The Collaborator

by Diane Armstrong

  ‘I never thought I’d be at the centre of a political storm,’ he says to Judit, and they both laugh at the absurdity of it, although her laughter is less spontaneous than his. He knows she would be even more apprehensive if he had told her that the bodyguards assigned to him have been removed. A few days ago he received a message from the head of Special Services that, as he was no longer in any immediate danger, they couldn’t justify stretching their strained resources to guard him twenty-four hours a day.

  Even though his appeal isn’t due to be heard for another six months and he is still in legal limbo, he is optimistic. The majority decision of five judges is bound to overturn the verdict of one biased judge in the District Court. Sitting behind the wheel of his second-hand Ford, he whistles Bing Crosby’s hit tune ‘In the Cool, Cool, Cool of the Evening’ while driving home from the office later than usual one evening. It’s a dark, windy night, and as he watches the leaves blowing across the street, he thinks about the latest controversy over the government’s recent Sinai campaign. He is looking forward to discussing it with Judit but remembers that she has gone to a teachers’ meeting at the boys’ school, and will be home late.

  His thoughts turn to an article by Amos Alon which was published in Herut the previous week. Predictably Isaiah Fleischmann’s defence attorney has condemned the appeal and accused the government of trying to defend a collaborator in its ranks.

  He’s like a dog with a bone, he just can’t let go, Miklós thinks as he swings into Gavriel Avenue and parks under the palm trees outside his building. He notices that the street is unusually dark. When he looks up, he sees why: the street lamp outside his house isn’t lit. He makes a mental note to tell the council to replace the light bulb.

  He has just switched off the engine when he hears rustling. He assumes it’s the wind whipping the palm fronds, but suddenly a young fellow dressed in a khaki jacket emerges from the bushes at the side of the house, flashes a torch in his face and asks, ‘Miklós Nagy?’

  ‘Yes,’ Miklós replies, startled by the abrupt question and the sudden appearance of the questioner. He wants to ask the stranger who he is, and why he is lurking around his house, but he is struck dumb by what he sees. The man has a revolver in his hand, and he is aiming it at his head. Miklós ducks, jumps out of the car, pushes him aside, and starts running towards the entrance. Before he reaches the door, he hears a shot and then another one, and falls to the ground clutching his side. He hears footsteps running down the darkened street, and realises that his assailant is running away into the night.

  His hand feels something wet and sticky pooling onto the ground beside him, and he smells the metallic odour of blood. He shouts for help but his voice is weak and there’s no-one around on this dark night. He cries out several times in vain. He tries to drag himself back towards the car, to sound the horn, but he can’t move. There are no lights on inside the building. Everyone must be asleep or listening to the radio. If only Judit was home. Perhaps one of the neighbours will wake up and hear him. ‘Help!’ he calls out. ‘Help me! Police! I’ve been shot!’

  Finally a wrinkled face on the top floor peers through the shutters of a window that faces the street, and looks down. Miklós thinks it’s the old man who emptied his garbage on their doorstep several months ago, but he doesn’t care who it is, just as long as he goes for help. After what seems like hours, the man hobbles towards him, and with a shocked expression murmurs, ‘Oy gewalt,’ and says he’ll go back up to call the police and Magen David Adom, the emergency ambulance.

  Another neighbour emerges from the building and kneels beside him. ‘They’ll be here soon,’ she says soothingly, placing a folded towel under his head, ‘Don’t worry, Mr Nagy, you’ll be all right.’

  He closes his eyes for a moment and when he opens them he is still lying in the street and Judit is holding his hand. Her face is the colour of chalk, and he wants to tell her that she doesn’t look well, that she should look after herself, but no words come. By now a few onlookers have gathered, and everyone is talking at once, offering different suggestions.

  ‘Please move back and give him room to breathe,’ Judit is saying in a calm voice ‘We’re not going to move him until the ambulance officers arrive.’ Then she asks one of the neighbours to bring a pillow and blanket, and asks another to stay with the boys for the rest of the night.

  An insistent shriek begins vibrating inside his head, and a moment later the ambulance pulls up and two paramedics jump out. He hears one of them saying, ‘We’re taking him to Masada Hospital,’ and as they place him on a stretcher, he sees Judit climbing into the back of the ambulance.

  The high-pitched sound starts up again, and he supposes it’s the shrilling of the siren. He is conscious but curiously detached from what is going on, as if he were an onlooker rather than a patient. When they bring him to the Emergency room, he explains to the doctor what happened, down to every detail, even the rustling of the leaves in the darkened street, as if he saw it all in a movie.

  ‘We have to operate straightaway,’ the surgeon tells him after he has been examined and X-rayed. ‘The bullets have damaged some of your internal organs.’

  Miklós listens to the surgeon’s quiet voice with interest as though he were talking about someone else. It becomes difficult to concentrate as they wheel him into the operating theatre. Above him, blinding light scorches his eyelids, and the last thing he remembers is thinking that they must have already repaired the street light on Gavriel Avenue.

  *

  Miklós is lying in a private room, guarded by two policemen. The boys visit after school. Ben sits on a chair close to his father’s bed and asks if he’s feeling better, and whether he can bring him anything. Although he coughs from time to time, Miklós always says he’s improving, and tries to smile. But Gil is like a coiled spring, unable to sit still or offer any words of comfort.

  Every day Judit quizzes the nurses and doctors, and watches Miklós for signs of improvement. When he manages to swallow a few spoonfuls of soup, or says a few words, she pounces on them as a sign of recovery, and resents the doctors’ measured optimism.

  One morning, Miklós asks, ‘Who shot me? Why?’ His breathing sounds laboured, he coughs and closes his eyes, and for the first time, the chill of fear grips her heart.

  In his hospital bed, Miklós hears that high-pitched sound again, but this time it isn’t the siren, it’s a black train, and it’s shrieking into the darkness of eternal night. He is on that train, speeding through his own life. He hears Eichmann’s frightening voice, he sees Becher’s smiling face as he talks of redemption and crucifixion, and his head fills with the sweetness of lilies-of-the-valley while he gazes into Ilonka’s lovely face and hears her husky voice comforting him. ‘It will be all right, Miki,’ she says. ‘Hold on, please hold on. You will be all right.’ Then he sees another train, it’s his rescue train, and it’s speeding from the darkness towards the light.

  He opens his eyes and his expression startles Judit. He is muttering something she can’t catch. He seems to be looking past her at something she can’t see and talking to someone who isn’t there. ‘The dead can’t save the living and the living can’t save the dead,’ he whispers. ‘Is it wrong to use the devil to save them?’

  She swallows and tightens her grip on his hand. There is so much she wants to say, to convince him that what he did wasn’t merely right, it was noble. But before she can get the words out, he is whispering again.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ilonka,’ he says, and his eyes close for the last time.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Tel Aviv, 2005

  It’s a golden morning with just a hint of a breeze to ruffle the striped umbrellas on the beach, and the water glitters in the sunlight. A perfect day for a swim, Annika thinks as she heads to the dining room for breakfast. Then she stops walking. Why was she still in Israel? It was nearly a week since she’d spoken to Eitan Nagy. Surely she had found out all she could about his grandfather. But for some reason she
couldn’t bring herself to leave. So what was keeping her here? In her head, she hears Cassie laughing. So you really don’t know?

  It was thanks to Cassie that she had gone to Eilat. When in doubt, stop making decisions and just relax, Cassie used to say, and, deciding to take her friend’s advice, she headed off to the south of Israel. After spending the last three days at the resort, she is feeling so relaxed that even her bones feel soft. She is reminiscing about the thrill of snorkelling with dolphins at Dolphin Reef, and the bliss of swimming in heated pools while listening to underwater music, when her phone rings and brings her back to earth. When she glances down and sees Jancsi’s number, she lets it ring several times before picking up.

  ‘How is story about Miklós Nagy? You are find interesting things?’

  Aware of the discrepancy in their feelings for each other, she tries to be gentle. For her, he has been a transformative experience, a source of renewed confidence, but she knows that for him, she is the hit-run woman, a tantalising possibility unfulfilled. She has been so deeply immersed in the trial and its aftermath that she doesn’t know where to start, but she knows she should tell him what she has found out about the man to whom they both owe their lives.

  ‘It’s an incredible story,’ she begins, but the clatter of plates and the buzz of voices in the dining room drown out her voice and he asks her to repeat what she has said. Frustrated, she goes outside, and sums up what she has found out, aware that it must be difficult for him to follow such a complicated story. But he listens in silence, and when she has finished, he says, ‘This is amazing story, Annika. Tragic. How they can say such terrible things about man who saved so many lives? Do they know who killed him?’

  ‘I don’t know yet, but I’m going to try and find out.’

  ‘You are clever woman. I send my love,’ he whispers, and hangs up.

  Breakfast is usually her favourite meal of the day, but this morning the array of fresh rolls, wholemeal loaves, baguettes, cheeses, salads, marinated herrings, onion tarts, tomato frittatas, French toast, and walnut and custard pastries have lost their appeal as the sadness in his voice lingers like an unspoken reproach.

  Relationships are like war, she thinks as she nibbles her eggplant and zucchini frittata: starting them is easy but extricating yourself is hard.

  Ahmed, the Arabic waiter, breaks into her reverie. ‘We have a special Shabbat dinner this evening, madame, you would like to book?’

  Shabbat! She hadn’t realised that it’s Friday again. This time she isn’t going to wait for Dov to call. She goes out onto the terrace, and dials his number.

  He sounds happy to hear her voice. ‘So you’re still here after all. If you’re not busy tonight, come and have Shabbat dinner with us. I can pick you up around six. You’ll meet Yaeli.’

  She counts the minutes until the familiar blue Ford pulls up outside the hotel.

  *

  On their way to his mother-in-law’s home, Annika describes her experiences in Eilat, and then fills him in on what she has found out about Miklós Nagy since they last met. ‘I can’t believe what happened. Eitan told me all about it. Miklós Nagy was murdered before the Supreme Court handed down their decision, and he never found out he’d been exonerated!’

  While she talks, he gives an occasional murmur of assent or sympathy. She’s still talking about the injustice of it when he pulls up in a street of plain white-painted buildings with curved Art Deco facades.

  ‘These were built in the German Bahaus style in the 1930s,’ he explains. ‘This area became a UNESCO world heritage site a couple of years ago because of those buildings.’

  But Annika is too engrossed in the drama of Miklós Nagy’s last days to pay attention to the architectural heritage of Tel Aviv. ‘It’s like a Greek tragedy,’ she concludes.

  ‘Life often is.’

  It strikes her that while she was telling him about the appeal and the assassination, he didn’t express any surprise.

  ‘You knew all along, didn’t you?’ she says. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I thought you needed to discover it for yourself.’

  She glances at him as they get out of the car. ‘You’re pretty perceptive for a journo.’

  ‘Journo?’

  She explains the Australianism. ‘We abbreviate everything, sometimes it doesn’t even make sense. If you were called Barry, for example, they’d call you Bazza.’

  This time he isn’t listening. He is looking at her. ‘That top looks great on you.’

  She blushes. She has taken more care with her clothes than usual this evening in order to make a good impression on her hostess. Instead of the baggy shirt she usually wears over her faded denim jeans, she is wearing her silky palazzo pants and the clingy black top with the revealing neckline, but as she sees Dov’s admiring gaze, she knows that he was the one she was dressing for.

  The woman who opens the door is short and plump with a Russian accent and an ebullient temperament. After ushering them inside, Nina Chaikin peals with laughter as she scoops up her grey tabby and cuddles it. ‘Just before you came, Pussinka brought me a Shabbat present — a dead mouse!’

  As soon as they sit down, she plies them with piroshki stuffed with cabbage, herrings in sour cream, cucumbers pickled with garlic and dill, gefilte fish, and slices of challa generously spread with chopped liver. ‘All home made!’ she says proudly. She fills small tumblers with vodka but shakes her head when she sees Annika taking a sip.

  ‘Vodka you don’t sip. Wine you sip. Vodka you pour down your throat. Like this. Watch.’

  She throws her head back and when she tilts it forward again, the glass is empty and she is laughing again.

  The vodka is aromatic, but it doesn’t seem very strong, so while Nina claps her plump hands in encouragement, Annika downs another glass, and a moment later she is telling Dov and Nina about a cat she once taught to do a high five.

  She knows that she is exaggerating because her cat never did succeed in learning this trick, but it’s such a good story, and they are such an appreciative audience that she illustrates it with gestures and tries to enlist the co-operation of Pussinka, who gazes at her outstretched palm with startled eyes and bolts from the room. By the time she has finished her story, she is laughing so much that tears are running down her cheeks.

  ‘I don’t think you’d better have any more vodka,’ Dov says, but he’s laughing too.

  The front door slams, and a girl with luxuriant black hair cascading down her back bounces into the room and throws her arms around her grandmother, who looks at her with delight. Watching them together, chatting like close friends, Annika feels envious.

  She has never been as aware of the wall of coolness and restraint that Marika has erected around her as she is now, never been so conscious of what she has missed. For an instant she wonders if it’s because Nina has lost her daughter that she is lavishing so much love on Yaeli, but she dismisses the thought. Nina is clearly a woman without boundaries where those she loves are concerned, and loss hasn’t diminished her capacity for love or her zest for life.

  They sit down at the table while Nina runs backwards and forwards bringing a tureen of beetroot borscht with mashed potatoes, chopped dill and a dollop of sour cream, followed by Georgian chicken, braised beef, roast potatoes and cucumber salad. It’s hearty Russian food, and Annika is relishing the first home-cooked meal she has had since leaving Sydney. But more than the food, she is enjoying the closeness of the family atmosphere and their generosity in including her.

  ‘I met an interesting guy yesterday called Eitan Nagy,’ she says, and notices that Yael is listening attentively.

  ‘You met Eitan Nagy?’ From the astonishment in Yael’s voice she might have said she’d just met Brad Pitt. ‘Where?’

  Annika explains how their meeting came about. ‘Wow,’ Yael says. ‘That’s awesome. He’s so cool.’

  ‘Eitan Nagy has been responsible for more young people joining the Peace Now movement than anyone else,’
Dov says. ‘It’s a great example of sex appeal surpassing sense appeal.’

  ‘Abba!’ Yael rolls her dark eyes in exasperation. ‘You don’t understand.’ She turns to Annika. ‘So what did he say? Are you going to join? There’s a protest meeting against the new settlements on Sunday. Want to come with me?’

  ‘You’ve achieved something rare,’ Dov says. ‘My daughter’s seal of approval. But you should go. You’d find it interesting, and learn something about one of the many divides in our society. There will be protesters protesting against the protest, and police surrounding them to keep the peace at the peace rally.’

  ‘Do you belong?’

  ‘It’s like what George Bernard Shaw said about communism. If you’re not a communist when you’re young, you have no heart, but if you’re still a communist when you’re old, you have no brain.’

  Yael rolls her eyes again and shakes her head. ‘Abba, that’s crap. There are loads of older people who believe in what Peace Now stands for. As old as you even. People who believe in peace.’

  ‘Everyone believes in peace in theory,’ he says quietly. ‘It’s the reality that’s the problem. For peace to take place, both parties have to want it, not just one. Maybe one day it will happen, but I don’t see it happening in the foreseeable future. Talk to the people of Sderot, ask them if they can envisage peace with the Palestinians who want peace so desperately that they keep firing rockets at Israeli kindergartens. If the Palestinians wanted peace as much as you do, they would have accepted Ehud Barak’s offer five years ago when he proposed to give them ninety per cent of what they demanded, but Arafat rejected the offer without even trying to compromise or negotiate for the other ten per cent.’

  Yael is shaking her head so emphatically that her hair swings from side to side and bounces against her cheeks. ‘You’re throwing statistics around as usual. We believe that if you wait for the other side to give in nothing will ever change. And if we let our government keep stealing Palestinian land and building more settlements, things will only get worse.’