My new posting came not just as momentum was building toward an invasion. It followed on the heels of a major new crisis in our peace with Egypt. Only weeks before I gave up my Sinai command, President Anwar Sadat was shot and killed by an extremist Muslim officer at the annual Cairo military parade to mark the anniversary of the 1973 war.
Like many Israelis, I felt an almost familial sense of bereavement. Sadat was not just the first Arab leader to make peace with Israel. He seemed to understand us: people who were ready, willing and able to fight, but wanted above all to live unmolested and accepted by our neighbors. Yet for Begin and the Likud, I knew the assassination would cast the whole peace process into doubt. Sadat’s successor, Vice-President Hosni Mubarak, did make it clear he would abide by the peace treaty, defusing calls on the Israeli right for us to cancel our final withdrawal from the Sinai. But after Sadat’s killing, Begin and those around him seemed more determined than ever to hold the line against the wider peace negotiations agreed with President Carter and Sadat at Camp David. At Begin’s insistence, Camp David had not proposed giving the Palestinians a state, but instead “autonomy” and a locally elected “self- governing authority”. Yet that was defined as a transitional period. The elected Palestinians were to be included in negotiations for a yet-unspecified “final status” arrangement for the West Bank and Gaza. That, Begin feared, left the door ajar for something more than autonomy. Shutting that door, I would soon discover, was a big part of Arik’s ornate reasoning for invading Lebanon.
Beyond the fact that my new job was a promotion, I had a personal reason for welcoming the move back to Tel Aviv. Ten days after Sadat’s assassination, I had endured a frightening few days surrounding the birth of our third daughter, Anat. The crisis was another reminder that the demands of frontline command rested not just on my shoulders, but my family’s. We had moved house again early in Nava’s pregnancy, to the suburb of Ra’anana, about 10 miles north of Tel Aviv and a few miles in from the coast. We bought one of a newly built row of small, semi-detached townhouses which, best of all, had a backyard. It was tiny by American standards, but was still a place for the girls to play. Once again, however, I wasn’t there when my daughter was born. I was rushing north as Nava went into labor.
The birth itself went smoothly. By the time I got to the hospital, both baby and mother seemed happy and healthy. A few days later, however, when they were back in the townhouse and I’d returned to my division, Nava felt suddenly, desperately unwell. I shudder to think what might have happened were it not for
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