The Last Testament

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

T EKOA , THE W EST B ANK , T HURSDAY , 3.13 PM

Not for the first time since he got to this country nearly twenty-five years ago, Akiva Shapira cursed his American upbringing. He watched the young men on manoeuvres in the vineyard, charging, three at a time, their knives thrust forward, ready to plunge into the easy flesh of three straw-filled mannequins, and he regretted that he would never be like them. It was too late now, of course. At fifty-two, and weighing over two hundred pounds, Akiva Shapira would never be able to join this heroic army of Jewish resistance, not in any active way. What pained him was not that his moment had passed, but his knowledge that it had never really arrived.

As an American, he had grown up in flabby, comfortable, suburban New York. Riverdale, to be precise. While these young Israeli men had been taught the language of tanks, artillery and infantry as their mother tongue, reared as warriors from their infancy, he had been raised to join an army of lawyers, accountants and doctors. He had come to Israel in his mid-twenties, in time to do three months’ basic training, but by then it was too late. He would never share in the martial knowledge that formed so much of this society’s inner culture. He would never say so publicly, but for all his nationalistic militancy and political influence in Israel, Akiva Shapira could never escape the feeling that he remained an outsider.

The men at his side had no such feelings, that he could tell. They all had long military records, the basic three years in their youth and a couple of wars each after that. They could watch this display and, later, discuss the mechanics of combat with unerring confidence. When they moved on to the shooting range, watching as a team of twenty-year-old marksmen darted out of bushes and popped up out of the undergrowth to fire at the row of watermelons lined up as targets, these men, all of them Shapira’s age or older, could whisper useful notes to the instructor. Shapira remained quiet, awed by the explosive blam that sent the fruits into a shower of pulp and gore time after time, without fail.

He was relieved when the exhibition was over, when the young recruits were dismissed. Now the older men would talk strategy, Shapira taking his place at the table as an equal with the others.

There were only four of them gathered here, in a meeting whose existence, they agreed, would be denied by each of them. Shapira and the man at his right were the only two who held formal positions within the settler movement. The man in the chair had gained fame, and notoriety, another way, as the quartermaster of the Machteret, the Jewish underground which made several terrorist attacks on Arab politicians and others more than two decades earlier. He had served time in jail and had, officially, retreated from public life. Most Israeli journalists believed that he now lived abroad. Yet here he was, deep inside the West Bank, in the heart of Samaria, as Shapira and his comrades would describe it.

And yet, should an Israeli camera crew have stumbled upon this gathering-which they would not, since a heavily guarded perimeter enclosed the entire area-it would not have been the former Machteret man whose presence would have shocked most, but that of the figure seated at the outdoor picnic table directly opposite Shapira. This man was the personal aide to none other than Yossi Ben-Ari, the Minister of Defence of the State of Israel.

‘We’re here, as you know, to talk about Operation Bar Kochba,’ the quartermaster began.

Shapira liked the name. After all, he had suggested it, to name this twenty-first century Jewish revolt after the man who had led the second-century equivalent. (That Bar Kochba revolt against the Romans had ended in disaster and exile for the Jews of Palestine, a fact Shapira chose to gloss over.)

‘Our preferred option remains mass disobedience within the ranks of the IDF. Yariv can have no peace deal if the army refuses to implement its terms. If he gives the order to dismantle a settlement like this one, like Tekoa, then our people will refuse to obey.’

‘But there was Gaza,’ said Ben-Ari’s man.

‘Precisely. There was Gaza. We expected mass refusal then and it didn’t happen. So we need a Plan B. Which is what you saw just now. Highly-trained young men who will throw off their IDF uniforms and take up arms to protect their homeland.’

Shapira couldn’t help but look over at the aide to the Defence Minister. The fact that he was here at all was symbolic enough. But that he was listening, without protest, to a plan by Israelis to take up arms against the army of Israel-the very army his boss headed!-was extraordinary. That they had this man, and therefore, by implication, Ben-Ari himself on side, was proof of their strength, and confirmation of Yariv’s great weakness.

‘I repeat, we deploy these forces only once an agreement is signed and once the government starts enforcing its terms.’

‘But in the meantime…’ It was Shapira, his urgent desire to get on with it, to act, getting the better of him.

‘In the meantime,’ continued the quartermaster, shooting a glare in Shapira’s direction, ‘there are steps we can take to prevent any such deal. These efforts are already underway. You will have seen our claim of responsibility for the latest action in the Old City market.’

The others nodded.

‘These pre-emptive steps then, aimed at destabilizing the government before it can commit national surrender, will be the focus of our energies. We have in the last few days established a small unit dedicated to precisely these activities. For now, gentlemen, our fate is in the hands of these men. Tonight when we daven the evening service, I suggest we each offer a silent prayer for the good fortune and success of The Defenders of United Jerusalem.’