JFK and Rabin – Assassinated in Common
By Avraham Azrieli*
An Israeli flag unfurled from a pole, and the exulted gates swung open. A circular driveway led to a stately manor that wasn’t white, as Yitzhak Rabin had expected, but red brick overgrown with ivy.
“Welcome!” A man in a tennis outfit emerged from the front door. “You finally made it!”
“Mr. President.” Yitzhak Rabin shook the offered hand. “It’s an honor.”
JFK gestured in dismissal. “Call me Jack. A drink?”
“Whiskey, if you have. Dry.”
“Of course.” He showed Rabin through a foyer to a veranda in the rear, overlooking a vast garden. Among the hedges and flower beds were wooden benches and wrought-iron gazebos. Men strolled about or sat in small groups, chatting or playing games. They were dressed in dark suits, uniforms adorned with medals, or robes in various colors. Two women stood by a fountain, one in riding boots, the other in a red sari. It was dead quiet though, no birds chirping in the bushes, no branches rustling in the wind, no jetliners roaring through the clouds.
Rabin raised his glass. “Le’hayim!”
“To life!”
They drank.
JFK refilled. “We’ve been expecting you since…”
“November fourth, nineteen ninety-five.”
“What’s kept you for sixteen years?”
“I refused to pass over until the truth came out.”
“The truth?”
“About my assassination. Who was behind it.”
“Waste of time.” JFK scratched the back of his head. “It’s been five decades for me, and the truth isn’t out yet. Was it the mob? The Soviet Union? The labor union? The loony Nixon or my lackey Johnson? Everyone’s got a conspiracy theory about who sent that shooter.”
“I thought there were two.”
“One or two, library or grassy knoll – why should I care? Would the truth put my brains back into my head?” JFK smoothed down his hair. “My new motto is very simple: Ask not what your enemies did to you yesterday, but what you can do to be happy today!”
“Catchy.” Rabin looked around. “What is this place?”
“Heaven.”
“Really?”
JFK chuckled. “I also expected to reach hell, considering my vices. But apparently the Pope has no say upstairs.”
“Nor do the rabbis.” Rabin took another sip. “Are you in charge here?”
“We take turns greeting at the front door. I was hoping for that Ukrainian blonde with the farm-girl braids. I guess they stuck her in prison instead.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“Not at all. Glad to have you. We sometimes go months without a fresh face.”
“So few reach heaven?”
“This is a special section—reserved for assassinated leaders. To be eligible, you must be the country’s top honcho at the time of your violent death. They’re very strict about it.”
“They?”
JFK pointed upward.
“Ah.” Rabin noticed a small man with a goatee, standing at a writing desk, scribbling intensely. “Vladimir Lenin? I thought he died of an illness.”
“An illness called Comrade Stalin.” JFK pantomimed an injection. “Medicinal sedatives.”
Leaning against the railing, Rabin peered at a foursome playing backgammon. “Is this Sadat?”
“Anwar is a charming man. The other three are pompous asses, or maybe it’s my American allergy to kings.” JFK pointed. “The fat one is Farouk of Egypt, the sad fellow is Faisal of Iraq, and the one who’s always winning is Abdullah of Jordan.”
Rabin scanned the other figures in the garden. “How long has this place existed?”
“Way back. We got pharaohs, shoguns, a couple of emperors and an Inca chief. Colorful folks. You should have seen me teach Julius Caesar to play tennis. He kept breaking the racket.”
“There’re courts here?”
“You bet.” JFK patted his shoulder. “I’m playing doubles later with the Gandhis—we have three of them. You can switch with Indira. In my experience, she prefers to watch. Only a handful of ladies here, each one more prudish than the next. Hopeless!”
“I’m faithful to my wife.”
“No wives here.” JFK glanced over his shoulder. “They can’t get in.”
“You don’t know my Leah.”
Descending the steps into the garden, they crossed paths with a tall man in a black coat, who nodded and said, “Hello, John.”
“President Lincoln.” JFK saluted playfully. “Please meet our new arrival, Yitzhak Rabin, the Israeli prime minister.”
“Welcome, son.” His hand was slim, with long fingers and a firm grip. “Call me Abraham, will you?” He departed with a polite bow.
Rabin gazed after him. “What a voice!”
“Wait until you hear him recite the Gettysburg Address. Even I get jealous.”
“Incredible. I should have come up sooner.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“At first I waited for the public trials. The shooter, his brother and his ex-girlfriend went to jail. A special commission recommended dismissal of the head of the secret service, who had a mole among the plotters. The mole stood trial for failing to report to his handlers, but was acquitted after years of delays. And I kept watching for the big fish to surface.”
“Was there a big fish?”
“Must be!” Rabin counted on his fingers. “First, who financed the whole thing? Second, who let an armed civilian into the secure area? Who told my bodyguards to leave my back unprotected? Who yelled ‘blanks, blanks’ as if the bullets were not live? Who ordered to drive around while I bled to death, rather than rush me to the hospital? Who pushed one of my bodyguards to commit suicide the next day? Who order a cover up and altered all the forensic and pathology reports? These questions begged for the truth to come out.”
“But you finally gave up. As I said: Ask not what your enemies did—”
“Gave up?” Prime Minister Rabin raised his voice. “I never give up!”
JFK’s eyes widened. “Has the big fish surfaced?”
“Not yet, but the truth was finally exposed.”
“By the police?
“No.”
“The secret service?”
“No.”
“The Mossad?”
Rabin shook his head. “Some writer in Maryland.”
“Damn!” JFK emptied his drink. “A Washington Post reporter?”
“A novelist. Got it right, the whole thing, every piece of the assassination puzzle fit in perfectly, every loose thread of the plot tied up neatly. Finally, I’m at peace.” Rabin patted his pockets. “Do they sell cigarettes here?”
* Avraham Azrieli is the author of “The Jerusalem Assassin,” a novel about the Rabin assassination. He writes novels and screenplays. www.AzrieliBooks.com
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