Mona

by Dan Sehlberg

  Further on, he saw a music store, and walked faster. Music attracts teenagers … teenagers know where there’s internet access. He went into the store, which was both cooler and darker than the footpath outside. I’m a cyberjunkie desperately hunting for a hit. If I don’t get on the net I’ll die. Ordinarily, the thought would have been funny, but now it felt all too close to the truth. He was soon back on the street, with an improvised map in his hand. The X didn’t stand for an internet café, but rather for a library that ‘might have internet.’

  It took him ten minutes to find the building, which turned out to be some sort of cultural centre. The building was shabby, with an ugly dark-brown façade full of cracks and chipped plaster. In the dirty windows were a number of signs giving times of exhibitions and concerts. The door was open, revealing a narrow staircase, and on the way in he met a group of women dressed in leotards and toe shoes. On the first floor, he found two locked doors with Hebrew signs on them. Someone, somewhere, was playing the piano — Chopin. He kept going, to the next floor. There were three doors, with symbols on two of them of a girl and a boy. Bathrooms. The third was a glass door with a simple, handwritten note taped to the glass in Hebrew. Maybe it said ‘Library’. He opened the thin door and entered a dim, stuffy room full of books that lay in great piles on the floor and filled all four walls. It smelled like paper and mould. There didn’t seem to be any sort of system for the books; it looked like they had been tossed randomly onto the floor or shoved onto the shelves. An older woman sat at a cluttered desk with her back to him. He cleared his throat, startling her. She turned around and studied him over the rims of her glasses. She was wearing a pale-grey shawl and a thick, beige cardigan.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  The question was so unexpected and the place so messy that he was unsure if he was in the right place. Had he just burst into her home?

  ‘I’m looking for the library.’

  The woman turned around and adjusted a green reading lamp. Her white hair was in a tight bun. A few strands had wriggled their way out and were hanging loosely down her neck and onto the old cardigan.

  ‘Most people who come here are looking for a specific book. A whole library is ambitious.’

  She spoke English with a strong accent. He remained standing near the door, still unsure if he was intruding.

  She went on. ‘So what are you looking for — a book or a library?’

  He cleared his throat.

  ‘Neither, really.’

  ‘Interesting. So what is it, then?’

  ‘An internet connection.’

  The words felt wrong. They were superficial and unintellectual. They were misplaced — like a McDonald’s sign at the Great Pyramid. He was an academic; he loved books. But right now he needed a computer. The woman stood up and walked over to one of the bookcases beside a small oval window. It was the only one in the room.

  ‘Can you read Yiddish?’

  ‘Unfortunately, I can’t.’

  She moved a few large books with worn red covers and took out a yellow book with black text. She looked at it for a moment and then went back to him. She was short; her glasses were fastened with a long, silver chain, and one of the earpieces had been repaired with red tape. She handed him the book.

  ‘You’re asking for a way out. That’s all very well and good, but this is a way in. Maybe it’s not as exciting, or even much of anything else. Judge for yourself.’

  He looked at the book. Laughter Beneath the Forest: poems from old and recent manuscripts by Abraham Sutzkever. The black-and-white illustration on the front cover depicted large trees bending in a strong wind. The woman nodded at the book.

  ‘It’s for you. As a memory. Memories are important, and nothing preserves them as well as a book. And anyway, it’s just a translation that doesn’t fit in here. I don’t even know how it got here — maybe some student left it behind. You’ll be doing me a favour if you take it with you.’

  The woman went back to her place at the desk. He took a deep breath.

  ‘Thank you. But I must insist upon help with the way out, too — the internet connection.’

  Without looking at him, she pointed sideways, toward a door that was ajar between the bookcases. He hadn’t seen the door at first in the dim light. He walked through the room carefully. Inside, there were more books — stacked in towers, tossed in great piles, or shoved into the bookshelves that covered the walls from floor to ceiling. Under a small, square window was a narrow table with a simple kitchen chair in flaking, green paint. On the table was an old PC. A black-and-white photograph of an old man hung on the wall, right above the computer.

  Eric put his bag on the floor, placed the yellow book beside the keyboard, and cautiously sat down on the rickety chair. The computer started with an ominous whine. After what felt like an eternity, the screen came to life, and the Windows symbol popped up. It was the old version, which meant that the operating system hadn’t been upgraded in many years. He opened the bag and dug out the flimsy napkins with the log-in information for Mona’s development environment. On them was the new username he had scribbled down in the hotel room. He entered the address with rising anxiety, made worse by the computer doing nothing for a long time before it loaded. Then, once again, he was sitting eye-to-eye with the Mona virus. He changed position in the chair and called up the chat. He held his breath and stared at the computer as though hypnotised. The screen went black, and was filled with white text. He was back. But would Salah ad-Din still be there? Would he trust him after the attacks had been revealed? Had he seen through his lies?

  He scrolled through the hundreds of entries, page after page of symbols and characters he couldn’t read. Then he realised that his own conversation with Salah ad-Din was gone. Salah ad-Din must have deleted it. But why? Did he want to keep their contact secret? Hadn’t he told the others on the team about him? He sat still for a long time, pondering what could have happened. The Mossad had gotten in, too, and read the chat. Were they the ones who had deleted the conversation? Could they even do that? No, that would be idiotic. It could only have been Salah ad-Din himself. He wrote a short message:

  SALAH AD-DIN, IF YOU ARE INTERESTED MY KNOWLEDGE IS STILL AT YOUR DISPOSAL.

  :ES

  Now all he could do was wait, knowing that the chance of him receiving an answer was negligible. Last time it had taken several hours for Salah ad-Din to answer. Was it a mistake to put up another entry after the old ones had been removed? What choice did he have? His message floated in the midst of the Arabic script like a white fishing float in a black sea. He leaned back on the creaky chair and caught sight once again of the yellow book: Laughter Beneath the Forest by Abraham Sutzkever. He opened it.

  The sun returns to my dark countenance

  and belief grasps my arm strong and firm

  if a worm does not surrender when cut in two,

  are you then less than a worm?

  He tried to grasp the meaning of the poem. Are you then less than a worm?

  ‘When Abraham Sutzkever was digging a ditch as a prisoner, he happened to cut a worm in half with his shovel. He was fascinated that a living organism could become two by way of violence. Instead of dying, it became twice as alive.’

  The old woman was standing in the doorway. In her hand, she held two large cups of tea. He smiled.

  ‘Why was he imprisoned?’

  She studied him before she spoke, as though she were evaluating whether he was truly interested.

  ‘Fate saw to it that Abraham Sutzkever, who had been a soul full of joie de vivre from the start, ended up as the voice of sorrow, but also that of hope and freedom. He saw the suffering in the ghetto in Vilnius and all the death in Ponar.’

  ‘What happened in Ponar?’

  ‘The same thing that happened everywhere else. One of the most vibrant J
ewish cultures was decimated in two years. Vilnius was the Jerusalem of the Baltic, and maybe even all of Europe. For many years, it was one of the most important centres of Jewish culture — a great deal of literature in Hebrew and Yiddish was created there. Zionism was born there, as well as the Jewish labour movement.’

  ‘And Abraham Sutzkever was there? In Ponar?’

  ‘Yes and no. He was there in his heart and soul, but never physically. He was close, though, in the Vilna ghetto. He met the thousands who were taken away, and he spoke with the few who returned.’

  She entered the room. He stood up and pointed at the chair.

  ‘Please sit.’

  She nodded and sat down with difficulty. Then she handed him one of the cups of steaming herbal tea.

  ‘I’m afraid my body is starting to betray me.’ He took the cup, and cautiously sipped at the tea so he wouldn’t burn himself.

  ‘But you work?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I have to. It’s all I have. And it’s my promise.’

  ‘Your promise? To whom?’

  ‘To myself. And to him.’ She nodded at the photograph above the computer. Eric studied the picture: it portrayed a serious man with a sparse moustache and sad eyes. He sat down on a pile of books alongside the computer, and carefully placed the cup beside the keyboard.

  ‘Abraham Sutzkever? So you knew him?’

  ‘The Vilnius ghetto was dreadful. But it was also brave, productive, and alive. Culture didn’t die when it was imprisoned — it just changed shape. Poetry had a particularly important role during our oppression. Abraham Sutzkever’s readings were packed. I didn’t miss a single one.’

  ‘How old were you?’

  ‘Fourteen. I fell in love straightaway — with his writing, his thoughts, his voice.’

  ‘Your first love?’

  ‘I think it’s hard to understand. We lived in a black-and-white world, and here came this splash of colour. It was as though God had placed him with us for comfort, as proof that He was still with us. For me, he became a symbol of everything that was alive — everything beautiful.’

  The books were about to topple under Eric’s weight, and he had to change position. He threw a glance at the computer screen. There were no new entries.

  ‘And your promise?’

  ‘Abraham Sutzkever was a member of the paper brigade, a group of scholars who risked their lives to smuggle out hundreds, even thousands, of rare, unique books and manuscripts. I helped him collect donations from families in the area. For many people, these books were the nicest things they owned, and being separated from them was a great sacrifice. But with Abraham Sutzkever’s name as a guarantee, most of them agreed to donate what they had anyway. The last time we saw each other, he came to my father’s shoemaker shop. He said he’d had a vision, a feeling.’

  She smiled faintly.

  ‘ “You will live”. That’s what he said. He had caught a glimpse of the future, and I was going to survive. He asked me to take the treasures to the Holy Land, to guard and care for them. We moved in here in 1972.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘The books and I.’

  Eric swept his eyes over the hundreds of books.

  ‘And you’ve been guarding the treasure ever since?’

  ‘Every day, seven days a week, all year round. My family was left behind in the mud outside Vilna. This is my family now.’

  The room was really too small for the conference table. Or perhaps it was the other way around. If you wanted to sit on one of the eight wooden chairs, you had to squeeze between the table and the wall. On the table was a plate of biscuits, a thermos, and a cone of white paper cups. A whiteboard covered one wall. On the other walls were framed pictures of El Al planes. Paul Clinton was stuck in his chair, and couldn’t lean back in it as he normally did. He had already had time to drink two mugs of coffee and eat three biscuits. He regretted the last one. On the other hand, he lost his focus and became irritated when his blood sugar levels went down. He heard steps and then the door opened. Rachel Papo stepped in, along with a young woman in a dark-grey suit. She nodded at him and then looked at the woman.

  ‘This is Natalie Goldman. She is responsible for security at the airport.’

  Rachel pulled out a chair and slid smoothly into it as though it were the most natural thing in the world. He immediately felt fatter. The woman in the suit was still standing at the short end of the table. She looked shaken. Rachel filled a mug with coffee from the thermos. Then she looked at the woman.

  ‘Okay, Natalie. Please begin.’

  ‘First and foremost. I would like to point out that we have been having major problems all day, because of the computer virus. A number of systems are affected, and it’s quite chaotic in the terminals. I’m not trying to make excuses, but it might have impacted on the situation.’ She gave them a pleading look. When no one answered, she quickly continued.

  ‘Eric Söderqvist took the guards at security by surprise, and left the terminal via emergency exit sixty-seven. This exit is meant to be locked at all times, but for some reason it was open. We’re investigating how this could have happened. The exit leads to the tarmac on the south-western side of the terminal. There, Söderqvist managed to steal a motorcycle. He drove 950 metres to the north-western exit at Neve Monosson.’

  She looked down at the table, apparently gathering strength. ‘There he left the airport via security checkpoint A12. Although the checkpoint was manned, none of the guards managed to stop him. This in itself is inconceivable. Two traffic cameras captured him; one on the 412 at Hal Tamar, and one on the entrance ramp to Highway 1 at Shapirim.’

  Paul met Rachel’s gaze before he asked with concern, ‘Going in which direction?’

  ‘Toward Tel Aviv.’

  ‘Have you informed the police?’

  ‘The police have put out a description to see if he can be traced by camera. Their systems have been infected as well. There’s a certain amount of confusion regarding the downtown cameras, but hopefully they’ll find him.’

  Rachel sipped her coffee and asked, without looking up, ‘But no concrete clues?’

  Natalie gave a resigned shake of her head. After a moment of silence, she added, ‘It shouldn’t be possible. It’s like … Normally … I mean, we have procedures that …’

  Rachel interrupted her.

  ‘Thanks, Natalie. We understand. You must give us a formal report. Do it as quickly as possible before you forget the details. You know where to go?’

  The woman nodded and left them. Rachel leaned across the table and pulled the door shut after her. Paul took a biscuit from the plate and chewed it in silence. Then he turned to her.

  ‘The signal?’

  ‘It’s strong. He’s sitting on Herzl Street in what seems to be a small cultural centre. We can’t get altitude, so we don’t know what floor it’s on. There’s a small library in the building that has internet access.’

  Paul smiled.

  ‘Smart boy. Then all we can do is wait and hope he gets an answer.’

  She nodded.

  ‘What actually happened at the security line?’

  ‘Michael injured a finger. A sprain, I think. But otherwise it went well. We ran after him onto the tarmac, but when we saw him taking off on the motorcycle there was no point.’

  ‘Michael didn’t suspect anything?’

  ‘No. But I feel a little bit guilty. He’s a good guy. It wouldn’t be dangerous to let him in on it, but to be on the safe side … Like everyone else, he’s convinced that we lost him.’

  Rachel studied the mug of coffee in her hand.

  ‘How long will we give him to make contact?’

  Paul answered quickly, ‘A day at the most. The problem is really the local police, right? Sooner or later, they’ll find him. He’s not an experien
ced criminal who knows how to stay out of sight. Moving around in Tel Aviv is a big risk.’

  ‘So it is. But we had to do it this way. The police leak like a sieve, and now we can take advantage of that. I don’t know what kind of resources Samir Mustaf’s group has, but if they have contacts on the street they’ll soon hear that Eric Söderqvist is on the run. That will make the story credible, and his situation more urgent. We’ll just have to hope that he’s interesting enough for them to help him.’

  Paul took another biscuit. Fuck his spare tire — he was restless.

  ‘What do you think about the letter from Hezbollah?’

  Rachel shrugged.

  ‘I’m just a low-paid government employee. I don’t hear much of what gets said in the fancy rooms. But there wasn’t any news in the letter, was there? We knew that Hezbollah was behind the virus and the attacks.’

  ‘And the demands for the anti-virus?’

  ‘Unacceptable. Ben Shavit will never go along with them. He doesn’t negotiate with terrorists.’ Paul gave a faint smile.

  ‘That’s not what I heard. Nothing official, but if it’s true, he’s about to give up. The whole world has been dragged along into this crisis, and the prime minister is under enormous pressure.’

  ‘All I know is that he’s tough. He can withstand a great deal.’

  Paul thought about Eric Söderqvist.

  ‘That guy is going to be important. The question is whether he himself understands how valuable he is. How good is the transmitter?’

  ‘The transmitters. There are three of them. He has one in his arm, one in his phone, and one in the fabric of his pants.’