by Steven Uhly
At the time Heinrich was doing an apprenticeship at B.M.W. The family moved out of their shared apartment and into social housing in southeast Munich. Gudrun took over their old bedroom.
The day they left would remain long in Gudrun’s memory. When Lena had already gone downstairs with Michael on her arm, Heinrich said goodbye to his sister. They embraced.
“It’s your turn now, little brother,” Gudrun said. “Look after yourself!” Heinrich had no idea what she meant by that, he did not dare ask, he just nodded and followed his wife down the stairs. Gudrun could tell everything about him just by looking, she gave him a tender, concerned smile, Little big brother. Then she heard the door close on the ground floor and went back into her new-old apartment, where Ben Schwimmer was waiting for her.
120
“Please stop talking German to each other! I forbid you! Only Hebrew is to be spoken in my house, do you hear me?”
Anna and Sarah went quiet. Shimon stared at Peretz. He did not say what he was thinking: Why are you saying that in German then? But Peretz could tell he was thinking this and it annoyed him. He suppressed the desire to justify himself.
They were sitting at breakfast in the inner courtyard of their new house, it was early morning, the sky shone bright blue above their heads. The noises from the street did travel as far as them, children struggling up the hill to the school, ox and donkey carts and small panel vans making deliveries to the local shops, neighbors chatting before going on their way. Soon Anna and Sarah would bring Shimon to nursery. Then, in the same school building, they would attend the Hebrew lessons that were offered to immigrants.
“It’s for Shimon’s sake too,” said Peretz, who had to add something to his outburst. “If he only ever hears German he’ll find it much more difficult.” Now there was a tone of bitterness in his voice.
The women did not react, they drank their coffee in silence. After a pause Peretz said even more softly, as if speaking to himself, “The children’s house in the kibbutz would have been much better for him.”
121
One morning the Almogs’ telephone rang. Erez picked up and spoke for a while before calling Lisa, putting the receiver in her hand without a word and shrugging as if to say, No idea what they want.
“Fräulein Kramer?” a voice said on the other end of the line.
“Yes . . . speaking.”
“Good morning, Fräulein Kramer, I’m sorry to disturb you. It’s Rolf Friedemann Pauls here, the German ambassador in Tel Aviv, do you remember?”
“Good morning, Herr Pauls. How did you find me?”
“We have our channels.”
“And I thought your hands were tied.”
“It wasn’t a problem in your case, Fräulein Kramer, because you’re German.”
“So why are you calling?”
“Fräulein Kramer, I’m terribly sorry to have to tell you that your mother died a month ago. The news reached us via a circuitous route, and then I remembered our telephone conversation. Well, now I’m ’phoning you. Please accept my heartfelt condolences, Fräulein Kramer.”
It was a while before Lisa understood. She took a deep breath and said, “Do you mean Maria Kramer from Lübeck?”
“Yes, exactly, Maria Kramer. She is your mother, isn’t she? At least, you do have the same address in Lübeck.”
Lisa paused. What should she say? All of a sudden it made sense.
“Have you heard anything of Marta Kramer?” she asked.
“No, as far as I know there was no mention of a Marta Kramer. Who is that?”
“Herr Pauls, thank you very much for calling, but I have to go now. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Fräulein . . .” There was a crackling when Lisa hung up.
She sat on the chair, she had turned pale. Erez and Binah came to her. They caught Lisa as she fainted.
It was only seconds before she came round. Erez carried her to her room and laid her on the bed. Binah brought her a glass of water. She smiled at both of them gratefully. When she had drunk the water she said, “I have to go back to Germany.”
122
On the evening of March 14, 1950, Peretz felt a sense of relief. His father telephoned to say that the Knesset had passed the Absentees’ Property Law, to be applied retrospectively to May 14, 1948. I know the custodian very well, Gershom Sarfati told his son, Let me sort it out. You’ll pay a symbolic sum to the state, then the house is officially yours and nobody can take it away from you. What if they haven’t fled abroad? Peretz asked. Then, his father said reassuringly, they are resident absentees, it doesn’t change a thing, they don’t have a claim on it anymore. Peretz thanked his father and hung up. He was sitting on a sofa in the living room, looking about him—the stone floor with its ornamental hollows, the round arches to the courtyard, the slender, turned columns, the old brick fireplace in the corner which they had not yet used. All this now belonged to him and his family. Peretz leaned back. Return if you like, Abdulha Al Sayyed. But you won’t be able to do a thing.
That night Peretz dreamed that it had snowed. The snow was several meters high, but when they tried to use the fire they discovered that it was bricked up at the top. They froze, Anna froze, Sarah froze, Shimon froze, and Peretz froze most of all, but no matter how much he begged the others to warm him up, they would not.
Peretz woke with a start. His entire body was trembling. Then he relaxed. What a notion, he thought, snow in Tel Aviv. He fell asleep again. But the following morning he recalled his odd dream. He said nothing to Anna about it.
123
When he got to his car, two dark figures approached, one punched him in the pit of the stomach, the other caught him as he collapsed. They opened the car door, shoved him onto the back seat, one of the two men sat beside him, the other climbed in the front. Ranzner wanted to say, The tank’s empty, but to his surprise the engine sprang into life, They’ve thought of everything, it occurred to him, and suddenly he was gripped by fear, he looked at the men, dark winter coats, hats pulled down over their heads, black leather gloves, one word darted into his mind: Mossad! He wanted to fight, he tried to escape from the car, but the man sitting beside him elbowed him in the temple. He passed out.
When Ranzner came to he was sitting on a chair, peering into a room he vaguely recognized, through the window he saw that the trees had grown, then noticed a man on the other side of the familiar desk, who he only knew from photographs. This man had a large, angular head with short, dyed-black hair, his eyes were jovial and inscrutable. He smiled.
“Welcome, Herr Kruse, my name is Wessel. How are you feeling?”
Ranzner was going to say, Fine, but remained silent and rocked his head from side to side. Wessel smiled at him engagingly, rested his elbows on the desk and touched the tips of his fingers together. He looked deep in thought, then snapped out of it.
“I have to admit I was a little surprised when I found out we had a former S.S. Obersturmbannführer in the service. But look, I have almost six thousand employees, so it’s perfectly conceivable something like that could happen.” He glanced briefly at Ranzner as if to check he was paying attention, then continued, “You see, Herr Kruse, the world out there has changed. Even my predecessor grasped that at some stage. And that’s why a decade ago he began to pension off all employees who were compromised by their past.” He sighed, moved his hands wide apart and gave Ranzner a laconic smile. “But you seem to have been forgotten, even though you’re very much compromised, as I’ve since discovered.”
Not knowing what to say, Ranzner remained silent. His head was aching from the blow he had sustained, his stomach was so empty that he had cramps. His relief that he had been abducted not by Mossad but by his own secret service faded with every word that fell from Wessel’s lips. Wessel seemed to have misconstrued Ranzner’s silence.
“Look, Kruse,” he said, leaning back. “My predecessor was a brilliant man, but terribly backward-looking. Instead of training new people he made use of the old ones. He needed know-
how, as the British say, and that was all around him in spades. So he seized the opportunity and didn’t ask too many questions.” Wessel leaned forward. “The former Gestapo chief in Lyon, Klaus Barbie. Eichmann’s former assistant, Alois Brunner. The former head of the Jewish desk in the foreign office, Franz Rademacher. The inventor of the mobile gas chamber, Walther Rauff. The former officer in detachment 9 of Einsatzgruppe B, Konrad Fiebig. The former chief of the Moscow advance detachment of Einsatzgruppe B, Franz Alfred Six. The former S.S. Obersturmbannführer Heinz Felfe.” He paused and looked at Ranzner as if expecting a reaction.
“At the beginning of the 1950s around a third of his employees were former Nazi members, a small percentage of whom were former S.S., S.D. or S.A. people. Top-class individuals, if you want to put it that way.” He paused, giving Ranzner a friendly and inscrutable look. He leaned back.
“Now consider this. At the time the German parliament had the same cross-section of individuals. Don’t you think that’s interesting? The politicians covered for Gehlen and his organization—we scratched their back and they scratched ours.” He leaned forward again.
“That’s all history. Apart from the fact that it’s getting increasingly difficult to justify my predecessor’s staffing policy, these people distinguished themselves more by their problems than their brilliance.” He raised his hands in conciliation.
“This may not be true of you, Herr Kruse, I’m not going to make any judgments. But these days the enemy is fighting quite differently, giving no quarter. If a federal chancellor has to resign because a spy from the East has made his way into the highest political echelons, then we have to try new approaches. Otherwise we risk turning into another Finland.” He raised his eyebrows and gazed at Ranzner’s emaciated face.
“Moreover, since the Social Democrats took power the balance in parliament has changed.” He raised his shoulders as if begging forgiveness.
“So all that’s left for me to do is to thank you for your many commendable years with us, and to give you a piece of advice. If you still wish to avoid being called to account by the Israelis or an overzealous German court, I suggest you lead a discreet existence for the rest of your life, starting from now.” He smiled at Ranzner as if he had just revealed to him a delicious recipe. Then he pushed a button on his telephone, a door opened behind Ranzner and a young woman appeared.
“Herr Direktor?” she said. Wessel gave her a friendly smile, then turned to Ranzner and gestured briefly past him at his secretary.
“Fräulein Kupfer will give you the necessary papers to sign. Then you’ll move into a small apartment in the southeast of the city, they’re just building an attractive housing complex there. Someone will drive you. We’ve wound up your apartment in Lehel, we’re going to auction off your artworks and pay off your debts with the proceeds. If you’re careful with your money, your pension will suffice. You will retain your current identity, we’re assuming that it isn’t compromised. Please don’t go back to your workplace, not even to say goodbye. It’s safer that way.” He smiled contentedly, then something else occurred to him.
“By the way, your wife has left the country, so we’ve stopped the surveillance.” He smiled again, then something else occurred to him.
“Oh yes! This,” he said, taking something out of his desk drawer. Ranzner recognized his diary. “I’m going to keep so it doesn’t fall into the wrong hands. It’s only for your protection. It would be better if you didn’t write anything personal in the future.” He gave Ranzner a jovial smile.
“All the best, Herr Kruse,” he said kindly. “Farewell.” He stood up. Realizing that he had to play along, Ranzner copied him, they shook hands, then Wessel gestured toward his secretary again, but this time his arm was showing the way. Ranzner obeyed.
124
It’s beautiful here, Anna thought on the way home from taking Shimon to school. It was March 13, 1951. A fresh morning, the scent of almond blossom filled the air, there were large bougainvilleas in some front gardens, their lilac-colored flowers glowed in the early light. From the houses came the sounds of people busily occupied, the sun was not yet scorching, the air was a pleasant temperature. Far below, the glittering sea across which she had come. At the second attempt. I’m free, aren’t I? she thought. I survived, didn’t I? Everything turned out fine, didn’t it? Now I’m an Israeli citizen, my Hebrew is improving. Shimon has made friends, I’m pregnant again, Peretz is happy.
She continued walking, aware that nothing was fine, because “fine” was a term from her childhood, and her childhood had perished inside her. She had to plan in advance all the joy she felt, she had to gather up the meaning of life like someone who has dropped their breakfast tray. Now she was crawling around on the floor, eating scraps while thinking nourishing thoughts.
When her house came into view, surrounded by other houses in which Arabs had once lived, she stopped. You’ll never be free, a bold voice said inside her, no matter where you are. She thought of the nights with Peretz, she could offer no more resistance, she was caught in the web she had spun for herself, nothing had changed even though years had passed, Peretz was still not Peretz, she was still searching for Shimon’s father, while still trying to lock everything away so she could keep rehearsing her act, in the hope that one day she might be so perfect that she could believe it herself, because it would have become true, even though she had long known that hope was the biggest trap of them all, even though she had long known that the prospect of a life in hope was the prospect of a life locked away. She almost wished another war would come to sweep away everything she had only just built up for herself, she almost hoped that Peretz would die a hero so she might finally be free.
But she dismissed these thoughts, got moving again and went home.
125
Oz Almog put Lisa’s case into his car, Don’t be silly! he said, I’ll drive you. Anat gave her a farewell hug, What a shame you have to leave. Binah and Erez came along for the ride, the four of them sat in the small car, the men in front, the women behind. A couple of hours then we’ll be there, Oz said.
The sun was shining, When doesn’t the sun shine here? Lisa asked, essaying a smile. Oh, Erez said in his deep voice, It does happen, the last time was two years ago. He laughed as people do when trying to lighten the mood.
They drove northward along the southern Armistice Line, the city awoke, work had already begun on the construction sites, It’ll be too hot later on, Binah said. Lisa saw the streets of a city she had barely got to know, Will I ever return? The rush-hour traffic grew slowly heavier, The British with their roundabouts, Oz grumbled. They went on, broad streets, cars, motorcycles, in the distance always hills densely populated with houses, lots of sandy, dusty earth, very little greenery. It was all very different in my homeland, Oz said, It took me a long time to get used to this landscape. I come from Bulgaria. My surname used to be Bisanti, sounds like Byzantium, don’t you think? But we spoke Ladino. In the sixteenth century lots of Jews moved to Bulgaria, they’d been expelled from Spain by the Catholic Monarchs, so for a long time we thought we were from there too. But the name doesn’t fit. It’s a beautiful name, Bisanti, Lisa said, Much nicer than Almog, Binah said, either feigning or concealing resentment, Lisa could not tell which.
They drove out of the city, Lisa turned around, a last glimpse of Jerusalem, how different everything seemed to her, now she saw where the rocks ended and houses began. Can you see the hill over to your left? Oz said. He thrust his arm out of the window, Lisa looked across a valley to a wooded hill, on the summit of which stood an angular building. That’s Yad Vashem. One day, when you know more, you must come back and tell your story to the people there. Lisa’s mind was preoccupied with other thoughts, Why did you change your name? she said. Oh, Oz said, that was silly, really. After the founding of the state Ben-Gurion wanted every Israeli to have a Hebrew surname, in the army we were told this on a daily basis. That’s why I did it, Almog means coral, I used to like it. Today I regret it though.
Many people are in the same boat. What about you, Binah asked, Why are you still called Kramer? Lisa thought of her grandmother, who now needed her support, she looked out of the window, they were driving along one of the river valleys that led through the corridor to the west, on one of the road signs it said “Highway 1” beneath “Tel Aviv–Yafo.”
“My parents are both dead,” she said. “I belong to my grandmother.”
Oz nodded his approval, nobody commented on this. Then he said, In a while we’ll have get off this road and take the Burma Road to Tel Aviv. It was built in only eight weeks because we weren’t able to take Latrun in the War of Independence, today it’s still occupied by Jordan.
They fell silent and drove through barren, mountainous countryside, the road gradually winding in broad arcs down to the coast. It became hot and sticky, stopping slightly away from the road they sat on the ground and from Anat’s picnic basket ate dates, oranges, sandwiches, biscuits, they drank water, then packed everything up again and continued on their journey.
The landscape changed, they drove through small villages, through orange plantations, past olive groves, the traffic became heavier.
The airport was surrounded by small villages, construction was in full swing here too. Oz Almog navigated the car unerringly through a tangle of streets, Lisa saw large advertising hoardings with European faces, one of the hoardings was in German, publicizing Neueste Nachrichten, It’s the biggest daily paper, Binah said, the Yekkes have terrible trouble learning Hebrew. She gave Lisa an affectionate smile, as if she were one already.
When they stopped beside the international departures terminal at Lydda airport, Erez leaped out of the car and hauled Lisa’s luggage from the boot. I’ll carry it, he said to his father. The four of them went to the check-in desk, the terminal was busy, people were scurrying in all directions, everything was so modern, it was as if they were in a Western country.
