Just People

by Paul Usiskin

  Dov continued, ‘Yes, it says so on their gravestones. I know, I know, murder isn’t exactly what you wanted to hear, but if it helps you can say that the suspect is a naturalized Israeli citizen.’

  ‘That could prove a little...ah...involved.’

  ‘And that’s what you do, un-involve stuff, so in the meantime ask for a police vehicle to pick me up?’

  ‘I’ll see…what I can...’

  ‘Ami, you have the Latvian Premier’s representative with you. Use your initiative.’

  He ended the call and walked back to the fence, went over it and began walking back, up to Varonu Street. It was easier walking in his original footprints. Now there were distant domestic sounds from nearby houses, but no traffic and no people out and about. Amongst the trees where the German graves were, he could see a small white building with a spire, a chapel he presumed. There was movement in front of it.

  A red fox came brazenly out of the trees up to the road, stopped and sat up watching him. It was a handsome creature, thick white fur down its chest, identical to the stuffed one in the hotel. It reminded him of the fox he’d had a mysterious exchange with all those years ago in the Galilee near Lana’s village, when his faithful VW Beetle had broken down and he’d been stranded.

  This one was waiting, waiting for him to leave. This was his territory, dead Jews are of no consequence and neither are you, those eyes told him, narrowing briefly as Dov shifted his feet. As in the Galilee, Dov had a gun with him, but he wasn’t as unnerved as then, so he didn’t bother with it. He turned away ignoring the animal, reflecting on where he was and what it signified.

  How was Hareven able to get so far? The land of Israel was so small, surely he couldn’t hide what kind of a man he was. That he’d climbed so high and been so successful meant only that Israel was just another nation amongst the dysfunctional family of nations. From this little Jewish cemetery far away in the snow, Israel looked forlorn, always uncertain of its future, making much more noise for its size, full of paradoxes all spinning and wobbling and threatening to crash into each other and take the whole clamoring edifice down. But they never did. Something kept them spinning. The secret was survival against all odds.

  Dov looked for himself in it and saw a man dismayed. Dov knew who he was. Or thought he did. He’d had a vocation when he’d started in the police force. Whatever he had now wasn’t that.

  He knew his people and their history, but these last few weeks had shown him he knew very little about his own past. He thought he’d known his grandfather and his father. But there were things that had been revealed to him for the first time about them, so he promised himself that when this was over he would find out more. ‘Not knowing your past means you have no future,’ he’d heard someone say.

  His cell went. He looked at the screen. It said ‘Unknown Caller.’ He pressed the button.

  ‘Aba?’

  ‘Yakub? Yakub where are you? Are you...’

  ‘If you want him, come home,’ said a woman’s voice. Then it was gone.

  He called Amos. ‘Yakub just called me on an Unknown Caller. They must know where I am. Can you trace it.’

  ‘I’ll see what we can do Dov. You OK?’

  There was the sound of a vehicle approaching, why he’d imagined a jeep he couldn’t say and anyway it wasn’t one. ‘Yeah, yeah. Call me back when you get a trace.’ He made it to the intersection on Varonu in time to see a smart new hi-ride minivan, white with a wide blue stripe down its hood and a police light array on its roof. The driver was an expert in these conditions and though the minivan was traveling faster than the road conditions allowed, it only slid twice when its snow tires lost traction on the hidden ice and he corrected it. Its blue lights were flashing and inside with the driver was another larger policeman.

  Dov checked his cell. His call logs, the one with Ami Wolf had ended only eight minutes before. This was unexpected efficiency.

  His cell went again. Aviel said, ‘We think Yakub’s somewhere in the Maoz Yam hotel. We’re doing more to confirm that. Call you as soon as.’ Dov said, ‘OK.’

  He stood on the corner. Could Yakub be safe after all? He waved at the van, an Opel, from its radiator emblem. It slid to a halt and both officers exited.

  He smiled some more and gave a thumbs up, not knowing the Latvian for, ‘Thanks for being so quick.’ The only word he understood in their reply was Zhid, as they forced him against the side of the minivan, handcuffed him and searched him and took his cell, wallet, passport and ID. And found the gun.

  The larger officer made a tut-tutting sound. The driver held the Jericho up between two fingers of one hand, and waved an admonishing finger in Dov’s face with the other. His colleague punched him under his jaw.

  He came to, bumping about in the rear of the minivan, a bag of some rough material over his head, still hand cuffed. Breathing was difficult. The side of his face thrummed and he guessed he’d been hit with a loaded glove, maybe lead stitched into the knuckles. The guy had planned the punch which began below Dov’s line of sight. He’d stood just far enough away for his fist to have the desired swing force to snap Dov’s head up and back, making his brain bounce violently against his skull lining, causing a blackout.

  Dov wondered how often the leaded glove had been used before, and how many more traumas his head could take. This one left him dizzy, but he could still think, and what he thought was where the fuck are they taking me?

  Hareven’s reach was long. How would he know that Dov was here? Hacked comms again? Shimon was still in a coma so he couldn’t help. Shimon couldn’t help? How the fuck would that work, the little voice carped. Your cell’s gone and you’re bundled up in a minivan headed who the fuck knows where. Ami Wolf had said the Volvo had been swept for bugs, but there was always a better bug, a better sweep deflector; our hotel rooms could have been under surveillance. Estonia had been part of the massive Soviet police state for nearly fifty years.

  OK, you are where you are, and next? Would he be taken off somewhere into a deep dank forest, shot in the head and buried?

  ‘No, sorry, when we went to pick him up, he wasn’t there. No, no tracks in the snow, a fresh fall as we left the station would have covered them by the time we got to the crossroads. No one saw him, we asked around. It was too early for most people to be out, and the weather, well, it was a stay-in-the-house day,’ the good driver or his colleague would say when reporting back.

  The vehicle stopped, the rear doors opened and Dov was pulled out and the changes in sound told him he was being taken across deep snow and then into a room. There was a strong scent of pine. He was pushed down onto a chair. When the bag was removed from his head he was grateful, breathing unrestricted.

  They pulled off his boots and found his IDF ID tags clipped into slits in his boot tops and removed them. They were there for body identitfication. His hands and feet were cuffed to the chair. The guy with the loaded glove bit into each tag as if testing for gold in a coin, then cut them in half with metal shears from a trolley full of other implements. He peered closely at each half, then threw them over his shoulder and punched Dov in the face, on the other side, the weight of the loaded glove rocking Dov sideways. He tasted blood in his mouth and shook his head to clear it, spitting out a tooth, no three teeth, and he was punched again.

  ‘Gdye Hareven?’ the driver roared, and repeated it.

  Gdye meant where? They wanted to know where Barry Hareven was? They took turns to punch him so that he was shaking, his head reeling, and unconsciousness beckoned while his subconscious told him it couldn’t guarantee him a safe and permanent haven and the punches and yelling continued until they got bored.

  They’d left his eyes alone. Not a good sign. They didn’t care if he saw them and this journey to this place, wherever the fuck it was, had no return ticket. So, no tooth implants then. Pity. Israeli dentists had mastered that.

  They�
�d called him Zhid, Jew. The Valka commander had sent them to make an example of a Zhid sticking his nose where it didn’t belong.

  Possibly, except the Latvian Prime Minister’s representative was in Valka, because it had promised to the Man.

  Wait. Zhid, nasty Russian for Jew? Was the Latvian word the same? He didn’t know, but he felt the chill suddenly, and amused himself, pretending the words were frozen in the air as soon as they were spoken, so he could pluck them down, fry them to thaw them, and then hear them again. His infallible instinct told him him Latvian would for sure have another word for Jew. So, why would Latvian policemen be speaking Russian?

  How many Russians had Wolf said were Latvians, twenty-five or twenty-six percent? Memory’s functioning then. So what? So no answer to why.

  He opened his eyes. Something in his face screamed with pain, maybe a fractured jaw from that first face punch, or his cheekbone from the rest of the punches. His tongue probed the gaps where teeth were gone. Then his lips said hey don’t forget us, we’re split.

  None of this computed. People who need people; the Latvians wanted Hareven and Hareven wanted Dov. How can I get them to speak to each other?

  A new voice laughed heartily. ‘Hullo Zhid,’ it said in English. ‘Vot yo vant in cemetery? Is only dead Zhidy. Good place for all Zhidy. In our country, no many Zhidy today. Vy yo make me balagan?’

  Dov’s head tilted up at the familiar word in Hebrew for chaos or mess. Maybe it wasn’t originally Hebrew.

  ‘Da, da balagan. Yo know balagan? I make yo balagan if yo not tell vot I vant?’

  It was all Sara’s fault, aka Sophia Gulkowitsch, who’d brought him here to tell him who Baruch Hareven really was.

  ‘I am Oto Vitols,’ the laughing voice said as he gripped Dov’s face between fat fingers, and twisted it up to see him.

  Pain. Pain so excruciating calling it pain was inaccurate. When Vitols took his hand away the searing sensation where his fingers had squeezed didn’t end. Vitols looked at those fingers with Dov’s blood on them as if surprised the blood was blood just like anyone else’s. ‘If you prick us...’ Dov remembered. He wiped them on Dov’s scarf, then pulled it away and pocketed it.

  ‘Mama of me from Valka, Papa of me from Valga. They are come from Rudina, homeland, Rossiya. Ve no like Zhidy.’

  He was a large man, standing erect, filling out his blue police bomber-jacket with its black furry collar, gold rank studs on his epaulette loops. He had lank black hair, combed straight back off his high forehead. His long jowly face featured a stubby veined nose above a nicotine stained mustache, puffy cheeks; veined nose suggested a high daily alcohol intake.

  If he smelled of either, Dov couldn’t tell, his nose was too swollen.

  ‘Kharoshay Zhid, good Zhid, maybe soon dead Zhid, Arajs Kommando make dead many Zhidy, many, many,’ he said chuckling, patting Dov’s face, knowing that he was exacerbating the pain. It reverberated through Dov, causing him to shake his head rhythmically. That made Oto angry.

  ‘No? Yo say no? I am kapteinis Oto Vitols, I am chief police Valka. I like avto-pistol,’ he held a black automatic handgun in front of Dov’s eyes. ‘In Yenglish owtomatik, da?’ he said as if it was obvious and eventually Dov got it.

  ‘So, I am Oto Pistole Vitols,’ he laughed again. ‘Oto Pistole? In Rossiya is Avto-pistol. Me Oto Pistole, Oto Pistole, avto-pistol, yes? Funny, no?’

  Auto-pistol Vitols. Sure, hilarious, but only when I laugh, and I can’t do that just now, sorry.

  Oto Pistole pushed the barrel tip under Dov’s chin. The pain made him shiver violently.

  He knew the gun. It was an ugly Russian Gyurza, viper, blunt-nosed; a variant was standard issue to the FSB the Federal Security Service that had succeeded the KGB. A few were found amongst an intercepted weapons consignment bound for Gaza a couple of years back. Another detail he recalled: Its bullet could pierce Kevlar body-armor and in an unprotected body it created a wide wound track.

  ‘I make deal, Zhid, OK? I tell about Gulkowitsch Buris, about words on death stone? Yo tell about vere is Hareven Barry. Good deal?’

  Again the fingers squeezed Dov’s face and forced him to nod in agreement. The two policemen laughed out loud.

  Dov passed out.

  He came to with liquid splashing and stinging his eyes and burning his lips. Vodka. Taste buds still functioning.

  ‘Drink Zhid, give yo varm,’ Vitols promised, and forced Dov’s lips open and poured vodka into his mouth. Primitive way of reviving him and loosening his tumid tongue.

  ‘Hareven Barry he is Gulkowitsch Buris,’ Vitols said and recited, ‘born Valga one nine six three. Has sestra, Sophia, she also born Valga, one nine six five. Mama i Papa Gulkowitsch, go from home,’ he blew on his fingers and opened them dramatically, ‘no one is know vere, in one nine eight one, Fevral, very cold, like now. Skelets in lake, here, found in spring. Buris go.’ Again the blown fingers. ‘Sophia no, she is stay here, but she has malchik after Buris go.’ Vitols motioned one finger going in and out of a circle of thumb and forefinger finger for the crude fuck action, then miming cradling a baby. His men sniggered. One thunderous look from Vitols stopped them.

  ‘She try to kill malchik, and she, but she and malchik in crazy house. Buris Papa of malchik. Malchik dead.’ Oto drew his finger across his throat.

  A baby? Sophia had had a baby? Sophia had been made pregnant by her brother, and she’d tried to kill herself after killing the child, then they were both put into a mental home because her brother had murdered their parents and made her, his sister, pregnant. God, poor, poor Sophia.

  ‘Gulkowitsch Buris, Hareven Barry, is same,’ Oto repeated, and peered at Dov to see if he understood. Dov prayed Oto wouldn’t grab his face again. ‘Hareven Barry vere?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ Dov managed through his aching mouth. How to explain to this vicious braying animal that he didn’t know?

  Vitols asked again, ‘Hareven Barry vere?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘OK, OK. Posmertnyi of Gulkowitsch Mama i Papa tell how they mirt. Yo tell vere Hareven Barry now. If no, me make yo also skelets.’

  Posmertnyi? Post-mortem? Skelets? Skeletons? Vitols was under pressure to get Dov to reveal where Hareven was. Tell him Hareven was on board his the Eliyon on the Israeli Mediterranean coast? What would that get him?

  A whining mechanical noise penetrated whatever there was of Dov’s consciousness.

  He tried to group together the little and not so little clues on his mental white board from what Vitols had said.

  Rudina, Vitols pronounced it, motherland. The wings of the Russian motherland, once spread Empire-wide, had been clipped by Perestroika. But Russia still saw itself a world power. So when the Ukraine wasn’t paying its dues for Russian gas, Russia cut off supplies, knowing full well that more than a dozen Western European states would also suffer. Russia stuck two thick fingers up at everyone, as befits a world power.

  He finally recognized the noise, chain saw. Its motor revved up, settled into its two stroke farting and then revved into a whine again as it began cutting.

  The whine accompanied Dov as he continued analyzing. Along comes this Zhid, Hareven Barry, and bribes Bashar al-Assad into consenting to a Stonemount gas pipeline spur. Russia protects Assad, insisting there was no alternative to him; that he was butchering his own citizens was irrelevant. If they could take Hareven out, they’d stop the Zhid pipeline nonsense, limit the export of Israeli oil and gas, and teach Assad not to stray. The mangy old Russian bear doing war through business. Which is where Hareven had learned it too.

  Oto was Moscow’s man, born of Russian parents, with a heart that beat to the rhythms of the motherland’s anthem, glorious motherland-Russia. And Moscow must have known about Dov’s quest for Hareven, so Dov must know where the tycoon was. Macro to micro, from Moscow to Valka. Q.E.D.

  The saw had stopped cu
tting and was farting again.

  The thing of it was that Oto had no alternative if Dov didn’t tell him what he wanted, and though Moscow could often be heavy handed, the Russians weren’t stupid. They must have a fallback, another way of finding Hareven. Why leave it to a lowly local police commander, however loyal, to beat it out of him? If Dov was their sole source they’d have sent an FSB team in from Moscow to interrogate him. But they hadn’t. Which meant that the risk was unqualified. If Dov didn’t tell, Oto would dispose of him. So let Oto try, in case he could save Moscow time and effort. Very Russian. Crude but potentially effective. Like the vodka. As the alcohol coursed through his blood stream, he could feel a warm fuzz creeping through his brain.

  The whine of the saw resumed.

  Oto forced more vodka into Dov’s mouth and when he started gagging he said, ‘Come Zhid.’

  He was uncuffed from the chair and dragged outside. Snow was falling heavily, huge flakes, no wind behind them. He loved to watch them and would have been enthralled by their gentle descent. Not now. Oto’s men didn’t bother with the bag over his head or boots on his feet, and once more he was bizarrely immune to the deep freeze effect of snow and ice, watching at the tracks his feet made like they weren’t his feet. Maybe the pain of exposure to the subzero temperature to his damaged face overrode any other. Maybe he hadn’t had enough vodka and started to yearn for more. I could ask Oto. His little voice was silent. Fuck you! Where are you when I need you?

  He saw two holes in the ice roughly ten meters apart, and some still active part of his brain flashed an update: The holes have been cut by the saw. D’oh. The van driver was feeding a rope with a yellow buoy into one of them and pushing it under the ice with a boat hook. He and his comrade must have known the direction of the lake’s current, because the policeman with the loaded glove waited for the buoy to appear at the second hole and pulled it up onto the ice with another boat hook, untied the buoy and walked back over to his comrade holding the wet rope.