The Collaborator

by Diane Armstrong

  ‘After I got off the ship with the wounded men, the captain managed to get the ship to Tel Aviv but here’s something you won’t believe. In the morning, the commander, who later became our prime minister, shelled the Altalena even though the captain had hoisted a white flag on the bridge. But when a fire broke out on board, knowing how flammable the cargo was, he ordered everyone to abandon ship.

  ‘Our commander, Menachem Begin, was the last to leave. I read a report by the captain a few years later saying that Begin had refused to leave and that he’d had to physically throw him overboard, but I think that might have been an exaggeration.’

  Annika is breathless, enthralled by Shula’s vivid recollection. She can practically see the events unfolding as she speaks.

  ‘I’ll never forget standing on the shore, watching men jumping off the ship and swimming to shore while the firing continued. Suddenly flames leaped up from the Altalena and a few seconds later, we heard a series of explosions and the ship blew up and sank, leaving thick black smoke hanging over the sea. I just stood there, tears pouring down my face, not just for the men, the ship and its precious cargo, but for all of us.

  ‘All my illusions about Jewish solidarity and Israeli ideals sank with the Altalena. How could Jews fire on fellow-Jews, especially after all that happened during the Holocaust?’

  Shula stops talking and stares into the distance, and her eyes swell with tears.

  Annika is shaking her head. ‘Why did they do that? It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Ben-Gurion and his cronies were paranoid. They were afraid that with those weapons Irgun would have too much power, so he chose to destroy our ship and blow it up, together with all the arms and ammunition, rather than risk a threat to his government.’

  Annika sighs. ‘That’s terrible. What a traumatic experience. And you were so young.’

  Shula is smiling. ‘Well, one good thing came out of it. Because of this tragedy, I met the man I married.’

  Annika sits forward, eager to hear a love story with a happy ending.

  ‘I was sitting on the sand still in my white nurse’s apron, crying my eyes out, when this guy came over and asked if I knew his brother. That was the man I tried to save when he bled to death on board the Altalena.’

  ‘Are you still married?’

  Shula shakes her head. ‘We divorced a long time ago. After the shelling of the Altalena, we were all bitter and angry, but my husband became so obsessed with the incident and his brother’s death that he couldn’t talk about anything else. It was eating him up, and poisoning our life together. And when he took on that case, he was like a man possessed. That’s when I knew I couldn’t spend the rest of my life with him. He won the court case but he lost me.’

  ‘The court case?’

  ‘It happened a very long time ago. Amos took on the libel suit against the guy who accused Miklós Nagy of collaboration.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Tel Aviv, 2005

  Back at the hotel that evening, Annika stands on her balcony and looks forlornly at the beach. The sun has begun to set, and the fiery brilliance of its rays casts a blood-red glow over the sand. A moment later it drops behind the sea and the beach is plunged into darkness. Inside the room, she flops down on the armchair, flicks through a magazine, then gets up again. She is unsettled by Shula’s story of betrayal, but most of all she is shocked by her statement that Miklós Nagy was accused of collaboration. How could that be possible? That a man who saved so many people could have been called a collaborator seemed improbable. It was absurd. She is so deep in thought that she starts when her phone rings. It’s Jansci.

  ‘Annika. I miss you. Tell me about Israel. Did you find something about Nagy Miklós?’

  For a few moments, the affection in his voice, and the seductive way he says her name, reels her back into the warmth of their last day together, but when she tries to sum up her time in Tel Aviv, Budapest seems very far away, and the distance between them can no longer be measured in kilometres.

  ‘All I know so far is that in some way he was responsible for the fall of the government here. The incredible thing is that some people even regarded him as a collaborator. Anyway I’m going to read a document that might clarify that. If I find anything interesting, I’ll let you know.’

  ‘I’m sure you will,’ he says. ‘You are good journalist but hit and run woman.’

  She is still smiling as she hangs up and flops into an armchair. It’s time to figure out how much longer she will stay in Israel. Shula’s story has aroused her interest in Amos Alon and she plans to return to the Law Library when it reopens on Sunday to read the file, but after that, there is nothing to keep her here, and that realisation unsettles her. The goal she has been seeking has eluded her. Something is missing, something doesn’t feel complete, but she is at a loss to know what it is.

  It’s going to be a long evening, and she doesn’t want to spend it alone. She thinks about going for an espresso and some light-hearted banter at Ari’s café, but on the spur of the moment, she decides to call Dov instead. Even though he often challenges her, she feels drawn to him. As she dials his number, she hopes he has time for a quick drink.

  An hour later, she is sitting in the hotel bar, sipping a Yarden chardonnay and repeatedly glancing at her watch because Dov is late. Typical journo. No sense of time. It occurs to her that she has no idea whether he is single or married, or in a relationship with a man or a woman, but if she disturbed some domestic arrangement when she called him, he didn’t mention it. In fact, now that she thinks about it, he sounded eager to join her.

  The bar is brightly lit, and bottles of brandy, whisky and multicoloured liqueurs are displayed on shelves behind the marble counter. It is crowded with guests from many nations, and in the conversations all around her, she can make out French, German, Russian and Hungarian.

  At the counter, a red-faced English guy keeps insisting in a slurred voice that he only wants the double malt whisky that he drank in Tobermory, and the exasperated bartender throws up his hands and asks if he is expected to fly to Scotland to get it for him. The English tourist pulls back his fist and it looks as if a fight will ensue before his two companions drag him away.

  Annika has just ordered another white wine when she sees Dov’s curly salt-and-pepper hair above the crowd. She had forgotten how tall he is. As soon as he drops into the chair facing her, he orders a Campari and soda. ‘In a short glass, with a twist of orange,’ he tells the waiter.

  ‘You’re obviously a man who knows what he wants,’ she says, and knows she sounds provocative.

  He studies her and hesitates, but if he meant to respond to her flirtatious comment he changes his mind, and after a moment he says, ‘Sorry I’m late, I had to interview some politicians about a corruption scandal.’

  The waiter brings his Campari, and he takes a few sips before asking, ‘What did you think of Shula Stein?’

  ‘Amazing woman. I really liked her. What a story. How do you know her?’

  ‘We interviewed her a few years ago, on the fiftieth anniversary of the Altalena incident.’ He chuckles. ‘You should have seen the mountains of hate mail we got after we ran that story. Someone even sent me a piece of dogshit in an envelope. You’d think we were glorifying Hitler, even though we tried to balance her story with an interview with one of the IDF soldiers who fired on the ship.’

  Annika thinks back to Shula’s emotional account of the incident and her tear-stained face. ‘That was shocking,’ she says. ‘Why did they fire on their own people and destroy that ship? After all, those Irgun people were bringing weapons for the Israeli soldiers, weren’t they?’

  Dov lets out a long sigh. ‘We could be here for days discussing this and still not come to any conclusion, like hundreds of thousands of people before us. This is a tiny country with huge issues, and this one is bigger, more complex, and more contentious than most. If you’re an Israeli, how you look at it depends on your political affiliation, whether you are Zion
ist, socialist, communist, capitalist or anarchist, left-wing pacifist, right-wing chauvinist, atheist or ultra-orthodox.’

  ‘And if you’re a moderate outsider like me who just wants the facts?’

  He shrugs. ‘Have you heard Pontius Pilate’s response when he was asked for the truth? He washed his hands of it, and he was right. By the time you hear both versions of the facts, you will end up completely confused and feel like tearing your hair out trying to figure out who’s right and who’s wrong. But okay, here we go. You’ve heard Shula’s side of things, so in the interests of fair play, I’ll be the devil’s advocate and give you the other version.’

  He drains his Campari and orders another one. ‘Another glass of wine?’ he asks.

  ‘From what you just said, I think I’d better keep a clear head.’

  ‘You have to understand that this was a new nation, barely a month old, in fact, and it was already fighting for its survival…’

  ‘But isn’t that exactly why it needed the weapons?’

  This time when he holds his hand up, she looks at it attentively, and is pleased that there’s no wedding ring.

  ‘Wait, it’s not so simple. I’ll try to explain. The new nation had a new prime minister, Ben-Gurion, who was the head of the new government of Israel. His army, the Israel Defence Force, was formed from the Haganah, the paramilitary organisation formed during the British Mandate. Are you with me so far?’

  Annika nods. ‘I think so.’

  ‘So we have a new government and a new prime minister, and a national army, the Israel Defence Force, fighting the combined Arab armies of several neighbouring countries that have attacked Israel as soon as it declared its independence. Fighting alongside the IDF at this point is a splinter group, Irgun. Now, as you probably know from Shula, the methods of this group are very different from the methods of Haganah. Before independence, Irgun was a violent underground militia whose activities were denounced by the moderates. But they joined forces with the national army, the IDF, to fight their common enemy. So far so good, right?’

  He glances at her to make sure she is following.

  ‘But here’s where things start going pear-shaped. The United Nations in its wisdom hasn’t included Jerusalem in the map of the new nation, and Jerusalem is besieged by Arab armies. It’s being defended by Irgun fighters who are desperate to save it, and are desperately short of weapons and ammunition. So their leader, an individual called Menachem Begin, organises the purchase of a ship in France, loads it up with all sorts of weapons and ammunition, fills it with about a thousand young Holocaust survivors keen to fight for the new Jewish state, and heads for Israel.

  ‘Now here comes the controversial part. Watching this with worried eyes is the new prime minister, Ben-Gurion. He can see trouble brewing. For himself, for his government, for Israel’s army and for the country’s future. For one thing, a truce has just been announced, so bringing in weapons will be a violation. Not only that, if he allows this ship to land with its cargo, it will arm the Irgun and that will threaten his government, his position, and form another army. Can any nation countenance the existence of two rival armed forces?

  ‘He is convinced that Irgun will start a mutiny against the government and he regards the Altalena as an attempt to kill the new state. I’ve read a report where he said that the moment our army and our state surrender to another armed force, we are finished. He foresees that if Irgun keep the weapons, Israel will become an unstable country of rival militias, like some of our neighbours are today. Whatever happens, no matter what the cost, he cannot permit this vessel to land and arm his rival and destabilise the new nation. So, with a heavy heart, he makes the most difficult decision of his life, one that will split families and will see him vilified to this day by those who opposed his action.’

  There’s a crash behind them and they turn to see what has happened. One of the English guys has fallen off his stool, erupting in a blast of four-letter words, then riotous laughter. Dov waits until things calm down. ‘Well? Now you know both sides. Who was right?’

  ‘What do you think?’ she asks.

  ‘You’re avoiding my question. It’s not so clear-cut now, is it? Personally, I think it was the wrong decision, but I can understand why he took it. In the end, it not only split families and friends, it split the entire country and left many people bitter and disillusioned with politics and politicians. I suppose it showed that we’re like other countries with our share of power-hungry politicians and cynical voters. You could even say that the ghost of the Altalena still haunts Israel to this day.’

  He leans forward and is looking at Annika so intently she feels the blood rushing to her cheeks and almost loses the thread of the conversation. ‘What makes you say that?’ she asks.

  ‘In a way it was responsible for the case that Amos Alon took on, which ended in disaster for the government, and tragedy for Miklós Nagy. And even now — have you heard that Ariel Sharon, our present prime minister, has removed Jewish settlers forcibly from Gaza and left it to the Palestinians? Well, both his supporters and his opponents have used the Altalena incident to either justify or condemn what he did. That’s the impact Ben-Gurion’s decision has had. But if he hadn’t prevailed, Israel might have splintered into ungovernable militias and descended into civil war.’

  ‘He and Begin must have hated each other’s guts,’ Annika says.

  Dov smiles. ‘You’d think so, but Begin eventually gave his support to Ben-Gurion, and later he himself became our prime minister. So now you’ve heard the simplified version of this complex and controversial issue.’

  He is still looking at her, and she feels confused, wondering if she is misreading his gaze. He checks his watch, wipes his mouth, places his empty glass on the table, and asks the waitress for the check.

  ‘I have to go and pick up my daughter from a party. Yael is fifteen and thinks it’s not cool for her father to collect her, so the controversy over the Altalena is nothing compared to the conflict in my home.’

  Annika laughs. She watches him walk away, sorry to see him go. The way he looked at her was tantalising and she would have liked to continue the conversation to see if he would reveal what was behind that gaze. She is never sure whether he is mocking or challenging her, but she would have liked to spend more time with him. Although it’s past midnight, her mind is too active to sleep.

  Standing by the window in her room, she hears the relentless beat of disco music emanating from the nightclubs, its pulsating rhythm carrying across the water. The full moon is silvering the tips of the white-foamed waves that roll onto the darkened beach, and she thinks about the Altalena. People, not politics, are where her interest usually lies, but she is fascinated by the connections that she has uncovered between the small memorial she noticed on the promenade, the history of Israel, and, indirectly, the Miklós Nagy saga.

  What intrigues her most, however, is the surprising frisson she feels whenever Dov’s eyes meet hers.

  *

  After spending Saturday at the beach, Annika is impatient to get on with her research and on Sunday morning she is already at the Law Library. When she asks for the Amos Alon file, the archivist gives her a puzzled look.

  ‘So you are writing a book about him?’ he asks. Before she has time to reply, he adds, ‘Because if you are, you should read the transcript of the Nagy trial. My father once told me that in the fifties the trial was the best show in town.’

  He returns several minutes later, hands her a disk, and points to a computer on a small wooden desk by the window. ‘You are lucky, we have just digitised it. You wouldn’t believe it, but the original was handwritten by the judge.’

  Her hands are shaking as she inserts the disc. Perhaps this will finally give her the answers she has been looking for.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Tel Aviv, 1953

  As Miklós Nagy begins to read the mimeographed pamphlet that Ora, the minister’s secretary, has placed on his desk, he wonders why she is still
standing there, waiting for his reaction. The day is coming to an end and, eager to leave the office and get home to see the boys, his eye skims over the page, but after the first few sentences, he goes back to the beginning, frowning and shaking his head as he reads. I have waited a long time to expose this so-called hero who is really a Nazi collaborator, the pamphlet says. He rescued his own relatives at the cost of hundreds of thousands of Jewish lives, and saved one of his Nazi cronies from being charged with war crimes in Nuremburg.

  A Nazi collaborator. Who is the writer referring to? A moment later he realises that he is the target of this diatribe. It would be laughable if it wasn’t so outrageous. Everyone in the government knows how he achieved an almost impossible feat during the Holocaust in Hungary when he risked his life to save over fifteen hundred Jews. So why is the minister wasting his time showing him scurrilous rubbish written by some crank with a mental problem? He scrunches up the sheet, and tosses it into the wastepaper basket under his desk. As an official spokesman for the Ministry of Rationing and Supply, he is used to receiving letters from angry constituents complaining about the cost of living, the shortage of accommodation, or the venality of some clerk or other, and he isn’t going to waste time on the rantings of some lunatic.

  ‘You must be furious,’ Ora says. ‘Everyone in our office is jumping up and down. How dare he write such outrageous stuff after all you’ve done? The minister is shocked that anyone would write such garbage.’ She is still waiting for his response.