combat service, more time in fighting,
than you have hairs on your head. All of us have just come
out of combat flying. We're in a war."
Timmerman mockingly applauded, his comrades following
his example. "Do you want a soap-box?" he asked. "Or
a flag?"
"And do you know why we're fighting this war?" I asked,
still trying to hold on desperately to my logic and calmness.
"Because of the same bullshit you're trying to pull here.
You're with the UN and you should know better than to
make cracks like that in a Jewish country, with Jews fighting
and dying."
"Fighting, dying, hell!" Timmerman spat on the floor.
"There isn't a Jew alive who isn't yellow. They let others
fight while they sit back and rake in the dough. Everyone
knows that. The same with you guys. Pretending to be big-
shot flyers. Hell, when the Arabs kick the shit out of all of
you and take over, you'll all be running back to wherever
you came from."
A hammer pounded my head. A bell seemed to clang. A
red curtain was suddenly lowered over my vision and I saw
195
Timmerman's face grotesquely distorted, darkly crimson
and twisting before my eyes.
"This is where we came from, punk! While your an-
cestors were still lying in their own piss in caves somewhere,
this land was giving philosophy and religion and government
to the world. This land was the height of civilization."
"Height of civilization my foot!" Timmerman spat again.
"In this land, you goddamn Jews crucified Jesus Christ. You
murdered him. For money. like all the rest of you. Don't
you tell a real Christian about . . ."
"You're no Christian and you're no Marine, punk!"
He took a step forward but I shoved him away, stepping
out of his reach. I could no longer think clearly. All the
anger, the fatigue, the ordeal I had gone through ripped
through me. I could almost shout as my palm found the butt
of my .45 which I drew from my shoulder holster. I saw
Timmerman staring unbelievingly at the weapon in my hand.
He stepped back even more, his face paling suddenly as I
snapped the safety catch.
"Okay, you bastard," I said, very very quietly, jabbing
the gun at him. "If you're such a good Christian as you
claim to be, let's hear you tell a good Christian joke. In
dialect. Now."
"Look, Mister," he began, still backing away. His eyes
never left the gun.
"Now. Right now!"
"Look... I..." His back was against the bar. His friends
also moved away.
"I want to hear a good Christian joke in dialect, and by
Christ, if it doesn't make me laugh, I'm going to blast a hole
in your gut so big the whole US Marine Corps will be able to
march through it." I jabbed the muzzle at him. "Okay. Make
me laugh, jerk!"
Timmerman's face was working. His eyes appealed to his
196
friends but they were mute. His lips twitched and he couldn't
stop it. I saw the little bartender suddenly bend low and
scurry behind the bar and then run outside. Fine! Just fine!
Now the Jewish MP's will be here, I thought, and we'll all
wind up with a few days in some jail.
Timmerman was wetting his lips, sliding his back against
the bar, away from the .45. He opened his mouth but no
words came out. His face was turning a sickish gray color,
and I saw him swallow a few times. He looked sick.
"Let's go,” I said. "I'm waiting.” I glanced at my watch.
"You got two minutes. One hundred and twenty seconds.
What's the matter? Don't you know any Christian jokes at
all?" I asked, jabbing the muzzle harder into his stomach.
He gave a little moan almost doubling over.
“One minute and thirty seconds," I said quietly.
"Mister... please . . . I'm sorry. I. . . didn't mean any-
thing. Honest. . . Please."
"One minute."
I saw one of his friends make a little move. Without look-
ing at him, I said, "If any of you guys makes one more little
motion, you get it and he gets it. Freeze!”
They stiffened at once. I glanced again at my watch.
"Thirty seconds." I raised the muzzle a little higher.
"Well, there was this guy, a travelling salesman
who..
>>
“Nix,” I said. “No dirty jokes about salesmen and farm-
ers' daughters. I want a nice, clean, Christian joke.”
"Please, Mister . . . please, for Christ's sake." Sweat sud-
denly beaded his cheeks and streaked down his chin. I raised
the gun higher, so that it pointed directly over the third
button of his blouse. My fingers tightened and I was just
about to apply pressure to the trigger when I heard the door
open. At the same time there came a scrape of chairs and I
suddenly felt my arms being pinned from behind. As I
¿
:
197
whirled, I saw a grim-faced Dave holding on to my left arm,
while two burly Israeli MP's were twisting my gun out of
my hand. It clattered to the floor. The bartender picked it up
gingerly.
"Okay," one of the MP's said to the Marines. "Move, fast.”
Timmerman blinked, lifted his heavy feet and almost ran
from the room, his friends following him. Just as they passed
through the door, Dave shouted at them, "You don't know
how lucky you sons of bitches are! He would have blasted
you to pieces."
As the hold on me tightened I said, "Okay. Okay. Let go.
I'm all right.”
Dave released me and the MP's did the same. Dave led me
over to the table and shoved a drink into my hand. The glass
trembled as I swallowed deeply and gratefully.
"You all right now?" one of the MP's was asking. He was
half smiling at me. "I believe you would have shot him."
I nodded mutely, appalled by what I might have done.
"Those boys have been giving us a little trouble," the
second MP said. "Glad you told them off. Maybe they won't
be so cocky again."
Again I nodded. I still could not speak.
"All right, then," the second MP said. He looked at the
bartender. "Let him have the gun. Wait a minute. I'll slip the
safety back on." With a sure and practiced gesture, he locked
the gun,
looked at it, and then handed it back to me.
"All right," the taller of the two military policemen de-
clared again. "We'll be quiet now, eh? No more trouble?"
"No more trouble," said Dave. "And fellows, thanks a lot."
"No trouble," the first MP said. “Any time at all." They
looked at me again, shook their heads, and then stamped out.
I pushed away my drink and lowered my head into my
hands, resting my elbows on the table. The world was sud-
198
denly swimming and rocking under me and I felt nauseous.
How long I remained this way, I don't remember. The
room had become very quiet. I wondered what had hap-
pened to the other guys. I was about to look up when her
voice brought me back to normalcy with a shock.
"Leon. Leon Baker."
I looked up.
Mildred Davis, her lovely face very pale, was looking down
at me.
Fifteen minutes later, I still hadn't recovered from her ap-
pearance. We were alone in the room now. The bartender
had retired to a corner, after serving us and miraculously
finding some sandwiches and tea for us. The food lay un-
touched, however. We had been talking all this time.
"I knew you were coming," I said. "Al told me about
Sylvia and..."
"Oh, Sylvia." Mildred smiled. "The tried and true phone
operator. She knows more than anybody else."
"But why?" I asked. "Why were you curious? Why did
you want to see me?"
She toyed with her glass, setting it down and moving it
around the table as if it were a chess piece. "Why?" She
shrugged. "I don't know. I honestly don't know, Leon. When
I first met you, I didn't like you. Not a bit. I thought you
were like the rest of the Americans. Confident, noisy, push-
ing ... out to grab what you could. You know that. I told
you what I thought of mercenary Yanks in front of Hitz."
"I know."
"Still." A tiny sigh escaped from her lips. "I kept remem-
bering you. No, don't laugh. It's not silly. I'm not a schoolgirl.
I've been around. I've even been . . ." her voice
"her voice grew bit-
terly whimsical... "married. Still, I kept remembering you.
Why? I don't know."
199
"Or maybe you're afraid to know, is that it?"
She shrugged. When she looked up at me there was a hard
little smile around the corners of her mouth. "It might be
a little too early to brag to yourself, Leon. As I said, I don't
know. I want to be sure what it is exactly I feel." She
reached for a cigarette and I lighted it for her. "I believe in
being honest," she continued, the smoke coming from her
mouth. "Don't you?"
"Always," I agreed.
"Well," and she tapped the cigarette gently into the ash-
tray, "wherever I went, I began to hear of you. People were
talking of you. You're quite famous, you know," she smiled.
I looked down, pleased at her compliment, yet annoyed.
"I've been famous before," I said. "It's nothing. In wartime,
if you're lucky, you get famous until your number is up.
Besides, the Gyppos are no match for us. It's like the New
York Yanks playing the semi-pros."
"I heard about the three fighters you shot down in Tel
Aviv and about the Egyptian who talked to you on the
phone," she said.
"That was a silly thing for the brass to have done," I
said.
She looked at me for a long time. "You don't like the brass,
you don't like the Israelis, you don't like the Americans who
come here to fight for money, and you certainly don't like the
Arabs and Egyptians." She reached out to touch
my wrist.
"Leon, what is it that drives you? What do you want? What
do
you want to see?"
I let her fingers remain on the back of my hand. They felt
cool and exciting. She made no effort to remove her hand.
"I'll tell you what I don't want to see. What happened
here tonight with the Marines. Maybe that would explain it?"
Her fingers tightened impulsively. "That was a near thing,
Leon."
I stared at her. "You saw the whole thing?"
200
"From act one until the final curtain. I had just come in.
Leon, would you really have shot him?'
""
I took a deep breath. "Now, I don't know. But, while it
was happening, yes. I believe I would have."
Now she removed her hand. "You know," she said,
thoughtfully, "that was the first time I ever met anybody
anti-Semitic before. Oh, sure, I heard the Arab and Egyptian
speeches and propaganda, but this was the first time, per-
sonally, I mean, that . .
""
Now I could smile at her. "How would you have liked to
be brought up in a continual atmosphere of such anti-Semitic
behavior? Ever since you were a child?”
Her eyes grew larger. "You?"
"Me. And a couple of million other Jews."
"In America?"
"That's where I was born and bred."
Mildred was silent for a long time. Then, "It was horri-
ble," she admitted. "Ghastly. It made me feel so ashamed,
so inferior. So angry."
I spread my hands. "Then you know. You understand. Of
course, what you saw tonight was a simple and easy version
of the poison. Multiply what you saw and heard a million
times, add a little bloodshed, a lot of torture, mix with hate
and anger, and you've got it."
"I never knew. Never really knew," she was saying, more
to herself than to me. "I was born a Sabra. Fierce. Inde-
pendent. Nobody called us names. We could go where we
pleased, dream our dreams and then build them. But this..."
Her hand reached out for mine again, and this time our
fingers met and entwined and held. "Was it so very bad?"
she asked, almost whispering, her eyes never leaving my face.
"It was rough at times."
She squeezed my hand. "You know," she smiled, "I'm
glad I met you."
“But I'm not the first American you knew.”
201
Se
Her cigarette was stubbed out in short, stiff and angry
little strokes. But when she looked at me, there was no malice
in her glance.
"No," she said. "Not the first. But you're not like him."
I thought it best to remain silent.
"Nobody could be like him," she said again. I wondered
if she needed to talk this out with somebody. "At first I
thought that-well, you just don't know. You never know.
But it's over now. For good. And the next time, I'll be sure.
That's why I . . .”
I looked up. "It's awfully quiet here," I said. I felt embar-
rassed talking to her about her former husband. “What hap-
pened to the boys?"
"she answered easily. "They've gone."
I half stood up. "Gone? Gone where? We had two weeks'
stand down. We were going to see the country together."
“Leon.”
At first, she didn't look at me, then, with an effort, her
eyes met mine. "Leon, I spoke with the boys. They under-
stand. They said they'd see you later."
"But I don't get this," I protested, although my heart
started to beat faster.
"I've got ten days myself," she murmured. “And my own
car. And if you want to see the country," she looked down
and bit her lip.
I was standing up, looking down at her. "Millie," I breathed
harshly. "Millie."
"Don't misunderstand me,” she answered, her gaze lock-
ing with mine defiantly. "This doesn't end anything be-
tween us."
"You mean the war is still on?"
"Between us, and with the Arabs as well," she nodded seri-
ously. "But as I told you before, I have to know. I want
to be sure. I . . . I kept thinking of you all the time. And
202
whenever somebody mentioned your name, well . . ." Her
smile was misty.
"But why, how?" I stammered foolishly.
"That's it. I don't know. I have to know."
"And if
you do know, then what?" I asked desperately.
“First I have to know. Then we'll see. Or maybe," she
teased, “you'd prefer to have another guide for your tour?”
"Millie!"
"You shouldn't let a girl make all the passes, Leon."
I didn't care if the bartender was looking. I pulled her up.
She came into my arms, her head tilted back, her lips closed,
and when I kissed her, her mouth responded. A little shakily,
she withdrew from my embrace.
"Well!" she said to herself. "Well, well, well!"
We didn't wait to get to a hotel.
In the shadow of a low cliff, with the night alive and loud
around us from the rain, we found each other. For a time,
I could watch the streaks on the car windows as the rain
hammered at the glass. And then the streaks ran together,
criss-crossing and all jumbled into tiny, silver ribbons which
tied my vision and left me sightless and breathless, without
strength.
203
*18*
!
There began for Mildred and myself that strange relativity of
time, the compression and elongation, the squeezing together
and the stretching out of the days, hours and minutes, until
they were unrecognizable as units of time and could not be
distinguished one from another. A day could race by with
the speed of a moment, or a second could be extended, quiver-
ing, languorous until it seemed infinite. In a way, those two
weeks (Millie got an extension of time to correspond with
my own stand down from the field) could be called our time
of getting to know each other, of understanding. A honey-
moon, even if no vows were uttered or exchanged, no prom-
ises made, no contracts signed.
Even the very elements seemed to conspire in favor of
lovers. The weather, which had started out to be cold and
gray and dismal, suddenly donned the gossamer, golden garb
of spring and invited us to share its gifts.
We travelled around the countryside, taking definite care
204
to keep away from the fighting fronts. In Mildred's car we
toured the roads, seeing and visiting various Kibbutzim, ex-
changing greetings with the workers on these cooperative
farm camps. The fields were open and green, worked by
rather old men, women, and children, since the younger peo-
ple were at war.
Longing to see the city of Nazareth-it had looked so clean
and white from the air-we visited there, glad to find that
the ravage and havoc of war had touched it but lightly. The
Haifa countryside was very pleasant, as were the warm and
smiling greetings of the Israeli guards.
"Shalom!"
Shalom. Peace. Always the one word hope of these people,
my people, the hope of people the world over. Our passes
were accepted and we could make our way into this ancient
and religious city. It gave me a thrill to know I was in the
city of Jesus, where so much happened, where a Man had
lived who had really longed for peace and who had died for
it. No wonder they called him the Prince of Peace! I was
exhilarated, seeing the Arabs and Jews walking around to-
gether in peace, forgetful that not so far away these same
people were killing each other. Why could it not ever be
thus, to have peace between peoples, I asked Mildred, as we
trudged the streets. No matter what faith you might be,
Christian, Jew or Moslem, you could not help but feel a
reverence for this place.
I found the same peace gazing upon the Sea of Galilee.
Here, too, one could sense the great, high holiness of the
place, of events which had happened here and stirred the
entire world for all time to come. I meditated as I looked
upon the water, thinking that essentially all religions were
the same-urging man to love his brother man-and if people
only would realize it, there would be no need of warfare,
starvation, poverty and want. So simple and yet so hard! The
205
words had been given us, the blueprints were there for all
to read and understand-yet the world was in constant tur-
moil. Why? Why?
But the Sea gave me no answer.
We motored up the coast to the border of Lebanon. The
fighting had stopped here when Lebanon threw in the towel.
There was still some sniping, however, and because of that,
I took my .45 out of my holster and laid it on the seat beside
us, and also saw to it that my Tommy gun was in readiness.
I became more tense, fingering my weapons, when I saw a
crowd of Arabs in the middle of the road, one of them waving
a white sheet.
Millie put on the brakes as one of the Arabs came over.
They had mistaken us for military scouts and now, we were
informed, they wanted to surrender themselves. I looked at
my weapons and felt ashamed and foolish. To fight these old
men and children?
We were informed that the younger Arabs had left these
oldsters and the children with nothing. They were hungry
and tired and that was why they wished to give themselves
up. It was Millie who noticed a small Arab girl who had been
lingering shyly in back of the group. As Mildred got out
of the jeep, I followed her.
The child could not have been more than four or five
years of age. The sun had bleached her hair, making her very
blonde, and she was emaciated, with her big black eyes staring
wistfully and hopefully out at a cruel world. Her dress was
a single, red rag which fell over her knobby and scratched
knees. There was something so lovable, so lonesome and piti-
able about her-she reminded me of my own nephews-that
I bent down to pick her up.
She screamed in pain.
Looking down, sickened at what my eyes beheld, I saw
the jagged hole in the front of her dress and perceived with
206
horror the scabby covering of a wound, the edges puffed
and not dried, shadowed with filth and dirt. The child stopped
screaming, when I put her down and Mildred bent over her,
talking to her gently, deeply disturbed at the sight.
Mildred cleaned the wound as best she could, applying
mercurochrome and bandages from our meagerly-supplied
medicine bag. The child's lips were white from hunger, the
nostrils pinched together. Clumsily, I helped Mildred apply
the clean cloths to the wound, knowing that either shrapnel
or a rifle bullet had torn her flesh. This innocent child, I
thought, had to suffer. Another victim of the Star and the
Cross.
I held her as closely as I dared, murmuring to her that
she was my little girl, and how would she like to come with
me? I saw Mildred watching me strangely but saying noth-
ing. Never did I hate war more than at that moment. I thought
of the other kids that I, Leon Baker, must have hurt this way
with my bombs. Whose fault was it? Mine? Was I to blame?
Or was it somebody else?
I wanted to stay on, to do something, to help this child
and her people. I told Mildred I would like to make a report
about this to the United Nations. Millie said she would see
what she could do. Conscientiously, she took down the names
of the elders of the village, the locality and what these poor
people needed. More than that-I was forced reluctantly to
agree with her—we could not do. Just before I got into the
car again, I gave that little girl part of a box of crackers.
It was all I had to give her for her wound.
In the hotel room later that night we talked about it. It
was a rather warm evening, the windows were open and we
were both pleasantly relaxed and tired, but our minds were
not.
"You surprised me, Leon," Mildred was saying. She was
207
*
half-propped up against the pillows. "I really had my eyes
opened this afternoon."
"You know what they say?" I tried to answer lightly.
'Look and ye will see.' Or words to that effect."
"Or seek and ye shall find," she amended. Her hand
caressed my naked chest and she let her fingertips rest over
my heart. "Under this stern old heart," she said, "there really
lies a hidden tenderness. I might never have known."
"Why?" I asked. “Just because I felt sorry for that Arab
kid? I feel sorry for all the kids in the world, Millie." I swung
my feet over the bed. "Not just this one alone. All the others
mean something to me."
"And yet that little girl's father or brother or uncle or
cousin might have killed other kids," she remarked. Her voice
grew harder. "Jewish children."
((
"That's what I mean," I answered. "Why should these in-
nocent kids suffer all over the world? What did they do?"
“And your solution?" she asked. I glanced at her in the
half-light. Was she being sarcastic? Or was she really inter-
ested. But I could see nothing in her lovely eyes that gave
proof of any sarcasm or derision.
"I'm just another mechanic," I said. "A nobody among
nobodies. But I have a solution. Wars could be ended. All
this crap you hear about disarmament and reduction of
weapons and A-bombs and stuff. Hell, Millie, the problem
isn't an end to weapons! It's an end to warfare. That's what
should be abolished!"
She fumbled for her cigarette pack, found a smoke, placed
it in her mouth. I scratched the match and held the flame
for her, and she dipped the end of the cigarette into it. In
the brighter light, I could see her cheeks and eyes and the top
of her nose.
"How?" she demanded. "How would you end warfare?"
"How?" I echoed. "Why, I would . . . well, I'd see to it
208
:..
that . . ." I paused. I was stumbling. I knew that she knew
I could give no answer. Not at once.
"Yes, how?" she repeated. "Through religion? Through
the United Nations? Through the use of neutrals who would
refuse to aid any sort of war? Just how would you end
bloodshed?"
I looked down at my feet. How? She had asked and de-
spite all my highfalutin ideas and talk I could come up with
no remedy. True, the United Nations was a start, I grudg-
ingly admitted, but I felt it wasn't enough, even if bickering
with words was better than bickering with bullets.
"Leon," she was saying, softly now. "Do you think that
warfare in Israel will be ended, even after it is recognized
as a free country?"
I looked at her sharply. "What makes you so sure that
Israel will win independence and UN recognition?" I asked.
Her smile was secretive. "Oh," she said vaguely, “call it
feminine intuition. Israel will be a free state. The UN will
recognize it, but..."
I still was looking at her. "Do you mean the fighting here
is almost over?" I asked.
She nodded slowly. "Almost, Leon. Almost. We've won.
I can say that Russia and the United States will be among
the first to recognize Israel and give her a seat in the place
of nations-for very good political reasons. America wants
a foothold here, so does the Soviet Union. We are being
wooed, but whether we'll be allowed to celebrate at our own
wedding, I don't know."
"This is kinda rich talk for me, too rich," I grunted. "Thin
the mixture a bit, honey."
"Well," she put her cigarette down carefully on the tray.
"Here is what I think. It will take the Arabs a long time,
peace or not, to accept Israel fully. There will be more fight-
ing, more killing, even after that. And, maybe, if a world
:
209
war breaks out, Israel will again be trampled under. So, while
I agree with you that warfare should and must be ended, I
see no way of doing it."
"Then all this fighting I'm doing here is for nothing?" I
demanded bitterly.
"Leon, remember what they told you in history classes
about the first world war. 'Make the world safe for democ-
racy.' Well, was it? What happened after the first world
war? Hitler, Mussolini. Stalin. Franco. The Japanese Em-
peror. So
you fought in a second world war and the world
still isn't safe for democracy."
"And after a third world war?"
“Ah there might never be a third world war, Leon.
Perhaps the weapons are so terrible, so destructive, that man
will realize that another war will destroy him. That's what
I believe will happen. That fear of another war because of
atomic weapons on both sides will bring peace. Perhaps a
restless, uneven, suspicious sort of peace, but peace."
I was looking moodily at her. "And what about the Jews?"
I asked. "Will anti-Semitism continue as always, even in
peace? For if it does, what good is peace?"
She leaned forward and slipped a hand over my shoul-
der. "Leon," she said affectionately, "you've got to realize
one thing. Jews are like any other people. They react the
same way. If there's fighting to be done, they'll fight. If now
they are allowed to live in peace, they will let others live in
peace. You can't make your own private little crusade against
anti-Semitism overshadow everything. You just can't."
"This is the first time I ever heard anti-Semitism called
a private crusade," I answered angrily. "I'd like to hear you
answered by some of the victims of Hitler on that."
"Leon." Again her voice softened when she used my name.
"Can't you see? Can't you understand? Anti-Semitism isn't
210
. . .
a private and exclusive and unrelated thing. It's part of global
politics and therefore part of global warfare. So long as you
have wars, and nations who have good, financial and eco-
nomic reasons and excuses to make wars, you'll have anti-
Semitism. Hitler was anti-Semitic in Germany. Why? Because
he had to make a start somewhere to get his political dic-
tatorship rolling. He needed a scapegoat, someone to accuse.
Later, he needed to rid himself of the intellectuals who might
challenge him, and most of the intellectuals were Jews. If
Hitler had not planned a war and world conquest, he would
not have needed to use anti-Semitism. Russia today? The
same thing. Although it is officially outlawed, anti-Semitism
exists. For the same reasons, especially the intellectual and
religious ones. Judaism and democracy are hard to separate.
And the Soviets think there is only one real kind of democ-
racy, their kind, enforced by dictatorship. So long as Russia
feels it might have to wage warfare, it will use and maintain
anti-Semitism to protect the State. In America, well, you
know it exists there, perhaps for all the reasons named. But,
once end warfare, then you also bring an end to anti-Semitism.
There will be no reason for its existence then."
"So you think,” I said bitterly, "that my being here is just
a useless gesture? That I've risked my life for nothing? That
I'm another Don Quixote?"
"The world needs more Don Quixotes," Mildred replied
quietly. "I didn't say you did no good by coming here to
fight. You did. You helped. But what you did will not bring
eternal peace. And to be blunt, we would have won without
aid from you, America, or anyone else."
"Fine," I snorted bitterly. "Then such guys as George
Washington, Sam Adams and Tom Jefferson were just wast-
ing their time."
"I didn't say that.” Her eyes were very intent upon me.
211
:
+
I
I
"So long as oppression exists, wars will be fought for freedom.
And won by the people who want this freedom," she added
emphatically. "If there had been no men like Washington
and the others, the Revolutionary War still would have been
fought. And won!"
I stood up. "Then the only thing to do, if I should believe
in what you say, is to go home. Why should I risk my neck,
is that it?"
"It's your neck," was her answer.
I turned to face her. "Millie," I pleaded. "I don't under-
stand you. Everywhere I go, people ask me, demand of me,
to know why more Jews, especially Americans, don't come
over and help in the fight. Yet you say you don't need us.
You don't need me."
I thought I heard her sigh lightly. Then she lay back and
opened her eyes. She held out her arms to me. "Come here,"
she ordered, her voice suddenly very throaty. As I slipped in
the bed beside her, she suddenly reached out and hugged me
tight. "I didn't say I didn't need, or want, you," she
whispered.
It was funny the way things were between Mildred and
myself. It wasn't like an ordinary love affair at all. In fact,
we hardly mentioned the word love between us. Only at odd
occasions. Like the time we were riding along a road at
sunset and the fields were quiet and green, resting after the
labor of the day. Then she made me stop the car, looked up
at me and said, "I love you, Leon. I really do. I really and
truly do."
The only trouble, it seemed to me, was that she was saying
it more to convince herself than me.
There were times when she was almost hard and masculine
in her way, aloof and refusing to be disturbed in her thoughts.
And there were hours when she was maddeningly feminine,
in her talk, walk, her dress and gestures and actions. There
5
212
1
was that evening when I came in and found her washing my
socks and a shirt. There was that morning when she insisted
upon making my breakfast in our room, and then serving me
in bed, watching with delight as I wolfed down the food,
clucking over the fact that I hadn't eaten enough.
The more I saw of her, the less, it seemed to me, I was able
to understand her. I tried, I loved her deeply. And yet she
remained an enigma to me. She talked freely about her girl-
hood, her family, her marriage and her husband, yet none of
the words seemed to bring an understanding. I knew no
more of what she wanted out of the world now than I had
when I had first met her.
Still, the time with her was the best of my life. She could
be a wonderful companion, a friend, a colleague and asso-
ciate. She was a marvellous guide and historian. I learned
more about the history of Israel, both ancient and modern,
from her than I could in years of postgraduate study and
travel.
Upon golden wings the days sped by, and we did not want
to think of the time ahead, when I would have to go back to
Ramat David and combat, and she to her own journeys.
On our last day, we stayed at a kibbutz, after having
worked the farm with the pioneers, pitching hay with them,
ploughing, husking, then sitting around the camp fire. We
sang Israeli folk songs, clapping our hands to the rhythm of
the hora and the accordion flute and tambourine.
In our tent later, we, as usual, talked, when our fiery
passions had been banked for the time being. In the morning
we would separate, I to return to the base, she to go to
Tel Aviv.
"You can reach me at the hotel," she told me. "This time,
I won't be gone long. My work is almost through. As is the
war. Wait and see."
"And then what?"
213
Her fingers stole over my wrist and clamped tightly
against my hand. "And then you'll go back to America,"
she said. "And that will be all."
"Is that what you want?" I asked her harshly.
She shrugged. "Is there another way?" she inquired softly.
I reached my hand under her chin and brought her face
close to mine. “I think you're all balled up in this,” I said,
trying to make my voice kind and big-brotherly. "I told you
I want to stay here. Why can't it be that way? I like this
land and the people."
"And me?" Wistfully.
"Of course, you, that's the big reason. I can stay on here
and we'll..."
"We?" Her enormous eyes were mocking.
"Damn it, Millie!" I burst out. "Stop playing games. You
know that if I asked you to marry me, you'd refuse. So I'm
not going to."
"Try me," she smiled.
I looked at her. “Okay," I finally said. “Will you marry
me?"
"No," she answered quickly.
My hands spread in a helpless, half-angry gesture. "See?
What did I tell you? If this is your idea of fun . . .”
"It's not funny at all, Leon. Not a bit. Do you want to
know why I wouldn't, why I couldn't, marry you?"
“Enlighten me,” I answered heavily. "I think I know. I'm
poor, I have no future. My life is a risk. I . . .”
But she was shaking her head solemnly, like a little girl
who has to refuse ice cream because her parents have warned
her to.
"If I married you, you'd have to stay here. This is my
land. I want to live here and die here and no other place.
And if you stayed with me, you'd die, and our love would
die."
I stared at her unbelieving. "You're nuts!" I finally burst
214
out. "Where did you get that idea? I told you I wanted to
stay. I'll have work here. I have an idea for a little private
airline and..."
She was still shaking her head sadly.
"Suppose you don't the airline. Would
get
to stay?"
"But I'll get it, I've been promised and . . ."
"Leon." Her voice was very quiet. "You sound almost as
if you were marrying an airline, not me. But that's not the
point," she went on faster. "Suppose you don't get it. Would
you be satisfied with something else?"
"With what?"
you
still want
"Oh." Her lips pursed. "I don't know exactly. Maybe
working in a kibbutz, on a farm. You seemed to like it so
much today." She slanted a quick look at me. "And we need
farmers more than anything else."
"But I'm not a farmer," I said stiffly. "I'm a flier. Planes
are all I know or care about.'
She nodded her head. "All right," she answered. "Suppose
you're given a position in the new Air Force Academy we're
going to build."
"You mean as an instructor?"
"Why not?" she challenged. "Our young men have to be
taught to fly, and who better to teach them than you? And
you could rise and get higher ranks and more money."
"No thanks," I said bitterly. "I'm not suited for instruction.
And what makes you think they'd advance me ahead of the
native Israelis, once they were taught? No, Millie, when I get
the airline franchise, I'll . . ."
"You'll never get it, Leon."
I felt myself bunch up with tension. I almost reached out
to seize her shoulders and shake her. "How do you know?”
I asked. "Has Hitz already divided the spoils? Is that what
you mean?"
Mildred bowed her head. "I can't answer that. But I do
}
215
know that there's to be no airline for you. Not for you nor
for
any of the others. You might be offered some substitute.
Trucking or something like that. But no airline.”
I took a deep breath. She was just testing me. She wanted
to be sure it was she I loved, not the promise of an airline.
“Look,” I said. "I love you. I'm willing to give up my
American citizenship for you and stay here. But I want to
make a good living for the two of us and," I bit my lips,
"our children. In a free land. So, if all these problems have
been worrying you, you have my answer.”
Her lips felt cool against my hand. "Leon, Leon, I knew
all that all the time. That didn't concern me.'
""
"I'm not like your ex-husband," I said brutally. "I won't
run out on this country for more money."
Her mouth tightened but, when she spoke, it was still
without anger. "I never feared that," she said softly.
"Then in God's name, what is it?" I shouted. "What do
you want from me? Blood? I've already given it. My prom-
ise? I'm fulfilling it now. Marriage? I've asked you. To
become a citizen here? I've declared my willingness for that
event. What do you want?"
Mildred's head drooped lower. "I realize all these things,"
I heard her murmur. "I knew them." Then her eyes came up
to meet mine. “But I didn't ask for anything. I never de-
manded that you commit yourself. Remember that! It's just
that I can't help but feel that..."
"You don't love me, and that's that," I finished for her.
"If you did care, none of this, nothing, would make any
difference."
"It's precisely because I do care, because I do love you that
I'm afraid."
"Of what?" I tried to control my voice, to unbunch my
knotted fists.
"That's it. I don't know. I just don't know. But I feel it
216
wouldn't work out, that I'd be to blame," she whispered
miserably. When she looked at me again, I could see the tears.
"I don't know why I feel this way, I don't know, I don't
know," she repeated, slapping the pillow. "I don't know."
I could not answer. I had no reply. When she saw that I
had no words, she spoke again. "Leon," she said, "have you
ever stopped to realize that you are the eternal, permanent
adventurer? That you like to fight, like the excitement, the
courting of death? Maybe that was why you came here to
fight? Because you knew there'd be a war going on. Maybe
it was just the toss of a coin that made you decide to come
to Israel and fly, instead of China or South America. And
when the fighting will be over here . . ." She did not finish.
"Thanks for the analysis, doc. I'll leave my twenty-
dollars with the nurse. Or do you want a check instead?"
"Leon!" From the way she looked at me, I was ashamed.
To be frank, her idea had moved me more than I had
thought. I had never realized that perhaps she was right. Then
I dismissed the thought as absurd. I had come here, to Israel,
not because I was bored in the States and needed excitement,
but because I believed in something.
"I'm sorry," I apologized. "Only I get so mad trying to
understand what it is you want, or fear. And I
get madder
when you try to use psychoanalysis. That's the easy way.
It's harder to accept what I say as truth, as something I want
to do, must do. And that is to stay here, with you."
She sighed again. "Leon," she said, her voice very tender
now. "Suppose you stayed. Suppose you even got your
franchise. Would that be enough?"
"It's all I ask."
"Is it?” Her smile was both whimsical and knowing. “Do
you think you could live here and be happy, to understand
everything that..."
"For God's sake, Millie," I bellowed. "What is there to
:
217
understand?" Then I subsided. "I'm sorry I shouted," I said
soberly.
Mildred nodded. "I think I know what you mean when you
say that you-and all Jews and Gentiles-are caught between
the Star and the Cross. I think I understand the idealism of it.
But, is it really enough? I mean, it's theory not practice.
There's a lot of difference. In Israel, you're going to meet a
lot of different kinds of Jews, Sabras like myself, the Ger-
mans, still thinking they're superior. The Polish Jews, the
orthodox rabbis, the Yemenites. You're an American and
city bred at that. Do you think that all Jews will consider
or even try to understand what you mean by the Star and
Cross? You'll meet opposition. Many of them, when they
hear you say anything favorable about Christianity-well,
they'll think you a traitor or apostate. And don't blame
them. They've suffered-physically-under the Cross."
"So did Jesus-on the Cross-" I answered.
"Of course. But would the others understand it? Suppose
they don't? You'll meet all sorts of obstacles. You'll be criti-
cized, insulted, hurt. You'll be disappointed. You'll want to
go back to America. You'll want to take me back, too, but
I won't go, Leon. This is my land. For better or worse. It's
my land, the only country I have. And you'll meet Gentiles,
too, who won't take kindly to your Cross-and-Star theory.
What happens then? Our love ruined? Do you want me to
watch you grow bitter, week by week, carried away by hate
and frustration and disappointment? What will happen be-
tween us, Leon?”
"When people love," I began, “they
But she shook her head. "Love is strong, but it, too, can
be weakened. Don't you see? In theory, what you believe is
good. But in practice, well, it takes an understanding, a
maturity, a patience which I don't believe you have as yet,
Leon."
""
218
"Oh, fine," I said bitterly. "Now I'm just a callow youth."
"I didn't say that. All I said was that perhaps you're not
psychologically or politically equipped to take the big step
from theory to practice. Have you ever had a political
opinion, other than the one of wanting to get rid of poverty
and exploitation? And even that is not clearly formed in your
mind. Oh, Leon, think of what faces you here in Israel!
Three or four different cultural levels, a dozen political
theories, a jumble of religious psychologies. Each in conflict
with each other. How could you, and as an American, ever
understand all these different people, even if they are Jews.
But they're Jews by faith only, Leon. Politically, economi-
cally, socially, yes, even psychologically, they're different,
however. Could you be able to work with them, to under-
stand them, make their problems your problems?"
"I could try."
"Not enough." Her head shake was firm, almost final, I
thought. "Trying isn't enough. You have to know, to be
sure. Otherwise. . ."
"What?"
"Otherwise," she answered unhappily, "you might stay here
and get to hate the place. And me. Feel tied down. Long for
America. New York and the city of life, and all the good
things to which you've been used and . . ."
"Good things!" I complained. "I was born in the slums,
lived in poverty, fought my way out of the jungle. . ."
"And a jungle beast, therefore," she smiled faintly, "would
find it very hard in an open field, with so many other, tamer
animals, who still might be in his way."
"Millie," I began, then stopped. It was no use. Whatever
was really bothering her could not be explained. Certainly
not tonight, I thought wearily, suddenly aware that tomorrow
I would be back at war again. Perhaps later, when the peace
had been established, when I had my franchise, I could show
*
219
........
her how wrong she was, how needless her fears. But as
for now
I knew she wanted to talk more, but my lips stopped her
words.
}
•
220
* 19 *
Upon my return to the base, I found the other boys already
there. Nothing was said about my leaving them for Mildred;
they understood, and I was grateful for their silence. They
sensed that somehow this was different, and none of the
usual knowing and insinuating remarks were made.
Several administration problems faced me at once, although
technically I was not responsible for them. The C. O. told
me that neighboring and curious Israelis were starting to
make a tourists' sight-seeing heaven of the base, coming, or
crawling into the camp whenever they felt like it, swarming
over the grounds and into the planes themselves. I brought
this expedition to a screaming halt by calling the visitors
before me, explaining that this was a military establishment,
not a place for picnics, and that in the future anybody caught
at the base without proper credentials or a pass would be
severely punished.
If I was too rough with them, it was because I had to be,
221
to make them see that they could not enter the field at will
and wander all over. I told them that the war was still on,
the
danger of sabotage and spies, and outlined the punishment.
It worked. They did not come again, at least not in such
great and illegal numbers. To make doubly sure, I had all the
fences repaired and posted special sentries around the perim-
eter of the field.
There were other minor problems which should right-
fully have been the duty of the C. O. to solve and execute,
since I was a combat officer, in charge of actual operations.
When one of the Israeli Army women was found in a
bomber with an Israeli sentry, I was the one to hear the
charges and mete out discipline, although I hated to do it
and could not understand what had happened.
Still I was very much satisfied with conditions at Ramat
David as they were now. We had a fine, efficient base going
now. The Israeli boys were learning how to fly, taught by
our American specialists. The same held true in the ground
squadrons, with Israelis learning how to become mechanics,
and good ones. The hospital was in tip-top shape, as were the
new mess halls and offices and clubs. The mail came regularly.
There was one problem, however, which demanded my
immediate attention and which I alone could help end, and
that was the case of Lunch Time Charlie.
Lunch Time Charlie was a plane, I was rapidly informed,
that had the habit of hanging over the field at about 20,000
feet, apparently watching us or taking pictures, and always
at noon. There was no doubt that Lunch Time Charlie was
taking air-photos of the field and gun-emplacements. This
was clearly an act of war, and I decided to act accordingly.
I regretted that we had no flak-guns which could reach him
at the height of 20,000 or 25,000 feet, but we would have
to get rid of him. I demanded to know why a Spit hadn't
222

been sent after him so far, but received no adequate answer.
"Okay," I said. "He asked for it, and he's going to get it.
Here's what we'll do. Tomorrow morning, about eleven or
so, we'll have a ship out over the water, so he won't know
that we're waiting for him. When Lunch Time Charlie
comes in, as you say, around high noon, we'll track him by
radar. When we contact him on our 'scopes, we'll radio the
pilot in the plane over the water and have him come in on
this Gyppo, or whoever he is."
I looked at Dave. He was itching to go, and I knew it. With
his black hair, black eyes and curved, Roman nose, he looked
like some Apache warrior about to take the war path.
“Okay, Geronimo," I smiled. "He's your scalp tomorrow.”
Dave flashed me a grin. It was hard to believe that this
man had a girl waiting for him in the States, and that, after
the war, he dreamed of nothing more exciting than setting
up
his own print shop in his native Philadelphia.
At eleven the next morning, Dave was climbing into the
Spitfire which we all hoped would knock that Gyppo from
the skies. Once more I briefed Dave swiftly. "As soon as we
pick him up on the screen, we'll make contact with you,
Dave," I instructed. "You just hang out over the water until
then. Just orbit in wide circles until we see the blips on the
'scope. What does your hack say?"
Dave looked at his watch. "Eleven,” he said.
"Fine. Let's synchronize them. One, two, three, four, five,
six, seven . . ." I began counting the seconds off until our
watches corresponded and we stopped them on the nose.
As soon as Dave took off, I walked back to the radar shack,
sitting hunched before the screen for about fifteen minutes.
Then, from the upper left hand corner, we saw the blip.
Quickly, I picked up my hand mike.
"Okay, you old shocket," I said. "He's coming in from the
223

north at about 23,000 feet. You get up to 28,000 and a few
miles behind him, so he won't see you. We'll wait until he's
right over the field, and then you come in on him."
"Okay."
We waited, some of the boys came in and said that Lunch
Time Charlie was right over the field. I squinted at the
screen, seeing the two blips, coming closer and closer to-
gether, and then . . .
"Okay, Dave," I said. "Now!"
We watched; the fight seemed so impersonal on the elec-
tronic screen, merely two pin points of light moving closer
and closer together against the graduated lines. Then there
was only one blur of light, and Dave's voice was yelling at
us through the speaker.
"I got him! I got him!"
Dave was grinning when he landed and good naturedly
accepted the claps on the back. But the grin was not there
the next morning when we received the papers. They were
blazing with the headlines that an Israeli pilot had again shot
down a British RAF plane, the sixth one. The roar of the
British Lion getting his tail pulled could be heard all the way
to London. When I was asked to give my report, I pointed
out very carefully-but still indignantly-that Lunch Time
Charlie had no business flying in a combat area where he
did not belong.
The uproar lasted for a week until it was washed away by
other news.
The summer moved along swiftly and smoothly. Several
times I received mail from Mildred, no more than brief notes
scribbled on planes, or post cards from various countries. The
last one I had came from Athens. In a way, I was glad I
could not answer her. I had nothing to say to her in the
polite way of writing. I had much to say to her of the
hidden conflict that lay between us, but that could not be
224
entrusted to writing. I felt sure that, when the war was
over and I had the franchise, she would see things my way,
and we would find our happiness together.
A field for teaching Israeli cadets how to fly was set up
at St. Jeans. A full training command was moving ahead
swiftly with boys starting to check out in AT-6's. A few of
the newly-commissioned Israeli fliers joined our squadron
and, for the first time, there was a lessening of tension and
misunderstanding between the Israeli and non-Israeli men.
When we told the Israelis that they could have the whole
base to themselves once the war was over, that we had no
designs upon it, that we were not going to take their Air
Force from them, they became more friendly.
Summer rolled away, colder weather set in, and there was
not much flying. During the week between Christmas and
New Year's, greetings were sent to all personnel of the
Christian faith, and leaves arranged for those who desired to
spend the holidays away from the base.
It was on the early morning of New Year's day, with the
busses bringing back our boys by the dozens, all of them
drunk and happy, that I received a personal and urgent mes-
sage. Tel Aviv was calling me, saying that Tel Aviv was
being shelled from the sea by two Egyptian ships. The
shelling had already been going on for half an hour, with
about two hundred shells having been lobbed into the city,
fortunately without much damage or loss of life. The shore
batteries had opened up, driving them a little further out,
but the only way to get rid of the Egyptian vessels was to
send B-17's after them.
And we were the closest and the best of the B-17 squadron.
This happened at five thirty in the morning. It was cold.
Half the men were sleeping, away, or downright drunk from
the celebrations. I knew it would take time to warm up the
engines of the B-17's, to get the crew into shape, and yet Tel
225
Aviv was almost frantic in its demands for us to get there and
bomb out the Gyppo ships.
To help us, Tel Aviv added, they were sending to Ramat
David a Naval expert to identify any Navy craft the plane
might meet. As soon as I gave the word that I was ready, this
Naval man would be flown from Tel Aviv to our base. Tel
Aviv assured us that the ATC boys wanted to go after the
ships themselves in a C-46, but a Fortress was considered
better. And speed was of the utmost importance.
The first problem was to find out who could make the
flight-who was sober enough or could be sobered quickly.
Dave and I were ready to take off; we had not celebrated.
Jack Nagel was a little tight, but some coffee could bring
him around. As for the rest, we would do our best to get
them ready.
I asked Tel Aviv to send the Naval expert who would do
the identification for us and was informed that a Lieutenant
Gad Yaacov would be on his way in a few minutes.
We mustered crew. The first ship we decided to fuel and
load for flight turned out to have a gas leak, so we had to use
another, working against time to warm up the engines, using
heaters on them to melt frost and ice. This took two precious
hours, during which time Yaacov arrived.
Still we managed to take off at dawn. Flying over the city,
we looked down at the quiet, peaceful streets and the few
lights. People were still asleep in their warm beds, I mused.
And odder still, I remembered, was the fact that for so
many, many years (it seemed), almost since 1940, I had been
combat flying on New Year's day, away from home and
loved ones. England. Africa. China and Burma.
I wondered about Mildred. Where was she now? Had she
was
just come from a New Year's party with somebody.
she kissing him, holding him, the way she had with...
I shook my head. No time for that now. I turned to Gad
•
226
Yaacov, wondering again at his blond youthfulness and
whether or not he was experienced enough for this mission.
But for the present I said nothing. Instead, I turned to Dave
at my side.
"I
got a hunch," I said, "maybe I'm wrong, but I think this
whole mess will be over soon." It was on the tip of my
tongue to tell him what Millie had told me, but I stopped
myself.
"Maybe you're right," Dave agreed. "When I was in Tel
Aviv I heard a lot of rumors that Hitz has been at work,
lining up some non-Jewish pilots in the States to be brought
over here and start flying in the commercial airlines as soon
as the truce gets under way."
I glanced sharply at him. "If this is true, he's not letting any
grass grow under his feet. That boy not only wanted in,
he is in..
>>
"Maybe it's only scuttlebutt," Dave shrugged.
"It probably isn't," I said thoughtfully. "Hitz is out for
Hitz. Anybody else can go to hell, no matter what they did.
But we don't have to worry. We've got a signed contract that
the boys in my squadron get first crack at flying commercial
airlines, even if they have to go back to the States for their
ATR's. Hitz can't get away from that. Anyhow I'm not
interested in flying as a commercial pilot."
"Still hot for your own little airline?" Dave smiled.
"You can say that again, mister. I've already talked to some
Englishman in Haifa and he has some good little ships I can
get for a song. I'd do a little picture making, seeding, dust-
cropping, anything. Dave, why don't you forget that printing
shop in Philly and come in with me here?"
Dave turned around, his eyes serious. "Thanks, Leon,” he
said. “But my girl is in the States, and yours is here. That's
the difference. And that's my answer." He looked at me
again. "It is she, isn't it? That Miss Davis?"
227
I nodded swiftly.
"I kinda thought so," Dave answered. "She looks and
sounds like a swell kid. She was there all the time when
you
pulled that gun on the Marine, but she didn't say a word.
Just stared. I bet she's real happy you're going to stay on
here with her."
“Yeah,” I said. "She's real happy about it. Crazy about
the idea."
Dave gave me a funny look but did not pursue the subject
further. "I heard a lot about her... politically, that is,” he
added swiftly. "She's got an awful lot of pull here. Knows
all the brass and big shots personally and can apply pressure.
You might need her . . . especially in that airline deal of
yours. Nice going, Leon." He reached over and squeezed my
arm. "It's about time you got a break. I know you've had it
tough, real tough, but maybe those days are ended for you."
"I hope so," I said, and it was more a prayer than a
statement.
We were silent for a time now until Gad Yaacov and the
ships brought me back to the present. It was Dave who
tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to the left. "There.
Over there. Three ships. Are they the ones?"
"We'll soon find out,” I said. I turned to Jerry Wald who
was also looking at the vessels. "Jerry, tell that Naval Lieu-
tenant to come here. I want him to identify those ships
for us."
When Gad poked his way into the compartment, I turned
to him, pointed to the ships, and said, "Okay, Gad. See them?
Whose are they? Ours or theirs?"
Gad looked out, looked back at us, then stared at the
ships again. Oh, oh, I thought, here we go.
"Well?" I asked.
"Well," he began to drawl uncertainly. He licked his lips,
peered again, squinted.
228
"Come on," I urged him gently.
"We-ll, well, I think . . . I'm not too sure, but . . ." He
paused again.
"Let's go man," I said, a little sharper. "We're burning
daylight and gas. Are they or aren't they?"
"I-well, I think that they're not ours."
"You think or you know? Which?"
He rubbed his face. "They're not ours." When he spoke
it was almost defiantly.
"Okay," I said pleasantly. "That's all we wanted. Jack!"
I called through the inter-com, "you'd better start to take
over for the bombing run. The Lieutenant says the ships
aren't ours. I'll give you . . ."
"No, no, no!" Gad broke in. "Not yet! I said I'm not
sure. I . . .'
""
I turned grimly to face him. "What is it, yes or no,” I
grated. "For God's sake, kid, you were sent with us as a
Navy expert to identify ships. What are those bars on your
shoulders for? To spread legs? Let's go! What are they?"
"I... I don't know. I'm not sure. I . . .
""
"Another one of the proteksia who doesn't know his ass
from his elbow," I said angrily to Dave. I turned to look at
the crestfallen officer. "Okay, Lieutenant," I snapped. "Go
back. You've done your work."
I was sorry I'd said it, that I had to be so cruel. I saw
his face redden with shame and humiliation, saw his eyes
drop in confusion. Hell, he was only a kid. He wanted so
much to help, to be capable, to be of service, but he was too
scared to accept responsibility or give us the positive order
to attack. I was only sorry we had had to take him along.
“Hold it, Jack,” I ordered through the inter-com. “Now
we're not so sure who they are. We'd better drop down a
little and challenge them with the Aldis light. . . Norm . . .
go ahead, plug in the light and use dot and dash, either white
229
or red light or whatever you have, to challenge them.'
Norman Kovak, our radio man, followed orders and
began flashing his signals through the left side of the cockpit
window. I watched closely. The ships below us were an
armed merchantman and two corvettes.
""
Suddenly we had our answer and our identification. The
ships below us broke out into evasive action, zig-zagging,
one behind the other to make difficult targets for us. A
friendly ship would not have done that.
We began our run. The bombs were dropped. To aid us,
three speedy little Israeli corvettes came up fast, their guns
opening up on the enemy. There was nothing left for us to
do now but sit up there and watch the battle. Once, we
buzzed the fleeing Egyptians, hoping to drive them into closer
range for the Israelis. Our depth charge had also been
dropped and we didn't have much gas left, so we had to
leave the scene.
On the way back we ran into a P-51 that was about to
make its first pass at us until it noticed the Star of David on
our wings, and we saw the Star on its fuselage. It was not
until we had landed that we learned that Tel Aviv had sent
the P-51, made up of an all-Christian crew, from a non-Jewish
squadron. The P-51 had not been informed that a B-17 was
in the area. All I could do was shake my head. What was
the use? Tel Aviv might have been responsible for one of
its own bombers shooting down one of its own fighters,
or vice versa.
We did not know it yet, but those gun flashes we had
seen below us in the sea were the last shots fired in the war.
230

* 20 *
With the signing of the truce a change was evident at once.
Many of the boys-especially the ground crews-decided to
go home, even if the Israeli Air Force brass tried to hold them
back for a little longer and established boards of hearing for
the men to give their excuses for leaving. Other pilots hung
around, some of them-like myself-giving their promise to
remain until more fliers had been trained.
Boredom, restlessness and disappointment began to set in.
Friends began to say goodbye to friends, many of them
leaving for good, some to return to the States and, under the
GI Bill, to get their Air Transport Rating in the hope of
returning to Israel as commercial pilots.
The land itself was still torn by internal strife; the wanton
killing of the high United Nations official stunned us and
we wondered how long it would take before the Israelis
realized that not everything could be achieved by violence
alone... that hot-headedness alone could obtain them
nothing in the long run.
•
231
But the most important thing for me, now that the fighting
was over, was the card from Mildred that she was coming
home to Tel Aviv for good. She had written she would be
in the city in a few days.
With this in mind, I decided to see what could be done
about getting my airline franchise. I had made several in-
quiries and finally I was told I would be given an interview
at an office in Tel Aviv-that a certain Colonol Shamat would
be glad to listen to me.
It sounded good. I told Dave, who was going to go along
with me. They must be prepared to give me something, or
else they would not have written to me at all. In high spirits,
feeling confident, Dave and I walked into the building where
the office was. We entered the office, a plain affair with no
signs on the door, gave our names to a secretary who used the
inter-com to announce us and then told us to go right in.
The office was also very plain and bare, no more than a
small chamber with a desk, a green file cabinet, some chairs,
and a very pleasant-looking middle-aged man in uniform
behind the desk. His brown face spoke of the outdoors; he
wore octagon-shaped rimless glasses and had a very neat,
clipped mustache. He stood up when we came in, saying he
was Colonel Shamat and very glad to meet us.
"You know," he said, leaning back in his swivel chair
and blowing smoke into the air, "I had often wanted to make
a trip to Ramat David, but the war. . ." he waved his hand
vaguely. "Paper work," he smiled. "I know you boys don't
think much of it, but it still had to be done."
“We understand, sir," Dave said politely.
"And someone has to do the paper work," I added.
He nodded, smiled at us, then leaned forward, looking
through a large, manila folder. He shifted papers, picking
out one or two, placing them back. Finally he looked up at
232
us. "Which one of you is Leon Baker?" he asked. "When
you came in, the introductions were so Again the vague
""
wave of the hand.
"I am, sir," I said.
"Ah. So?" His gray eyes seemed larger through the lenses
of his glasses as he gave me a piercing look. “Leon Baker,”
he said, shuffling through some more papers, studying them
for a moment. "A splendid record, a most splendid record."
His clipped, British accents made it sound as if I had won
three wars by myself.
"Now." He leaned back comfortably again and began
playing with his cardboard box of cigarettes. "I understand
you are desirous of getting a franchise to own and operate
your own airline, Captain Baker?"
"That's right, sir."
"And it is your wish to remain here, become a citizen
as well?"
"It is."
“Ah, so." He beamed at me again. "A girl, no doubt? One
of ours?"
I modestly inclined my head but would not say anything
more. It was not his business to pry into my personal affairs.
"Well, then,” he began, very business-like. "What sort of
airline did you have in mind?"
"Nothing big," I assured him. "A few planes. Maybe two
to start with. To use for dusting, planting, taking a few
pictures and tourists for sight-seeing hops."
"You have capital for this?" he asked sharply.
"Well," I said. "Yes. I have a few dollars saved. I might be
able to raise more in the States through loans from friends.”
"Ah, so." Again that vague wave of his hand, which was
beginning to annoy me. Was he trying to catch flies or what?
“American dollars, needless to say," he smiled at me with
}
233
'
his baby-teeth under that smartly barbered mustache, "are
very welcome in Israel. I wish other young Americans felt
the same as you do, Captain Baker, and would stay here. We
need them.”
Okay. Fine, I was thinking. So you've got me. So let's
on with it. Where's the franchise?
get
He was shuffling through the papers again. "One thing,
Captain. You know that because Israel's new, er ... rather
raw financial situation . . . such a license-franchise as you
want amounts to a considerable sum of money."
I felt myself stiffen. Here it comes, Leon, old boy, I
warned myself. The apple has been polished. Now look at
the rag.
"How much?" My lips were stiffening.
""
“Oh.. Again that vague wave of his hand. "In your
money, fifteen thousand dollars."
I almost jumped from my seat. Fifteen grand for a piece
of paper, just to be able to set up in business. Plus buying
the planes and supplies, getting a hangar on a field, a base of
operations, advertising, help, mechanics, gas!
"I thought," I said with deliberately controlled tones, "that
all my men, including myself, were given contracts to be
able to get franchises . . . without extra cost."
""
"Well," he began. "Well... we.. .
"I've got the contracts-signed," I said. "Mr. Ralph Hitz
himself..."
"Colonel Hitz is only interested in one airline, Captain,"
Shamat said, not smiling now. "And has nothing to do
with this."
Colonel Hitz? Since when had Hitz been a Colonel? Boy,
oh boy, I thought... Hitz worked even faster than I thought
him capable of doing.
"Nevertheless, Mr. ... I mean Colonel Hitz agreed to give
us first crack at franchises."
234
"Then," said Shamat sharply, "he had no authorization to
do this."
"In other words, sir, the contracts have no legal value? Are
meaningless?"
"If you want to consider it that way, yes!” he snapped,
opening up the cigarette box and extracting an oval-shaped
smoke from it.
“Just a snow job, is that it?" I asked bitterly.
"I beg your pardon . . . I don't quite know what you
mean, Captain."
"What he means, sir," Dave said, standing up, his face red,
his black eyes glistening, "is that he knows he's been tricked
by a false promise that was never meant to be kept, that you
have no intention of giving him a franchise, that his fifteen-
thousand-dollar fee is a deliberate stumbling block, that you
and all the others
""
"Dave!" I said sharply, "Sit down. Let's hear the rest
of it."
Still glaring, Dave seated himself. Shamat cleared his throat
uneasily. “If you feel that the airline franchise is beyond
your ability to pay," he said nervously, "I can give you one,
with no license fee, for trucking. We need trucking in
Israel and..."
"I don't know anything about trucks, sir,” I said politely.
I felt like telling him to take his trucks and shove them.
"I'm a pilot. All I know is flying.'
“Ah, yes. So. In that case, perhaps . . ."
"Suppose," Dave broke in, "he has the fifteen thousand.
I," he looked swiftly at me, then away again, "I could lend
it to him. I had planned to set up a little printing business in
Philadelphia, but if Leon needs the money...
""
I could have died for him. Right then and there. Dave!
Dave to do this, for me! And Dave had been the guy who
had wanted money to fly for Israel!
""
235
"Just a second," I said. "Dave, thanks for the offer. But I
don't want it. But Colonel Shamat, suppose, as Dave said, I do
get the money. Is that all there is to it?"
He stared at me, wrinkling his upper lip and twitching his
mustache as he did so. "Ah, well, it would be all-save for
the fitness reports." He tapped his finger on the manila
folder. "Usually, we need five fitness reports-call them
witnesses-to give us an indication whether or not you are
fit to run an airline. In your case, because of your splendid
record, we have reduced the reports to only three."
I could see something was wrong. I stood up. "Could I
see those reports?"
"Certainly not!" He looked shocked and very indignant.
"Then may I know what they say? And who said it?”
"Very well." He peered at the papers. "All three of them
are unfavorable. Not one recommends you. We had an extra
unsolicited one from Duane, your C.O. at Ramat David. He
recommends you highly. But unfortunately, it cannot be
considered, and you're still out-voted three to one."
I felt surprise and showed it, not at the unfavorable reports
--I had already suspected that—but that Duane, the cracked-up
flier, the paper-work man, had on his own initiative put in a
good word for me. You never know, I marvelled. You never
know. But as for the others . . . I knew who had been
against me.
"Am I right in assuming that two of the unfavorable
reports against me were written by Colonel Hitz and by Mr.
Hyman Stickman?" I asked carefully.
He looked surprised, then nodded his head. "Right," he
said. "The gist of both reports is that you are highly emo-
tional, quick to anger, incapable of cool administration, that
you came here as a mercenary, that you .
Both Dave and I laughed out loud. It was bitter, but it was
236
""
יי
laughter. "By the way," I finally was able to make my com-
ment, "Did a Ray Todd also make a report against me?"
"Todd. Todd?" he shuffled the papers again. "Ah. So.
No, Mr. Todd didn't make a report, but he did send a little
note saying that he thinks, as you Yanks put it, you're okay.
Of course, we cannot consider it.”
"I see.” I had made two mistakes, Duane and Todd. And
two good guesses. Hitz and Stickman. Score tied. Now to
find out the name of that third person against me. "And who
signed the unfavorable report," I asked.
-
Shamat glanced at me sharply, almost a little puzzledly.
"That's the most surprising thing," he admitted. "This per-
son had never been solicited. Yet when the report came in
and we saw her signature
The world stood stock still for me.
""
"Her... her signature?" I asked, sweat running suddenly
under my armpits.
"Of course," he answered matter-of-factly, "Mildred Davis.
Naturally, we were very much surprised. She is a most
influential person and has served her land well. She normally
does not do these things, and so . . ."
I looked at Dave. His head was bowed. Then I looked back
at Shamat. I felt sick. I was getting a headache. I blinked my
eyes to keep them in focus. "Then," I said slowly, "the situa-
tion is this. This is how it stands. Hitz's contracts are,
weren't, worth a damn. I need fifteen thousand to get a
franchise, and even that wouldn't be sufficient because of
the three unfavorable reports aaginst me. I haven't a chance.
I've been had... but good! It was never your intention to
get the franchise for me in the first place."
"Now, just a minute," he protested. "Don't blame me,
Captain. I never saw you until this day. I have my orders,
too." He was standing up. And I knew he was right. Why
237
-Y
blame him? He was only doing what he had been told to do.
I arose also. "One more thing, sir," I said. "Could I have
the gist of the Davis report?"
He nodded. "In essence, she repeats what the others say,
save that you were not a mercenary. She thinks you are
capable and efficient, but only in America, not here. She
writes that she doubts whether you have the understanding
or the talent to cope with Israeli problems and people, that
you might easily be discouraged and leave and...”
"She's right in one respect, Colonel," I said quietly.
"What's that?"
"I am leaving. Now. Back where I'm wanted and needed.
C'mon, Dave."
I was very glad for Dave's shoulder.
I told Dave I wanted to be alone for a time. He under-
stood, saying he would meet me later and that I should-
please-not get drunk. I smiled wanly and told him I felt too
nauseous to take a drink of water.
Back in the hotel room, I threw myself on the bed, staring
at nothing. So it was over. The whole dream. The airline,
the happy future, the ideal of fighting to have a free country
for my people. Had it been worth it? Had I been a fool,
especially where Mildred was concerned? How could she
have done such a thing? True, I tried to tell myself, it was
obvious that they did not want me in any sort of business that
had to do with flying, that Mildred's report-whether good
or bad-would not have made much difference. But did she
have to write an unfavorable comment on me?
The telephone rang. I let it shrill. I felt like talking to no
one now, but the bell was insistent and finally I picked it up.
"Yes?"
"Captain Leon Baker? Sorry to bother you, but there's a
young lady at the desk, asking if you were in. If you want,
238
I'll
put
her on the house phone," the desk clerk was saying.
I swallowed hard, nodded as if he could see me, and said,
"Okay."
"Leon?" Her voice was breathless. "I want to see you.
Right away. Before you go to see Colonel Shamat."
My chuckle was hollow. "I missed you there," I said, “al-
though you made your invisible presence felt. Why didn't
you tell me you were such a good writer?"
"Oh. Oh, Leon . . ." I could see her biting her lips.
"I still want to see you," she was saying. "I'm coming up."
I let the phone drop back onto the cradle without a fur-
ther word. Then I rolled off the bed, opened the door, and
lay down again.
Her knock came in a matter of minutes. I called out that
the door was open, but I did not turn around when she
entered the room.
"Leon.” She was the wind, scented, fleeting, and the touch
of her lips on my hair and neck was the caress of falling
leaves on the autumn ground. Slowly, I turned around to face
her, to stare at her. She was wearing a blue turban sort of
affair around her head, a white blouse and a linen skirt that
shimmered in streaks of blue and gold. Without asking, she
seated herself at the foot of the bed, reached for my hand,
held it tightly.
"I would have liked to see your report card on me,
teacher," I said. "Why did you have to flunk me?"
Her fingers pressed my palm, lessened their pressure and
then slipped in between my
inert fingers.
"Why?" I asked again.
"Leon, Leon," she was murmuring. "I did it because I
thought it best. Oh, I thought about it, for days, weeks. I
wanted to believe you really could stay here and make a
go of things. But then something, I don't know what, told
me it wouldn't work out. I was afraid.”
239
1
I turned away from her to face the wall. "Afraid of
what?" I asked bitterly. "Of life? Of daring to seek
happiness?"
Mildred leaned over me. "No, of losing happiness," she
whispered. “Leon, can't you see? I don't want to hold
you.
I don't want you to say later, when you might want to re-
turn to America, that you're staying in Israel only because
of me. Such thoughts would corrode and warp our love and
we would have nothing left."
"And what have I got now?"
She was brushing my cheek with her hair. "Everything,"
she was saying, "especially the right to make your own
choice and your own life."
"For God's sake,” I burst out, sitting up straight and al-
most knocking her over in the process. "I had made my
choice! I wanted to stay here! With you. I wanted to marry
you, live and work here, become a citizen. What more could
I do?"
"I know, I know, I know," she kept repeating, over and
over again. "But..
""
"But what?" I shouted. "That's what I want to know.
What?"
"Leon, please! Everybody will hear you."
"Who cares? That hotel clerk thinks we're in bed any-
way. We are, but not in the way he pictures it."
"Leon!"
I jerked my head away from her. "Okay. Okay." Sud-
denly I felt tired. “I don't care any more, Millie. Do as you
please. I just don't understand all this. Perhaps I never did.
I was a sucker. An A number one boob. I thought I'd help
make a better world. I thought I'd found the woman I
loved. Well, I was wrong on all counts. A bad decision. But
those are the breaks."
"I love
you, Leon."
J
240
"I bet," I sneered. "You love me so much that you take
liv-
great pains to see to it that I can't stay here to earn my
ing, and you make it quite clear you don't want to go to
America with me. Love!"
"In my way, and I'm sorry I can't make you feel it," she
answered, somewhat stiffly. "I do love you. I do! So much
that I'm afraid of anything which might spoil it."
“Okay!” I said. "If you love me so much, come back to
the States with me. It's clear nobody wants me here! Come
back, we'll get married, I'll find work and then . . .
>>
"You know I can't do that, Leon. I don't want to do that.
My country is here. There's much to be done.”
I stared at her. "Then just what do you want me to do?"
I demanded. "Just what?"
She rubbed the knuckles of my hand with her fingers. "Go
back. See how things are. Maybe you'll get into flying again,
and find you're perfectly happy. But if you're not, then,
well.
maybe, you'll come back and then we'll see."
"Fine,” I answered. "That's just fine. I've heard of some
screwy things in my life, but this is the nuttiest. We should
stay apart because we love each other so much, is that it?"
"Leon."
"I'm asking you," I said, my voice low but intense. “Is
that what you want? Because we're so crazy for each other
we must be separated for fear that something might come
between us?"
I heard a little sigh. "If you put it that way, yes.”
My smile was crooked. "Well, I've heard some funny
things in my life, but this . . ." I could not go on. "You
should have been an actress, Millie. In real soap-opera. You'd
make a fortune. I don't get it. And frankly I don't care.”
She leaned over me and slipped both arms around my
shoulders. "I know it sounds insane, selfish," she said. “But
I can't help it. That's the way I am. I don't want to be held
L
241
?
down by any promises or vows, and I don't want to hold
anybody else down by promises. Go back to the States. Do
the work you like. Then, if you feel it isn't what you really
want, come back. I'll be waiting. Leon, can't you see? We're
different, brought up differently. When I wrote to Shamat,
I tried to explain that. This country is still raw, unfinished,
still in danger. You don't understand the political setup or
the problems. You said so yourself. Why Jews should be
fighting Jews and so forth. You came here to fight, you
said, and that was that. But now the fighting is over. What
part can you play in Israel's future? Will you be able to
understand the people, to know and understand what must
be done and how it must be done? With warfare over, the
fight will now be on social, economic and political fronts. I
will be on one side. But how about you? Will it be the
same side? Or any side? Leon, Leon, can't you see? I don't
want to make you discouraged or disappointed here and then
blame me. Or our love. That's what I did and I had to do it."
I lay for a long time in silence, trying to understand what
she was saying. Some of it made sense. I didn't have an
interest in politics, while she did. I didn't understand these
people. But still, what did that have to do with the way
Millie and I felt toward each other? I wouldn't blame her
for anything.
"You did what you did because you're not in love with
me, Millie."
"You're talking like a child!" she snapped.
"A woman in love, truly in love, doesn't give a hoot or a
holler about politics or anything. She just wants to be with
her man."
"I agree. About a woman wanting to be with her man,
that is. But I must also add that a woman in love wants to
preserve that love, to shelter it, to keep it for all time, and
242
'
:.
not have anything spoil or hurt it. That's why I am speaking
to you in this way."
I swung off the bed. "Maybe I'm just plain dumb," I said.
"But I can't understand. I'll never be able to understand, not
in a million years." I walked to the other side of the room.
"Well, that's that. I'll say that in one thing this is unique.
This is the most original brush-off I ever received. I've
heard some dillies before, but what you just told me beats
everything. And speaking of beating, that's what I'm going
to do. Beat it out of here."
I walked to the dresser and began taking things out of
it. I dragged my Val Pack from the closet and opened it. She
watched me toss shirts and socks around, not saying a word,
and then she suddenly burst out into laughter.
Holding my tie in my hand, I whirled upon her. "What's
so funny?" I challenged.
"You!" She was almost doubled up with hilarity. "You're
like a hurt little boy. Packing like that! I know you have no
reservations, that the planes don't leave anymore today. Even
if
you did have a reservation . . . and besides, you can't just
leave like that. You have to get permission and be released
from service. . ." She stared at me. "Oh, Leon, you're the
one who should have been an actor. Stop being so dramatic
and come here!"
"Oh yeah," was my fine comeback. I felt so foolish. She
had seen through my act. She was correct. In this at least.
In all she had said.
"Come here, Leon."
Mildred lay back on the pillow invitingly. Her eyes were
large and luminous. She held out her arms to me again.
"Come here."
I felt the surge in me again. The old fire spread through
me and moved me toward the bed.
3
243
"Closer," she was murmuring sleepily. Her eyes were
closing.
I took another step when the discreet knock on the door
stopped me. I waited. The knock came again. Mildred got
up at once, smoothing her skirt, and sat down near the
window.
“Yeah?” I asked irritably. "Who is it?”
"Cablegram for
you, Captain Baker."
I paused, suffering raw fear. Cablegram? From whom?
My mother? Dotty? The kids?
"The door's open," I said.
One of the bellhops came in, the envelope in his hand.
His leering eyes swept over the now demure Mildred, over
the cover of the bed which, if it was slightly rumpled, was
not swept back. Then he smiled at me, thrust the envelope
at me, waited until I had dug out the change and then left,
very carefully closing the door behind him.
My fingers trembled as I tore open the envelope. I tried
to read the words in a gulp, failed, tried again, picking
them out singly until each was a dagger striking deep into
my guts.
66
COME HOME AT ONCE DOTTY DYING OF CANCER MOM"
Wordlessly, I held out the message to Millie, she took it,
read it. I did not look at her. I was busy.
Packing.
"This time," I said to her once, "I'm not acting. This is
for real. With news like this they've got to release me! I'm
getting a reservation on the first plane out of here or I'll
know the reason why."
244
* 21 *
1
That trip home seemed to be the longest ride I had ever taken.
I had much to occupy my mind... those last minutes with
Mildred. She went to the air terminal with me, not saying
anything until it was almost time to leave. Then she whis-
pered, "Goodbye, Leon. I hope it's all a false alarm about
your sister. And Leon . . . find yourself. . . ." On that alone
I had enough to muse about. What had she meant, "find
yourself"?
Over the Atlantic, I pondered wearily over the ways of
fate. What would I have done about Mildred had not the
cablegram come? Why had it come just then? Would I see
her again? And if my sister was soon to die, why did it have
to be her? How many, many times Death had grinned at me,
but never taken me? Why should one person have so many
chances, and another only one?
It was with considerable relief that I finally beheld the teeth
of New York's skyscrapers biting into the horizon. As
:
245
always, the city looked beautiful as the giant TWA airliner
lowered for the landing at Idlewild, but I had no appreciation
for beauty now. There, in a house that hugged the edge of
the river, my sister lay dying.
I almost ran from the plane, hurrying into Customs,
hoping I would not be delayed too long there. The official,
looking through my bags, smiled at me as he gave me the
stamp of approval.
"How was the war in Palestine?" he asked slyly. There
was a little, knowing smile on his face. I stared back coldly
at him.
"You got the wrong guy, Mac. I haven't been to Palestine."
He nodded. “That's what they all say, buddy.”
I turned away from him, pacing up and down, wondering
how much longer it would take me. It seemed to me that he
was deliberately delaying me, and I was sure of it when I saw
him jerk his head at me and then at two young men, who
seemed to be loitering in a corner. At the Customs man's
signal, they sauntered over in my direction. Finally one of
them, the one who looked like a college kid, walked right
up to me.
“Mr. Baker?” he asked politely, "Mr. Leon Baker?"
I stopped my pacing. What the hell is this, I wondered
bitterly, quiz night or something?
"Yes," I growled. "What is it that you .
I blinked at the leather card case he thrust out at me. I
saw the eagle and the words United States, and the engraved
writing.
""
"Federal agents," the young fellow, was saying. "We have
an order to pick you up. There are a number of charges
against you. You'll have to come with us."
The second agent was walking up now and standing close
beside me. The world seemed to reel, and it seemed to me
that I was in combat again, only all the shooting and bombing
阜
​246
A
and screaming was going on silently, in my head. I leaned
against the counter. My lips were stiff as I finally managed
to get the words out.
"Look. I'll go anywhere, anywhere, any time, but now,
fellows, I've just come home. My sister is sick and dying. I
want to see her before-before-" I couldn't go on. I had to
close my eyes because everything, the agents, the counter,
the floor, the very walls were spinning around me. "Please
let me go and see her. Please..."
The two men looked at each other. Now the older one
spoke carefully. "We know about your sister, Baker. Tough,
but...
""
“Please,” I said. “Please . . . just for an hour, a half hour.
Please, I want to see her. Please.”
"I don't know-" the older man hesitated. He looked at
his partner.
"Wait a second," the younger one said thoughtfully. His
leather heels pounded over the floor as he went into a phone
booth. He didn't even bother to close the door, and I could
see his mouth moving. He hung up shortly and returned.
There was a slight smile on his face.
“Okay,” he said. "You can go home and
stay with
sister. We know where it is, so no funny stuff, get it?"
"I get it," I nodded swiftly, flooded with relief.
"Two days," the younger agent said. "Then, at nine
o'clock on Tuesday morning, you be at Room 467, Federal
Building. Get that? And don't do anything foolish until
then." They were both looking at me.
"Don't worry, I won't," I said. "I promise. I'll be there."
I would have promised them the moon then. All I wanted was
to get home and see Dotty.
"See you Tuesday then," the older man called out and
began walking away.
"Tuesday," I repeated. "Tuesday."
your

247
1-
But on Tuesday, my sister had already been buried.
In the days before-right after my impromptu interview,
I grabbed the first cab I could find, cursed the driver and
the traffic, sweated through the long trip, finally ran up the
stairs, hoping against hope that I wasn't too late. I didn't
even stop to say hello to my mother. But I did stop short
when I beheld Dotty.
She was wan and thin. Her once red hair was dull and
mousey-looking. Lines etched her face. She looked about a
hundred years old. With the tears showing in my eyes, I bent
down to kiss her, smelling the death on her. My stomach felt
as if Ted Williams had just smacked it with one of his bats.
When I tried to talk to her, she just shook her head and
attempted to smile. My mother, hovering near, whispered to
me that Dotty's cancer had spread to her chest, lungs and
throat. And here I had thought all the time she was getting
better! No one had told me a word about her condition. Now
I could remember those guilty little whispered conversations
between my mother and sister. Now I knew where the money
I had sent home had gone-to help her take care of the boys
and herself. And Myer, her lazy, indifferent husband, to
whom family responsibility had meant nothing, had done
nothing. Dotty.
... poor Dotty.
She could not talk, but she could write, and on the pad,
the first thing she wrote was: "Don't hate, Leon."
Don't hate!
Don't hate....
The two words stood out, as if edged with fire. Don't hate.
Don't hate whom? I wondered dully. Myer? The doctor?
The whole rotten mess in Israel, Hitz, the money-boys?
Don't hate.
"That doctor," I said. "Why didn't you get a Jewish
doctor?"

248
Again, her fingers worked laboriously. "Don't hate,” she
repeated again. "Dr. Walden didn't charge me anything.
Except for the hospital and medicines, which weren't his to
charge anyway."
Dumbly I sat and looked at her. Her hands worked with
the pencil again. "Take care of my sons. Keep them together."
"Forever," I said. "Wait and see. You and I and the boys
will have a lot of fun together."
But she shook her head and tried to smile. It was terrible
and I had to turn my face away to keep from crying. There
was no more I could do at the time.
For two nights, Saturday and Sunday, I never left her side,
even to eat or sleep. I just sat there, numb, holding her hand,
talking to her, even though I knew her paralyzed vocal cords
could not answer. Once or twice she gave me that half-smile,
brave, yet tremulous.
During the silent periods, my mind was a whirl. Don't
hate, she had said. Dotty and I had often talked together of
my belief in the Star and the Cross. She knew what I meant,
understood my philosophy, what I wanted in the world. She
was the only person in the world whom I had been able to
reach. And now-maybe she was right, I thought. People
close to death have a clearness of mind, a vision, a clarity—
Jew and Gentile could get along together. The war had
proved that. Jew and Christian fighting side by side, and
dying side by side. And in Israel the same thing had happened.
Boys from Ireland, South Africa, Texas, New York-all
fighting for Israel. And even Dotty's doctor had not been
Jewish and had, according to her, done all he possibly could,
not taking any money.
I roused myself once when she wrote:
"Did you meet any nice girls in Israel?"
I nodded. How could she talk about girls now? But that
249
was Dotty. Always concerned with my happiness. And
other people's happiness.
Don't hate. . . .
As if guessing my thoughts, she drew a little Star, the
entwined triangles, and connected to it a Cross. Underneath
it she printed, "Leon and the world."
Once more her thin little fingers clamped around the stub
of pencil.
"Don't worry," she said. "It is worthwhile waiting for."
Worthwhile waiting for. I bowed my head. I wanted to
remember Mildred and I did not. I was confused, mixed up,
bewildered, saddened, angered-all in one. Almost gruffly, I
took the pad and pencil away from her. "Enough for now,"
I said gently.
The house was cold and damp; it had the feeling of death
that seemed to be getting closer and closer, finally mantling
Dotty. I had been holding her hand and felt it getting colder
and colder, and then her fingers loosened, and her head
dropped to one side.
She was out of pain at last. She had found peace . . . that
elusive, drifting shalom. I arose, kissed her cold lips and
closed her eyes. Then I went into the kitchen where my
brother-in-law and my mother were sitting.
“May . . . Myer
Myer . . .” I said, “Dotty's gone.”
It was surprising how calm I felt now, how numb, utterly
void of feelings. I saw Myer's incredulous eyes stare as he
rushed to follow my mother into the bedroom. I heard my
mother's wailing, hysterical scream... “Mein tuchter! Mein
tuchter! Tyere!"
With a stony face, I turned to the phone. Dotty was no
longer her daughter and she could no longer be dear to her.
Not in the way she had been. My fingers were stiff in the
dial holes. "Dr. Walden, my sister just died."
"How do you know?" Smooth, professional tone.
250
""
“Doc, I've seen enough people dying. And dead ones.'
I hung up.
The rest was nightmare.
The days and nights passed in blurred sequence, the night
I sat up with Dotty at the funeral parlor, the funeral the
day after, then the week-long shivah period, the period of
mourning for the dead. I had made contact with the Federal
agents and they had extended the rest of the time to me. It
was funny how little the charges against me meant now. All
I could think of was Dotty, her children and the deathbed
promise I had made to her.
When the week was over, I dropped a letter to Mildred, a
few, terse words telling her what happened. It was done
quickly, and I mailed the letter on my way to meet the
Federal men.
The charges against me, I was informed, were quite specific.
I had been indicted by a Federal jury for conspiracy against
the government for violating Federal statutes by flying
planes, arms and radio equipment from Miami Beach to Tel
Aviv without a proper license. I was told that there was a
warrant for my arrest and that I would have to stand trial.
And I was informed that I should get legal advice at once.
The case made the headlines immediately, especially in
New York, Miami and Los Angeles. I applied for help to
the organization which had been created to help men like
myself and others, and was told to report at once to Miami
where trial would be held. The fare was also sent to me.
My lawyer, one Charles Grand, was already waiting for
me when I arrived in the Florida city. He seemed
dent and told me not to worry.
my
very confi-
"There's a good chance you might not be prosecuted,
Leon," he told me. "They might just want you as a mere
pilot and co-conspirator, as a sort of material witness. I am
251
:
going to ask for the dismissal of your case on a number of
various motions, citing your war record and your service
with the RAF. But-" and he lifted his gold fountain pen,
"the Assistant U.S. District Attorney is out to get us and so
is the supervising Custom's Agent, a certain Fred Blotts. They
would like to see you get the maximum penalty, five to ten
years and a ten-thousand-dollar fine. But I still feel that, at
the most, you will get a suspended sentence."
I nodded. It seemed to me to make little difference. I had
been struck so many blows, all coming at the same time;
the disappointment over not getting the airline, my sister's
death, and Millie ...
Millie. I shook my head and tried to put her out of my
mind. Chances were that I'd never see her again.
And now this thing.
Grand, my lawyer, had been right. Before the trial started,
we met with Judge Egan in his chambers. He seemed very
sympathetic, telling me he understood why I had broken
the Federal statutes and had engaged in smuggling planes and
arms. “But, son,” he continued mildly, "I know what moved
you-a desire to help your fellow Jews. However, you under-
stand we have laws in this land. If all of us were to take the
laws into our own hands, the result would be chaos. You
broke the law when you went to Israel . . ."
The Prosecuting Attorney tried to break in now and then
but Judge Egan would stop him with a warning side-glance
and go on. The Judge praised my seriousness of purpose, and
my service record, said he knew of my sister's death. Then
he leaned forward.
"Son," he said. "I'm going to dismiss the charges against
you."
Grand gave me a quick smile; I nodded. My head seemed
to throb quickly, then stopped. Only the Assistant D. A.
glared, but he kept silent.
252
.
"I know you'll not do anything to make me sorry I've done
this," the Judge continued. "You are not a criminal, and
what you did out of humanitarian purposes is hardly a
crime. And you followed orders like any other soldier, even
if you were a soldier illegally. But there is peace in the
Middle East now, and in the land of Israel. You helped estab-
lish that peace. But now that there is peace, you won't have
to keep running off to try to get yourself killed."
He looked at me and asked if there was anything I wanted
to say.
I thanked him for dismissing the charges. I admitted that I
had really known little about the politics, about what was
going on. That I had just taken orders.
"I'm not ashamed of what I have done," I said, "though
I don't know whether or not I'd do it again. I was disap-
pointed, yes-in many things. But I believed in everything I
did. I did. I really did. I made no money out of this deal,
while others profited. That's okay with me. I wanted to help
my people, and I did. They needed my help, and I was
willing to give it to them."
Judge Egan looked at me for a long time, then nodded.
"Exactly," he said. "That's why I'm dismissing the charges
against you, particularly. Others won't get off so lightly. We
are after the people who broke the law not because they
wanted to help the Jews but because they smelled the money
that could be made out of the war."
..
I thought of Hitz. Colonel Ralph Hitz. Where was he now?
"These people wanted to make a profit out of a war of
liberation," the judge continued, "and we're going to punish
them. Men like you"-he paused softly-"who were willing
to fight and die for an ideal are not, and never will be, on
trial in this court." He leaned back and smiled at me.
"Case dismissed," he said.
"
•
253

* 22
4
And now my
time of wandering began again, only this time
the wandering was done, not on the soft, green land of Israel,
but on the hard pavements of New York City.
I had no money left. Practically everything that I had
saved had been spent on a decent burial for my sister; the
rest had gone to her sons. Her husband, hardly waiting until
she was cold in her grave, married again, turning Christian
to please his new wife, leaving the children in my care.
Because I loved them and because I had promised Dotty to
take care of them, I knew I had to help them, and that meant
finding a job right away.
I tried to get back into the Civil Service. They were very
polite to me, but told me there were no openings, no tests.
I knew that there was prejudice against men like me, and
rightly so, because I had quit the Civil Service to go to Israel.
My old aviation firm in Texas had been incorporated into
a larger organization which had no room for me. So that, too,
254
was out. Getting more and more desperate, I went to see my
Congressman. After all, he was from my district, knew of
my record and...
All that I received from Congressman Binder was ten
minutes of his time, a sorry shake of the head, a man-to-man
pat on the shoulder and-later-a letter, saying there was
nothing he could do, unless I wanted to join the service again.
Which I didn't. I had had enough of fighting. I had four
people to support now-five, counting my mother.
I had met a man during my Israel meetings who ran a
newspaper. I went to see him, humbling myself, but all I
could get from him was a promise of two days' work in the
mail room a week, a promise which was never kept. I wasn't
even given the chance to apply for the job. Again the pat on
the shoulder, again the clipped voice-sorry.
Then there were the many writers I had met. One of them
was the man whose efforts had brought into being the Altalena
and her sad fate on the beaches of Israel. I had refused to
bomb his little ship. Maybe he would help?
When I saw him he said he was no longer interested in
Israel after the treatment he had received. I could get no
place with him, lost my temper and was practically driven
out of the house by his wife, who thought I was crazy.
Perhaps the movies could use my story. At one studio,
which had its offices in New York, an editor expressed inter-
est and assigned a writer. We worked together for about two
weeks getting a story together. It was approved by the
company, and for a time it seemed as if a movie idea could
be found in it. But then the news came to us that the State
Department would not give its approval to any film depicting
American citizens fighting illegally for a foreign country.
So the movie dream faded as well.
I was nearly out of ideas and almost completely out of
cash, with my GI Bill also gone. I could have written to
255

Mildred about my plight, but pride stopped me. I had heard
from her-the usual cards-and had answered but once. What
was the use? She was six thousand miles away. She lived in
her own way, in her own world. We would never see each
other again. What could I do? Cry on her shoulder?
Scanning the papers, I saw that several men were making
speeches throughout the country, pitching for funds for
various Israeli drives. It was my mother who had read more
about them in the Yiddish press, and she suggested half
jokingly that I ought to be able to do just as well, especially
since I had been in combat.
I thought it over. The idea didn't seem so bad. I could
hire myself out to all the clubs and organizations in the
metropolitan area and speak about Israel. At least, I thought,
I'd get something to eat at those dinners.
A lecture agency heard me, became interested, and said
they could use me. We arranged terms, so much for each
talk, so much for travel expenses if the speech had to be
given at some distance away. That was how I got on the
knife and fork circuit. It was a living.
Lions Clubs. Moose. Elks. Masons. Odd Fellows. Rotarians.
B'nai Brith. Hadassah Groups (those delicate little canapes of
chicken liver!). Men's Clubs of Synagogues. Union Meetings.
Jewish and non-Jewish organizations. The Y's. The library
groups. Sisterhood meetings. Zionist gatherings. That little
Synagogue in the Bronx where I had practically had to make
my speech in Yiddish, but where nearly a thousand dollars
was collected. A Men's Club meeting where I shared the
rostrum with a famous rabbi and Ruby Goldstein, the fight
referee. I was second to the last on the program.
Spaghetti dinners, chicken dinners, steak dinners, ham-
burgers, hot dogs . . . the knives and forks moving, in glitter-
ing rhythms. . . the organization announcements and then:
"It gives me distinct pleasure to introduce to you Mr. Leon
256
Baker, who fought with other men for liberation of Israel.
Mr. Baker." The scattered applause. The well-fed looks, the
"you-show-me-buster, I-gotta-be-home-by-ten," expression.
I developed a routine. A good, if old, joke to start off, then
right into what they wanted, the fighting. Getting their
excitement second-hand. Afterwards many of them would
make some sort of donation for Israel. I told them of the men
I had known, those who had fought, those who had died,
Jews and Christians alike. Dave, Jerry, Ray Todd, Buzz. Of
the Egyptian pilot, the little Arab girl. Everybody except
Hitz and Millie.
It was at a meeting of Air Force Reserve Officers that I
met Jack Pearson again. Jack had been a full colonel in the
war in Europe when I had known him. I was delighted to
see him again, almost stunned when he arose to ask me a
question-after my lecture-about the type of air war which
had taken place between Jews and Arabs. I answered as best
I could, hoping that Jack would stick around later and see me.
'He did. He invited me to have a drink with him, and at a
little lounge off Seventh Avenue we relived old times again.
Finally he shoved his glass away and looked at me knowingly.
"How long you been on the knife and fork circuit, Leon?"
he asked me.
“Oh,” I fiddled with my own drink. “About five, maybe
seven, months," I shrugged. "It's a living."
"But no fun, hunh?" Jack asked. He lifted his glass and
swallowed the last of his Manhattan. The cherry popped
against his cheek. "How would you like to get back into
flying again?" he asked.
"How-as an angel?" I retorted bitterly.
"Nope. As a test pilot." He was smiling at me.
"Jack... ask me how I like to eat. Are you on the level
with me?"
"It's a square shake, kid," he answered solemnly.
¥
257
I stared at him. "Jack," I said, "if you're kidding, if you
... God! Flying again! Making real money for a change."
He signalled the waitress for more drinks. "The job's
yours," he said, so matter-of-factly that I blinked. "I know
the sort of flier you are, kid." Although he was younger than
I by three years, he always called me kid.
"What kind of flying?"
"Oh," he drawled, stretching the suspense and enjoying it.
"Jets." He grinned at me. "The latest and the newest ones.
All you do is risk your goddamn neck to take them up for
the first time and wring them out for kinks."
I took a deep breath, my hand tightened around my glass
until I thought I'd crack it.
"Where?" I asked.
"Dallas," he replied. "Ace Aviation. Ever hear of them?"
I hadn't and I told him so.
"Well," he went on, enjoying every moment, "it's a small
outfit, but it'll grow. It damn well better had," he growled,
"because I lent my brother-in-law twenty jeeves to get
started, and I'm chief stockholder and vice-president. I don't
fly myself any more-got this cushy government job-but I've
got pull there, kid." He was grinning at me as he sipped his
second drink. "Ace does a lot of specialized work for other
firms. Especially in jets. They already have a tip-top reputa-
tion. And you might know some of the other pilots who
work there. Healy, Small, Jacobson. Remember Red O'Brien?
Him too."
The names brought back a rush of memories. I shook my
head. "And the fact that all these boys were under your
command in that airfield in Europe has nothing to do with
it, I suppose?"
He grinned again. "Not a damned thing, kid." He lifted
his glass once more and sucked up the cherry. "Well?" he
asked.
258
་
"I'm a Jew," I answered, instantly sorry, ashamed of my
impulsive belligerence. Jack looked at me carefully and set
his glass down.
"And what," he asked, his voice and words hard now, "in
the hell is that supposed to mean. Did I ask you?”
"Jack," I began, helplessly floundering, "it's just that I..."
"Did I ask Small what he was? Or Jacobson? Did I ever
ask when we were at war? For Christ's sake, Leon!" he said
disgustedly.
"Jack, it's only that lately well, I've touched up a lot
of Jews about a job. No go. The war record means nothing.
I figured that since you weren't Jewish you'd have even
more right and more reason to refuse."
"Who's talking about rights?" he demanded. "All I want
is a flier. A good one. I don't care what he is. He can sacrifice
virgins to the moon every month-so long as it doesn't inter-
fere with his work. Now, are you in, or aren't you?"
I lowered my head. I was still ashamed. Dotty's words
came back to me. "Don't hate." And here I had been ready
to hate had Jack refused me. I recalled Millie's words about
not understanding fully, that my theory couldn't work. Yet
it was working. Here was a non-Jew offering me a job with
no questions asked. The Star and the Cross could get together,
the way they had during World War Two, in Israel, yes,
even with Alena. She had told me how she had been sheltered
from the Nazis by non-Jews. And there had been Judge
Egan in Miami, another Christian, who had been so kind
and understanding and helpful. The Star and the Cross could
be side by side. It was happening right now, as, I thought,
it had been happening right along.
Only I had been too blind, too dumb to see it.
Well, if the Gentiles were willing, so was I. I could try
again. Forgive and forget. ... and that went for my Jewish
brethren, too, I decided mirthlessly.
259
I looked
up, lifted my drink. "You've just hired me,” I said.
I liked Dallas-had always liked it, as a matter of fact. I
was glad to be back. Kellner saw me, when I came to the
hangars and offices of Ace Aviation, glanced through the
note Jack had sent him, grunted once or twice, asked me
how Jack was and then said I'd be ready to fly as soon as I
checked out on the jets.
I met the other pilots, some of whom I already knew, and
it was like old home week. For the first time in months I felt
good. Not even my back bothered me.
There was no trouble with the check-outs and, within two
weeks, I was flying the new jets, getting the same old thrill
again, happy in my work, feeling I was doing that which I
had been born to do.
Since many of the experimental planes had to be wrung
out at the factories, I flew all over Texas, taking jets up,
making my reports, and then returning back to Ace for the
new assignments. The pay was good, of course, and soon I
was able to pay off my old debts, especially those which had
piled up when Dotty was sick. I began to eat better, put on
a few pounds, and regarded the world with a less severe and
bitter outlook.
There were a few women around and I found I could still
enjoy them, although the affairs were casual and meant little
to me. There were nights when I struggled to write to Millie,
starting, tearing the letter up, beginning all over again, finally
knowing that it was useless. I could not write to her. I could
not make my pen say all the things which were in my heart
and mind.
From time to time I heard about the other boys I had
known. Frank White was killed in Cleveland at the air races.
Ted Wilson hit the side of a mountain somewhere in Switzer-
land and Jim Tigget and Paul Meadows had been shot down
in Korea. Dave Gold, who had received a suspended sentence,
260
was happily married and working in his print shop. Jerry
was, of all things, teaching school. And as for Eli Bender,
that little navigator whom I had rescued, and Ray Todd-well!
I was out in Love Field, Dallas, killing time between
assignments, when my attention was drawn to an old British
Beaufort which was just coming down. I had not seen this
type of ship since the war and I stared curiously at it,
wondering who was flying it. Idly, I watched the landing
and then my eyes popped with surprise for, walking jauntily
out of the cockpit, in a manner I could never forget, was
Ray Todd. And following him was little Eli Bender.
It was hard to believe. I had been bitter about Ray, think-
ing he had gone over to Hitz' side. Still I remembered that
day in Shamat's office when the Colonel had told me Ray
had written a note about me saying I was okay to get the
franchise.
I knew I could not stay mad at Ray for long. I liked him
too much. He was a big, jolly, rumbling bear of a man, un-
afraid of anything, always good for a laugh and dependable
when a crisis arose. Before I realized it, I was tearing across
the concrete to greet my two old comrades.
"You old son-of-a-bitch!" I called out happily to Ray. I
pounded Eli on the shoulder. "And you little runt, you!
What the hell are you two doing here?"
They stared at me, their faces breaking into huge grins.
Eli hugged me and Ray nearly broke off my arm. I jerked
my head at the old Beaufort. "What are you two guys trying
to do? Kill yourselves in that box car?”
Todd stared back at where the mechanics were already
beginning to service the ship. "No," he said slowly. "That
old box car means two grand for Eli and myself."
We began to stroll around. "Somebody wants a delivery?"
I prompted.
"Yeah." Ray spat on the ground. "That old ass-kisser,
261
Hitz. He wants this crate in Israel, for two jeeves. Eli is
navigating and I'm flying."
I stopped near the PX, where we slipped nickels into the
coke machine and drank thirstily. "I thought that you and
Hitz were buddy-buddies. After that time at the hotel-"
Ray gulped down half his bottle before he finished. "I
should have known better," he growled. "You know he
screwed you on that airline franchise, don't you, Leon?"
"Yeah, I know,” I answered, the old bitterness coming to
life for a moment, then dying away. "And thanks for your
note, Ray, the one you sent to Shamat."
"Hell, it was a pleasure to do it. He had a fit when he
found out..." Ray grinned unpleasantly.
"Ray," I said, finishing the coke, "why did you do it?
Why did
you tie
with him?"
up
"I never tied up with anybody!" Ray answered. "Nobody
tells me what to do, especially so far as planes are concerned.
I just played footsie with him for the dough. Hell, I knew
he was getting it, so why shouldn't I? Jesus, man, if I wasn't
so much in debt, do you think I'd take this old crate to Israel
for him? But I need the dough, need it bad, my brother just
got through an operation and..." He did not go on.
I understood. I knew how deep in hock
you could get
with doctor and hospital bills. I let it go and walked back to
the Beaufort, looking it over carefully, touching the controls,
scanning the dark corners, examining the panel, feeling the
fuselage, kicking, poking here and there. When I emerged,
my grim face stared at them.
"Ray," I said seriously, "you stupid bastard. You're really
not going to fly this old crate over the ocean? You're out
of your head! You know you'll never make it."
"For two grand," Todd rumbled, "I can make anything."
"Tell Hitz to fly this death trap himself. Or have him ship
it over."
262
:
“Leon, for Christ's sake... I told you. I need the money."
I grabbed his arm. "Ray, listen to me. Don't fly this. The
damned thing is rotten. It'll fall apart over the water.'
>>
"Two thousand bucks, Leon!”
"Hang the money!" I shouted. "It's not worth it. You
want two grand? I'll lend it to you. I'm making good dough
now and ...'
""
Ray looked at me sadly. "I know," he said. "As a jet-
jockey. Risking your life each time you go up. How much
insurance on your life can you get, Leon? Hanh? I thought
," he nodded. "I don't want your dough... not that kind."
"Ray, please," I pleaded. "Listen to me. Have I ever
steered you wrong? Why should you get killed? Let Hitz
die! If he wants to," I finished angrily.
So,
But it was no use. Ray was like the stubborn mule you
hear about in stories; I took Ray and Eli to dinner, they were
my guests. I talked and talked, not eating myself, but it was
no use. As I said, nobody, but nobody, could tell Ray what
to do when it came to flying a plane.
In the morning, with a heavy heart, I drove them back to
the field. When I looked at the Beaufort, I felt like taking
a hammer and pounding it full of holes.
Eli was already in the plane, but Ray was still standing
beside it. "I know what you might think of me, Leon," he
was saying. "I did switch over to Hitz once. For a little while,
until I found out what a no-good bastard he really is. I
never should have trusted him. Not one of us guys got a
break from him. Not one. And even those who helped, people
from Israel itself, got themselves a screwing. Shamat, for
instance. He was eased out gently. You know what he's doing
now? Runs a fleet of trucks!"
My smile was bitter, too.
“And that dame, you know the one. Mildred Davis," he
paused and looked at me speculatively. "I heard that there
*
263
might have been something between the two of you-none
of my business, of course, but..."
"What about Mildred Davis?" My lips had gone taut
again, and every muscle in my body was tight. "What did
you hear about her?”
"Got it second or third hand," Ray shrugged. "But it
seemed that she opposed Hitz. Said Israel didn't need him, or
any foreigners. I heard she regarded all except genuine
Sabras as foreigners."
"Yeah.” I muttered. "And how I know one especially
whom she considered as a foreigner."
Ray gave me a quick look. "Anyway, they've shunted her
off to some harmless position . . . like coordinator of public
information or some other crap like that. She checks over
radio scripts and arranges for programs. They couldn't get
rid of her, although they tried. Hitz nearly busted a gut
trying to get her fired from the government altogether."
My eyes avoided his. "Anything else about her? Gossip I
mean? You know if she hits the night spots and stuff
like that."
Ray's eyes had become thoughtful. "Leon," he said. "If
you're so curious, why don't you fly back with me, and
find out for yourself?"
Our eyes held this time. For a long time. Then I shook my
head and smiled faintly. "Unhunh." I said. "Once was enough.
Very much enough. Besides, I gave my word to a Federal
Judge." I grinned up at him. "By the way," I asked, "how
come you didn't get served with a nice, shiny warrant?”
"Me?" He shook his head and roared with laughter. "I'd
like to see anybody serve me with anything!" And he started
to climb into the ship.
"Ray," I began again, "don't do this, don't . . ." But it
was too late. I stood back and watched the ship start to move.
I breathed a little prayer. "May God go with you." And
264
".
then watched the Beaufort lumber up the runway, turn
around for the takeoff run and then roar forward, going
faster and faster until the nose lifted and she was airborne.
Once the sun caught the whirring blades of the prop and
turned the light back, throwing it at me like shimmering
darts. I watched it disappear over the northeast horizon.
I stared after it for a long time.
Two days later I got the news.
The Beaufort, missing... somewhere between Newfound-
land and Europe over the North Atlantic. A search was
organized, but neither wreckage nor ship nor bodies were
ever found.
Rest in Peace, Ray, Eli, I thought. I wondered why God
had allowed me to save Eli that time, only to have him die
this way. And as for Ray.
Rest in Peace. Now you are with your comrades, for all
time.
And the very next day, two Federal agents came looking
for Todd. It turned out that Ray Todd was wanted by the
government in at least three states on the same charges which
had been brought against me.
Well, I thought, Ray had been right. Nobody was going
to serve him with any warrants-not under a hundred fathoms
of cold, dark Atlantic Ocean water.
..
·
I
265

*23*
When a person is happy or occupied with his work, the
days and months seem to melt into each other and emerge as
one, continuous stream of time in which it is hard to find
separate divisions. So it was with me. I did not brood too
long on Ray's and Eli's deaths; the end of comrades was some-
thing I had long been accustomed to, and I knew there was
no sense in mourning them, nor would they have wanted
me to do that. Instead I applied myself to my work, hardly
aware of the passage of time.
I was content with my work. There were days when I
found myself singing in the cockpit, knowing I was doing
what I liked to do and what I could do best. I was interested
in my job. The other pilots were all the kind of men
I understood. Kellner, my boss, was also a flier and he treated
us royally.
Because of all these factors, I took more chances, applied
myself more eagerly, tried to learn as much as I could. When
I won a cross-country flight, it was for the same reason. I
266
did not pay any attention to the publicity in the papers of
my achievements, but Kellner and the boys proudly dis-
played the trophies and certificates I had won in the two
main offices. I visited factories, talked with engineers and
designers about the latest types of planes and their per-
formances. Once, I visited Metropolitan, remembering that
it was here that Hirsh-Mildred's former husband-worked.
However, I did not get a chance to see him, and I was rather
glad; I felt I would be embarrassed meeting him.
Mildred was often in my thoughts, and there still were
days when I tried to write to her but failed. Since she received
no mail from me, I could well understand her silence. Save
what Todd had told me about her, I had no word of her.
Thus the days and years rushed on, smoothly, effortlessly,
as if driven by a powerful engine which could never be
worn out. In flight I thought of my present status. I wasn't
happy, but neither was I unhappy. My debts were paid off,
the bank account was growing, in my sister's children--I flew
to New York every month to see them-I had a ready-made
family. If there was something else lacking in my life, I
stubbornly refused to admit it.
Best of all was the realization that perhaps I had stepped
outside of the shadow of the Star and the Cross. The pressure,
I felt, was off. Perhaps never to squeeze down on me again.
I paid no attention to politics although I was glad when the
Korean conflict ended. A lot of the boys I had known had
died there. I was glad that at least we had a sort of uneasy
peace, and then disturbed once more over Indo-China and
then the conflict between Chiang and the Chinese Reds.
Still, I never allowed myself to discuss politics or to get
too deeply involved in talk of politics. Israel-now a free state
--was a name. I did not want to go beyond that. I told myself
I wanted to forget, but that, of course, I knew was both silly
and impossible. My only contact with Israel in those days
267
was to send money to have some trees planted in the Holy
Land for all the comrades who had flown and died there..
a sort of yizkor, the remembrance of the departed, of my own.
Several magazines had articles about me and my work as
a jet test pilot, and some of the local papers did Sunday
section stories about me. One of them appeared in a national
weekly.
It was about two weeks after this that I was told to report
to the front office to see Kellner. I went there at once,
thinking that it was another test job and wondering if it
would be here or at the factory. I had neither seen nor heard
of anything new or special coming up.
Kellner greeted me, looking up from his desk, asking me
to sit down. He was very formal, and my uneasiness sud-
denly increased. Most of the time, when there would be an
assignment for me, Kellner would have his feet on the
desk, a cigarette in his mouth, his collar unbuttoned. Now
he was wearing his shirt buttoned, a tie, and the cigarette
was missing.
"Somebody wants to see you," he told me gruffly. He
jerked his head at the other office. "In there." Kellner's quiet
brown eyes regarded me quizzically. "I didn't know you
had much in the way of real big shot friends," he said.
"What do you mean . . . big shot?" I asked uneasily.
"Wait until you see him," Kellner remarked. “A real
VIP." He picked up a pencil, put it down again. "Leon,” he
said, "no matter what this guy tells you, I want you to know
this. You'll always have a job here, no matter what. Even
if you want to leave for a time.”
I stared at him. "What kind of double-talk is this?" I
demanded. "Who wants to quit? What am I ... . joining a
union or something? Or maybe this is your way of telling
me off... that you don't want me
""
He looked pained. "You know it's not that, Leon. All I
268
said is, if you want to take a leave of absence for a time, call
it a vacation if you want, it's okay with me. I understand."
"Look," I began, "I don't know what you're . . ."
He arose, wearily, I thought, "Come on," he said, walking
to the door, opening it and standing aside so I could walk
in first. I got up and followed him, then stood shocked in
the doorway.
The man waiting there was as familiar to me as my own
face. I had seen that face and form in hundreds of news-
paper pictures, in dozens of motion pictures, on TV, in
scores of magazine articles, on the back covers of the books
by and about him, and in countless feet of newsreel film.
"Mr. Paul-this is Leon Baker.'
99%
It sounded almost ridiculous. "Mr. Paul." The whole world
knew him as Barney "Popsie" Paul, probably the greatest
living comedian and vaudevillian of his age. Popsie Paul,
friend of three presidents, international movie, radio and TV
star, author, director, painter, husband of four wives, the
man whose charitable works had been legion, who almost
single-handedly had started a financial and educational cam-
paign against a modern plague which, thanks to his efforts,
had been virtually wiped out.
Popsie Paul. If I was overwhelmed, it was not because of
his fame, but because he was here, and because Kellner was
introducing us.
"Leon Baker," Popsie said, flashing his familiar smile. His
hair was still glossy black, although I knew he must be
close to sixty. The voice was the same, rich and warm, which
I had known since childhood, from radio, and then from the
movies and newsreels and television. "Leon Baker," he re-
peated. "I've heard a lot about you.'
>>
I could make no reply. He had heard about me? What
answer could I give to that?
"I'll let you two gentlemen," and Kellner winked at both
269
of us, "talk here in private." And he carefully closed the
door. I remained standing until Popsie kicked a chair at me.
"Okay," he said. "Rest the bones."
Carefully, cautiously, I seated myself. My throat felt
dry. I hoped he would start talking, because-at that moment
-I didn't have a word to say to him.
"Let's not waste any time," he began. "I've got to be back
in Hollywood tomorrow. I came here especially to see you.
I heard about you, read a lot about you. I had some friends
look up your background, and you're just the man I need.”
"I didn't know you took so much care in hiring gag-
writers or using stunt-fliers," I tried to smile. I was rigid
and uneasy with anticipation.
"I don't want you for that," he said crisply. "Those I can
get, a dime a dozen. What I need is a first-class pilot to take
me to Israel."
I sat back. I felt easier now. So that was it. I was sure I
was on known ground now. Popsie, too! I knew he was not
Jewish, yet he had raised a lot of money for Israel but never
cashed in on the publicity, like some of the others I liked to
call Hollywood phonies had done. But I was curious. Why
me? And why Israel-now?
“I'm sure, Mr. Paul," I said carefully, "that you won't have
any trouble getting your pilot. If you want I can recom-
mend a few men myself who will only be too glad to . . ."
"I've made my own recommendation," he answered crisply.
"You. Five thousand dollars, all expenses paid, and more if
you want it."
I just sat and looked at him. I had no answer.
"Five grand, for a week's work," he said. "Why, there
are movie stars who don't get that much. And what's more,
you won't even have to do the flying to Israel. TWA will.
You just come with me."
270
I shifted my legs. "Let me get this straight,” I said. “You
say you want a pilot. For five jeeves?"
"Right." He bit the word off at the same time that he
sank his teeth into one of his notorious cigars. I held the
desk-lighter up to him and he smeared flame over the tip.
"And you say I won't have to pilot the ship. We're
travelling as passengers on TWA. So what do you need
a pilot for?"
His lips closed firmly around the cigar, then parted as he
removed it. "When you give me your okay, I'll tell you. Is
it a deal? Can you be ready in three days? I've just got myself
a brand new Beech. I'll have it flown from the Coast to here.
Then you fly me to New York. There, I'll make all the
arrangements, money, passports and so on, and off we go to
Israel-on a nice, safe plane. Okay?"
I arose, walked to a window and looked out. An experi-
mental F-91 was just coming down. Probably Healy, I
thought dully. Then I turned back to Popsie. His big,
saucer-like eyes, the color of olives, were regarding me
soberly.
"What's the pitch, Mr. Paul?" I asked. "The real pitch-
the gimmick-the inside-the angle of all this?"
He looked down at his cigar and shrugged, put his cigar
in his mouth, sucked at it, withdrew it again; "Call me
Popsie," he said. "I hate all this 'mister' stuff. I'll call you
Leon," he smiled. “Okay?"
"Okay, Popsie."
He nodded. “The real pitch?" he asked. He looked up at
me shrewdly. "You talk like a real East Side boy. I'm one
myself, you know. Rivington Street. That's not so far from
where you used to live. Forsythe, hunh?”
"You read the magazine poop about me well, Popsie," I
smiled.
271
"Magazines, hell! I wanted you before you started to
bust speed records and win races. I had two ex-FBI guys
working on your background, and getting me a dossier three
inches thick on you. Boy," he smiled grimly. "There isn't
anything about you that I don't know. I know each time you
took a piss, boy, the last ten years."
"How interesting," I murmured. "Then, if you know so
much, you surely must realize that perhaps government might
not give me any passports
especially to Israel.”
"The hell they won't!" he growled. "I've got that fixed
up already. You're kosher, boy. That Miami business is not
going to be held against you. I got pull and in the right
quarters. You'd be surprised how high up I can reach,” he
chuckled. "Sometimes I strain a muscle in my arm here and
there, but I get what I want. Besides, this was easy. You're
no criminal. There are no charges against you, no warrants,
you're not on suspended sentence. In addition, you're going
with me, as my employee. If I want a private pilot to fly me
the hell all over Europe and the Middle East, why should
you be stopped? Your political record is okay. You're not a
Red, so . . . what's to prevent?" he added, slipping into the
Yiddish idiom.
"I still am waiting for the angle, Mr. Paul," I said politely.
"Okay. Don't wait any more. Here it is in a nutshell.
Ostensibly, I'm going to Israel to help organize a slam-bang
show and film festival for them over there. My own com-
pany's sponsoring it, opening up a chain of theaters as well,
two anyway, and a lot of film people, writers, directors, will
be there. It's all kosher with the U.S. State Department. All
arranged. We're working with their cultural division there,
mainly through some babe called Mildred Davis, who is in
charge of the whole thing. She's in radio or something, who
the hell knows..."
272
I sat straighter. "Who?" I asked, hoping my voice wasn't
going to croak.
"Davis," he answered. "Mildred Davis. She's a gonzer
macheren there... the big-shot of culture. She wanted to be
in politics, but they eased her out of it. Why?" he asked,
his eyes mocking me, "did you know her?"
"Slightly," I said. "Just slightly. Ran across her a few times
there. Did some stories on me."
He nodded. "You mean that Egyptian pilot thing? Boy,
was that corny.
I helped him light his cigar again. "I see," I smiled, "you
really do know everything about me. So I suppose it's okay
for me to ask if Mildred Davis put you up to this, to ask for
me especially?"
""
Popsie puffed on his cigar for a long time. Then he looked
up at me. "Okay," he said. "I know you and she were-well
... let's call it good friends for a time. No big secret. But . . .”
and he took the cigar out of his mouth, "she didn't have a
thing to do with this. I've never met her. Oh, we've had some
correspondence, and I talked to her by phone once-but
getting you for this job was all my idea, not hers."
"Why?" I asked softly. "You like my profile or
something?"
•
you
He ignored the sarcasm. "No. That's not the reason. Num-
ber one
you're a damn good flier, one of the best in
the country. Two..
Two... you got a good record. Three . . .
fought for Israel, and not for the dough. Four . . .
you fly
jets, and Israel needs pilots like you to teach jet-flying. So,
the offer is, a major in the regular Air Force or, as a civilian
instructor pilot, one thousand a month, all expenses paid, with
a four-year contract. Don't worry about getting paid. You
will. I'm footing the bill. Not they."
I took a deep breath. This was coming too rich and too
273
fast. "Let me get this straight," I said. "Israel wants a good
jet-instructor, you are going to pay his salary for him, and
bring him over as a guest, and then he can stay for as long
as he wants to?"
"Now you've stopped flubbing your lines," he grinned
at me.
"I still don't get. why?" I insisted, shaking my head.
"Jesus H. Christ, boy!" he broke out. "I just told you why.
Get your hands from under your tuches, boy! Be smart. I,
me, personally, will pay your salary, in or out of Israel's
Air Force, whichever you want. Twelve grand a year, for
four
years, guaranteed. Contract. Forty-eight thousand bucks,
plus expenses, and maybe," he winked, "your girl in the
bargain. That Miss Davis... some setup, I hear. I wish some-
body had been that good to me once."
My head was swimming. I couldn't assimilate all this, not
all at once. Rather dazed, I looked at him. "I still don't get
it," I said. "Where's the pay-off for you, personally?"
"Now you're talking," he grinned at me. "People think
I'm a mercenary son-of-a-bitch. Let them. Maybe I am. But
I have ideals too. Sure, I took no active part in that business
of Israel, but," and he waved his cigar vaguely, “I sank a
half a million bucks of my own dough to get Israel started."
As I gaped at him, his grin broadened. "Surprised, huh?
Surprised to think that Popsie Paul, a tough little Polack
from the East Side, should want to help the Jew-boys. But
I did. Remember that messed-up field at Ramat David? Who
do
you think provided the money to get the field fixed up—
the way you wanted it?" His left hand tapped his pudgy
chest. "Me. Hell, you guys-and the Israelis-didn't have a
pot to piss in. Well, I furnished the pots . as well as the
nice new latrines. The club, the movie theater. The mess hall.
My dough. Why? Because I wanted to have peace, and peace
means culture and leisure, and that means more movie theaters
274
and TV and radio stations. Sure! I told you I was mercenary.
But there was more, kid. I wanted to see the Jews win...
how do you like that? Me! Basil Paulesky, of Rivington
Street, whose ancestors must have beaten hell out of yours
in pogroms. I help the Jews. A laugh! But I did it because
I wanted to do it."
"Why?" I asked. My throat was suddenly dry.
“Because I'm a nut. I'm crazy," he said, and he was not
smiling now. "Because I've got an idea . .just the way you
have, Leon, that it's about time all this crap and bad feeling
between Jews and non-Jews came to an end. What good does
it do? Just causes trouble, misunderstanding."
"And bitterness," I offered.
He nodded. "Right. Bitterness. Hell, maybe back in the
old country, where we Polacks were ignorant and supersti-
tious bastards, we could be heated up against the Jews by
those slobs who wanted it that way-for their own gain.
Pogroms against the Jews could serve as scapegoat affairs.
The Jews got the blame for a hell of a lot of political unrest.
Okay, but I've been reading, boy. I do a lot of reading, you
know that? And I learned me a few things. I began to know
Jews, worked with them. Began to respect them. And, hell,
in America we don't need any pogroms. We're all Americans.
So, I figured if the Jews got their own land, it would show
the rest of the world something. Let people know they could
fight, had rights, deserved their share in the world. Then later,
with the Jews established in Israel, Jews and Christians could
sorta move together. See what I mean?"
I saw what he meant.
"After all, I figure, Christ was a Jew, too. Need there
be such a difference? So, what the hell, it's only money. I
didn't go out and fight like you boys. But I helped the best
way I could. I want to see the peace kept. And that's why
I asked you to help now. There's trouble ahead." He drew
275
heavily on his cigar, exhaled loudly. His head was wreathed
in blue smoke.
"Trouble with whom?" I asked. "Egypt again?"
"Yes." He nodded. "That new son-of-a-bitch Nasser. He's
going to line up with the Reds, wait and see. He'll ask them
for arms-and get them. He'll use them against Israel. You
know that pact, the one Iraq and Iran and Turkey signed?
Well, Nasser's sore as hell about that, because Egypt con-
siders itself a bigshot in the Arab League. And here they sign
without Egypt. This is going to please the Russians, wait
and see. They'll approach Nasser and say, 'See . . . the other
countries signed up with the West, they'll get help, and
you're left holding the bag.' You know how the Reds operate.
Anything to cause trouble against the USA. So they'll prom-
ise Nasser, or any of the Arab states, anything. And, of
course, the Arabs will swear to accept Russian aid and tech-
nicians-but never the Communist philosophy. Which you
and I know is a lot of bull. My mother's family was wiped
out by the Reds. And I wouldn't trust them as far as I could
throw one of your planes."
He stopped, looked at me. “What do you say, boy? It's
going to be different than last time. Just a little different.
I've got an organization behind me."
"Look, Popsie,” I said. "I don't get it. Why should you
be so interested? I understand what you said about the Jews,
and their being your friends and all, but there is more."
His gaze was steady. "You're right, boy. There is more.
Not only fear of a war, which might make this whole world
blow up in one bang, but another thing. The rise of fascism
and Hitlerism and anti-Semitism again. Do you know why
the Arabs won't make peace? It's because they say that
Zionism is a world threat. Where have we heard that before?
Hell, the Arabs still don't even recognize Israel as a state.
276
ܕ
When Ambassador Eban had a television debate with the
Syrian Ambassador, Dr. Zeinnedine, the latter insisted that
a plywood wall be put between him and the Israeli, because
an Israeli wasn't fit to be in the presence of a Syrian. How
do you like that? So, the Arabs are daily flooding the world
with that same old anti-Semitic crap about Zionism being a
world threat, controlled by the Jews of America. 'Oh,' the
Arabs say, 'we are not anti-Semitic. We are only anti-Zionist.
Some of our best friends are Jews.' Boy, do you remember
Henry Ford and his Protocols of Zion, which he later re-
pudiated? The same thing. Zionism is just another fancy
name for Judaism, although the Arabs will swear up and
down that Judaism is 'a sacred religion' which they 'respect.'
Like hell! The Arabs are spreading anti-Semitism through-
out the whole world again. I don't want to see that anymore
than I want to see an atomic war because of the Middle East."
"Look," I pointed out. "Maybe they've got a legitimate
claim. All those Arab refugees . . . all those . . ."
"Then why don't the goddam Arabs take them back!"
Popsie almost exploded. "There are nine Arab countries.
Israel has 8,000 square miles of land, the Arabs have eighty
million. Why can't the Arabs take care of their own refugees?
And besides, you know damn well Israel has offered to pay
for the abandoned lands-if the Arabs let them and don't
make a war. Why should Israel take these Arabs back and
have a nice Fifth Column in the land?"
He calmed down somewhat. "You're a flier, kid. Not a
politician. But maybe," he flashed that famous smile at me,
"I've got more ideals than you think. What I want from you
is this. There are fifteen jets sitting on an airfield in Rome.
Fifteen F-86's. They're ready to go to Israel. Bought and
paid for. Only we need guys to fly them out to Israel and
maybe stay on to teach or fight. All depends on the guy.
277
·
ཝཱ ཏི
What I want you to do is take one of those jets out. You'll
get paid and well. And if you want to stay on, well, I can
arrange a deal for you. That is, if you still have ideals."
There it was again, I marvelled. Once more the Star and
the Cross seemed to be moving together. And when they
joined their light would shine over the whole world and
suffuse it with such a blaze of brotherhood that no shadow
of prejudice or oppression could remain. I thought of an-
other star which had burned over a certain manger in Israel
almost two thousand years ago.
Popsie Paul, the non-Jew, Polish born, ready to help those
people whom his ancestors had massacred by the hundreds
in his parents' land.
I nodded to myself. Popsie flicked some ash from his
cigar and grinned at me. I knew he was thinking I was ready
to buy the idea.
"Just one thing," I said slowly. "What about a certain
Colonel Hitz?”
Popsie chuckled.
"Is he still around?"
"Very much so." With his free hand, he smoothed back
the thick, black hair which lay pompadour style over the flat
skull. "Hitz is now one of the real machers in the Israeli Air
Force. In a way, he might even be your boss."
"Then the deal's off," I said shortly.
Popsie took a long draw on his cigar and looked at the
ash carefully as he replied. "Don't sell Hitz short. In fact,
if he hadn't agreed, I wouldn't be here with this proposition.
It was Hitz who gave the OK on you."
He looked up at me suddenly. "Don't bear grudges, kid.
It's kid stuff. This is too serious. Besides, things have changed.
Hitz among them. He's . . ." and Popsie grinned knowingly,
"seen the light. He is not what he was."
I stared at Popsie wryly. "Look," I said, "this offer-are
278
J
you making it the same to all pilots? You'll go broke, Popsie."
He shrugged. "The organization is trying to get as many
fliers as it can get. But you-well, you're the only one I
approached with this private deal. The others get a flat grand,
for delivering the jets. They can stay or go. You,” and his
eyes searched mine, almost pleadingly, I thought, "you're
a better investment, one I am willing to pay for out of my
own pocket. I want you to stay in Israel, either to teach or
fly. And afterward . . ." His eyes looked distant. “You still
interested in that private airline, boy? I can't make any def-
inite promises, but I've got a lot of influence."
I did not answer. I was looking beyond him.
"Well?" he growled. "What's it going to be? You gonna
let a jerk like Hitz stop you? You gonna let them Arabs get
away with it? You gonna never see your girl?" He had
swung back into the East Side vernacular. "You! An East
Side boy like me. From Forsythe Street. Boy, this should be
a challenge to you in more ways than one," he added mean-
ingfully. "For a guy with ideals, for a guy with a girl there?"
He squinted at me through the cigar smoke. "What's it gonna
be, boy?"
"Give me time to think it over."
"Okay." All his baby teeth showed in the grin. "Take a
couple of hours. I'll be here until six. And I want you to be
flying to New York tonight and to be in Rome in three days.
And if you're worried about the dough, hell, when you come
to New York, stop off at my company's office. The check
and contract are all ready and waiting for you."
I stared at him. “You were pretty sure of yourself, weren't
you, Popsie?"
Once more he shrugged. "One East Side boy is always sure
of another," he said. He started to walk away. "Call me be-
fore six at my hotel."
Now I wished I had a friend or somebody very close to
279
me, so I could talk the whole thing over. I needed talk. I
wanted somebody. Kellner seemed to know and understand
my restlessness and told me to go home and do my think-
ing on my own time.
The walls of the hotel room gave me no answer. I weighed,
considered, speculated, anticipated, figured, sifted the facts,
added figures on paper-and no good.
On one hand, the proposition was attractive. Popsie's con-
tract would be iron-bound. Forty-eight thousand in four
years. And plenty more on the side. Expenses paid. Another
five grand just for signing with him and going along with
him. A bonus. And after four years in Israel, who was to
tell what might happen? I would know my way around. I
might be able to get that airline franchise after all.
On the other hand was the possibility of war. Did I want
that again? The fighting, the pain, the worry, the suspense,
the responsibility? Of course, one could also get killed, but
I was too much the seasoned soldier to worry about that.
I'd get it when my time came, either in combat or in bed
with a blonde. Made no difference.
Then there was Colonel Ralph Hitz. Popsie had said he
would be my big boss. At least I admired Popsie for his
frankness. He could have snowed me on this job and not
even mentioned Hitz. But I would have to deal with Hitz
again. What with the politicians and the grafters and the
money boys and the ...
Hold it, Baker, I told myself. Money boys? Aren't you
going over for the dough now? Isn't that the primary mo-
tive? Isn't that what's spurring you on? Money! There's no
war now. You can't say you're going for idealistic reasons
alone.
No? I asked myself. Suppose there's a new war. You'll
fight. You'll help others train to fight. You'll complete the
job.
Bull, my ego retorted. It's the dough, the airline. After
1
4
280
all, Baker, old boy, how long can you expect to keep flying?
You're close to that time when life begins. What will you
do then? This way, once you've planted yourself in Israel,
played all the angles, you'll have a foot on the ground that
counts. You have more chance there than you have here.
Why not admit what Popsie admitted to you-that in Israel
today you'd have the chance to combine ideals plus a chance
to make some dough and carve out a future for yourself.
I deliberately left Mildred for the last, because I knew
that she would be the final, decisive factor.
I felt my way at first, then dwelt with what I thought was
cool, detached objectivity, upon our relationship. As I had
not done for months, I went over every moment, every hour
I had been with her. I scrutinized and remembered each de-
tail of her face, her figure. I lived again our sexual life. I
remembered her gestures, her words, her philosophy, her
antipathy toward "foreigners" in Israel. Could we make a
go of it, I wondered? Would there always be a clash of per-
sonality between us?
In short, was I truly in love with her? This was the ques-
tion that haunted me, and it was still haunting me as I put
in the call to Popsie.
He was waiting for me in the hotel room. He was dressed
in dark slacks, a bright orange, high-necked cashmere sweater,
with a pale blue scarf. On his feet were comfortable slippers
and at his side was the box of cigars and a bottle of Johnny
Walker.
"You're all set, boy," he greeted me. "I fixed up
the plane
reservations for you, also put in a call to New York. They're
expecting you in my office. You'll pick up more instructions
there. Now, anything else on your mind?" Before I could
answer, he indicated the bottle. "If there is, this will help
you ask."
I refused the drink, but I was afraid to ask what I wanted
281
to know. He must have guessed, because he waved his hand
easily. "She ain't married, boy," he said. "That I know for
sure. Nor is she engaged, spoken for, or even going steady.
I had a long talk with Hitz about her. He told me all about
her-and about you."
"What about me?” I asked.
He took a long swallow from his glass. "I'm an old man,
boy," he said, "and I've been around a lot. I can tell when
a woman loves a man. She loves
her, but quick."
you ... and
you can go to
"She never said that-not in so many words," I challenged.
"Hell," his voice was like gravel. "She didn't have to say
it. I know it. So does Hitz. She's recommending you to every-
one in Israel-whenever the subject of American pilots
comes up."
"That's the Sabra in her talking," I said bitterly.
"That's the Sabra,” he agreed with me pleasantly, “but a
Sabra woman, boy. There's the difference." He looked down
at his cigar. "Hell, boy, I'm here to recruit fliers, not to act
as match-maker, as a goddam shadchen. You go to Israel and
stay there. What you do with your private life is not my
business." He arose, looked at his watch, stretched and
yawned. "If you're going to make that flight," he suggested,
"you'd better get going."
I looked at him and then smiled. There was no use pre-
tending any more. I was as eager as he knew I was.
"Popsie," I said. "This is an awful price to pay me for a
wedding."
His returning smile was warm. "Just make me the god-
father," he said. Then he looked at his watch again. “Get
going, boy, before you're too late. Mustn't keep the bride
waiting."
I liked his wink.
*
282
1
As if coming out of a long dream, Leon's eyes focussed,
blinking sharply as he swept them over the panel. He heaved
a sigh of relief as he saw that his instruments indicated per-
fect order. Peering out to his left, he beheld the eastern hori-
zon already lightening, thin shreds of clouds already visible
as they trailed, mistlike, over the skies. Over in Russia, he
thought, the same sun would flood the skies and soon it would
be over the sacred land of Israel.
His hands worked automatically and the radio sprang to
life. For a moment he toyed with it, hearing the jabber of
voices, French, Italian, English, telling him about winds
and speeds. There was no use talking on the radio now, since
no contact would be made until they were over Israel.
He settled back, flying with the group, seeing them all
around him. Below, the sea seemed to narrow out and then
the beat of his heart quickened. That green and yellow below
him, it could be only one thing. He took a deep breath as
his radio burst into crackling life.
:
283
Again his eyes darted over the panel... speed, compass,
fuel . . . all okay.
"Charlie calling Uniform," he heard his group leader's
voice.
Leon flicked the switch.
“Uniform to Charlie. Okay here. Loud and clear."
"Going down, Uniform. Tower twelve miles out. Contact
for instructions."
"Okay, Charlie. Will do."
Leon flipped the switch again, this time starting to point
the snub-nosed F-86 downward in the wide circle. He caught
a glimpse of some of the other planes also dipping for the
last leg. Below him the land swept closer and closer into view.
The green became separated into strips, the strips were de-
tailed into squares, some of them dotted with what would
turn out to be trees and buildings.
He found the control tower of the Ramat David base.
"Ramat David Tower," he said clearly, "this is Two-Six-
Five Uniform on One-Twenty-Five, at five thousand feet.
Requesting wind and runway-repeat-requesting wind and
runway."
The Controller's voice, very well modulated, and with a
British accent answered:
>>
"Two-Six-Five Uniform, Ramat Tower. Before calling
downwind for landing instructions, please identify.'
Leon grinned. "MAZEL!" he almost shouted. "Mazel!"
Mazel. Luck. Good Luck. The identification code-word.
"Righto, Mazel," the British voice answered.
Leon settled back for the work ahead, carefully getting
downwind into the traffic pattern. Once more he contacted
the tower.
"Two-Six-Five Uniform downwind."
“Ro-ger, Two-Six-Five Uniform. You're number three,
behind Three-Seven-Oh."
22
MOMENTED WAY. HE IS
}
284
M.
Leon nodded. The ground was beginning to swoop up at
him. In the gathering light, he could see the runways, the
hangars, the knot of people gathered at one corner. Would
Millie be there?
He concentrated on the task before him. "Two-Five-
Six Uniform," Leon answered. He took a deeper breath. The
jet hovered for a moment, and then gracefully, quickly,
swooped low, lower... the landscape racing by... flashing
... then the soft, almost imperceptible jar as wheels touched
ground.
He was back on Israeli soil again. Back for good. Now he
would stay there. The land would claim him, and the earth
was part of him now, as it was part of the many men he had
known and who had died. On this ground, where once men
of God had trod, he, Leon Baker, was ready to seal his
destiny with the fate of this tiny nation. For better or for
worse, he grinned.
Just like a wedding.
Wedding. Mildred.
His head lifted higher. And higher still.
"2
“MAZEL,” he breathed. "Mazel . .
5:
285

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