The Betrayers

by David Bezmozgis

  Here it was. The moment he had fantasized about had finally arrived. Naturally, it was not how he’d envisioned it. In his vanity, he had always imagined meeting Tankilevich and his other former tormentors at the height of his powers, when he could gaze down upon them like a Zeus upon mortals. But this wasn’t how things stood now. It could be said that he was now as low as he had ever been and that he could not have chosen a less auspicious time for this grand reunion. But now was when it had happened. Only a fool believed that the world was built to stoke his vanity. Not from the heights but from the depths was life truly lived! And other such hokhmes.

  Forward! Kotler commanded himself.

  Ten strides and he was in the kitchen, facing his audience. He found the women on their feet and Tankilevich at the kitchen table, a teacup between his hands. That Leora eyed him expectantly was no surprise. But he saw similar expressions on the faces of Svetlana and Tankilevich. As if they too had been intent upon his appearance. What had they been expecting? Clearly not him. Tankilevich flinched and knocked his teacup against its saucer. He looked down to see if the liquid had spilled but when he looked up, his face had hardened and set. There was no doubt. No doubt for either of them.

  —Boker tov, Volodya, Kotler said.

  Like quicksilver, a look flashed between Tankilevich and his wife. Kotler saw the woman’s face blanch. Instinctively, she crossed herself.

  —My God, she said.

  —Your God, Tankilevich snapped. See how He’s answered your prayers.

  He turned from his wife and glared at Kotler with the loathing of a cornered animal.

  —A merry game, eh? An important man like you, you’ve got nothing better to do? Well, have a good look around, then. Here’s your old enemy. The despicable beast. The disgrace of the Jewish people. See how fate has settled its accounts with him. Give your girl a good laugh at his expense.

  —What do you think, Volodya, Kotler said, that I had the Mossad hunt you down? That we chased you fifteen years, like Eichmann?

  —You’ve come to insult me? Insult me. Rejoice. I’m a defenseless man. Say what you want and leave us be.

  —Volodya, it’s pure coincidence, not the Mossad, that has brought me here. I’ve no more sought you than you’ve sought me.

  —Chaim, Tankilevich said.

  —What’s that? Kotler asked.

  —I go by Chaim, Tankilevich said resolutely.

  —Ah, you see, Leora, Kotler said with a grin, the first surprise.

  —What’s the surprise? Tankilevich demanded. You alone reserve the right to change your name? I’m no less a Jew than you. No less a Zionist either.

  —I’m glad to hear it, Kotler said. Though, if you’ll forgive my saying so, this also comes as a surprise. The last time I saw you, you denounced me before a Soviet tribunal as a Zionist imperialist spy working for the American intelligence services.

  Splaying his hands on the tabletop, Tankilevich pushed back his chair and rose stiffly. He cast another baleful look at his wife and then turned to face Kotler.

  —What do you want? You have come to collect? Well, I have paid and paid for my sins. I have paid in excess. I am paying still. And I have nothing for you.

  On his way out of the kitchen, Tankilevich glanced one last time at his wife.

  —Return their money.

  The three of them watched his broad back fill the doorway and listened to his ponderous steps in the corridor. There was the sound of the front door opening and closing, and of footfalls on the gravel outside.

  After an instant, recovering from her shocked state, Svetlana sprang from the table and went in pursuit of her husband, leaving Kotler and Leora to each other. The door opened and slammed shut again, and Svetlana’s footfalls joined her husband’s on the gravel path. From Leora came the unspoken question: Satisfied? To which what could Kotler reply? In a way.

  Through the kitchen window it was possible to see what was unfolding in the driveway. Svetlana caught up to Tankilevich as he unlocked the car door and was preparing to lower himself into the driver’s seat. She gripped the door and would not release it. Kotler and Leora watched the struggle between them and heard the more heated parts of their argument.

  From Svetlana: With your eyes! Have you forgotten what the doctor said? Suicide!

  And from Tankilevich: I want those people out of my house!

  The standoff continued for a little longer. Tankilevich resisted and did not easily relinquish the wheel, but Svetlana held fast and wouldn’t allow him to close the door. Eventually, in supreme frustration, Tankilevich wrenched himself from the car and stalked off toward the road. In parting he declared: One hour!

  Svetlana watched him go, and when he had disappeared from view, she eased shut the car door. She then looked back to the house, where she found Kotler and Leora at the kitchen window. She eyed them grimly, then started inside. Before long, she was back in the kitchen. Nobody spoke and the room felt hollowed out, vacuous. The three of them regarded one another as through spans of chilled space. Svetlana, looking sorely perplexed, broke the silence.

  —Is what my husband said true?

  —What part? Kotler replied.

  —That you came here deliberately.

  —You were at the bus station. Do you believe we staged that encounter? Does that seem plausible to you?

  —I don’t care about plausible. I am asking you if it is true.

  —Svetlana, ask yourself: If we knew where to find you, why would we even bother with such contortions? Why would we not come straight to your door?

  —So you deny it?

  —I’ve already denied it. I denied it to your husband. I can deny it a thousand more times. But to what end? In my experience, denial is pointless. It is just words. What matters is logic and proof. I see you are not a simple woman. Ask yourself a different question: Why would I deny this? If indeed I sought your husband out, why wouldn’t I say so? Why would I engage in this pretense? Especially since, as anyone will tell you, I am a terrible actor. My strength, such as it is, lies in the opposite direction.

  Svetlana stopped to consider this, to consider him. Kotler felt as though he could discern, behind her eyes, the minutest cogitations of her mind. He saw her reach a decision, the thought clicking into place. She turned to the stove and lifted the kettle, which had just started to whistle. Kettle in hand, she faced Kotler and Leora.

  —You will have some tea? she inquired. Or coffee?

  —It’s very hospitable of you, Kotler said, but perhaps unwise. Your husband doesn’t want us here and we’ve no interest in imposing ourselves.

  Svetlana strode to the table and dismissed Kotler’s reservations with a wave of her hand. She put the kettle down.

  —My husband does not alone decide. Please sit. There will be plenty of time to leave. Besides, where would you go now? It is not even seven o’clock. Where would you find a room at this hour? And without even so much as a bite to eat? I would not allow it.

  —We are perfectly capable of fending for ourselves, Leora said.

  —Who says you are not? But you are in our house. You are our guests. By Divine Providence, if what you say is true. Never mind my husband. I have my own convictions, Christian convictions, if I can say such a thing in front of you.

  —Why not? Kotler said. We are not offended by Christian convictions. Particularly if they lead to nothing worse than a cup of coffee.

  —Good, then, Svetlana said. You’ll sit.

  She went to a cupboard, opened its door, and retrieved a jar of instant coffee. As she did so, Kotler lowered himself into one of the kitchen chairs. He looked to Leora to follow suit, but she held her ground with a tired obstinacy. Passive resistance. Fine, but for what sake? Kotler wordlessly inquired. Just so. For no sake, came Leora’s wordless reply.

  Holding the jar of coffee in her hand, Svetlana observed the two of them.

  —You won’t sit? she asked Leora, in a tone both anxious and reproachful.

  —She is registering her
disapproval, Kotler said.

  —Of what does she disapprove?

  —Of remaining here.

  —Of coming here in the first place, Leora calmly corrected.

  —But if fate brought you here, how can you disapprove? Svetlana said.

  —It turns out, very easily.

  —But what is the point of disapproving? If it is fate, your disapproval will not change it. Standing instead of sitting in my kitchen will not change it. Even walking out the door will not change it. A tree will fall across your path. Because if fate has ordained to bring you here, it will conspire to keep you here. I am older than you. I have lived a life. What I say I say from experience. One needs time on this earth to understand fate.

  Svetlana turned to Kotler and asked: Is it not so?

  —I would say that one walks hand in hand with fate. Fate pulls in one direction, you pull in the other. You follow fate; fate follows you. And it is not always possible to say who is leading whom.

  —But you say fate led you here.

  —Fate led; I followed. I chose to follow. At first innocently, obliviously. But once I recognized where fate was leading me, no longer obliviously. Then I chose with full and deliberate knowledge. Leora would have preferred if I had chosen differently.

  Svetlana went to the table and placed the coffee jar beside the kettle. She looked again at Leora.

  —Will you also take coffee? Because if you will, I would ask that you sit. Even if you won’t take coffee, I would ask that you sit. I find your standing very disconcerting. It grates on my nerves. It is like having a policeman or an undertaker in the house.

  Leora inhaled dramatically and, with slow leisurely strides, crossed the room and took a seat opposite Kotler. She looked up at Svetlana and made a little theatrical gesture with her hands. A gesture of There, I have complied.

  —Will you take coffee? Svetlana asked her.

  —After all that, how could I not?

  Svetlana poured the hot water into three teacups. Then came the ceremony with the teaspoons and the stirring and mixing. She passed Kotler and Leora each a cup and took her seat between them. They all observed a brief, tactical lull while they sipped their drinks.

  —If I may, Kotler offered, you mentioned your Christian convictions. I’m interested to know what you meant.

  —I believe in God’s grace. I believe that He hears our prayers.

  —Which would make us the answer to those prayers?

  —How would you explain your arrival here?

  —May I ask what you prayed for?

  —Like everyone else, Svetlana said, I prayed for His mercy. I prayed for Him to ease the burden of our suffering.

  —If that’s the case, it would seem He sent you the most unlikely emissaries.

  —Isn’t that how we recognize His hand?

  —And how do you know it is your prayer He is answering?

  —Who else’s? Yours? Hers?

  —Certainly not mine, Leora said.

  —Yours, then? Svetlana inquired. Are you a believer?

  —Not like that, Kotler said. It’s many years since I prayed. But who knows how long it takes a prayer to reach God’s ears? And how long for Him to respond? When I was in prison, I asked Him to grant me the satisfaction of facing my tormentors as a free man. That was a long time ago. But perhaps a prayer is like a radio signal, flying through space until it finds its mark. And the answer arrives not when you want it but when it suits God, when you have long since stopped waiting for it.

  —Well, what is to say He hasn’t answered both our prayers?

  —I think that would be quite a feat, even for God.

  The trill of Kotler’s cell phone sounded. He fished the device out of his pocket and inspected the name on the screen.

  —It’s my son, Kotler said. Excuse me.

  He rose from the table and took two steps before he brought the phone to his ear. He spoke his son’s name and heard his voice in reply. In the background, he heard also the grinding sounds of heavy machinery, the rumble of diesel engines, and the clatter of a half-track.

  —One moment, Benzka, Kotler said. Let me just—

  He went into his and Leora’s room and closed the door. He gravitated to the window and looked out at the familiarly uneventful yard. So unlike the scene he pictured surrounding his young son. The word young interposed itself. They had tasked young men—somber children with long limbs and smooth cheeks—to undertake this ugly job. To smash the work of their brothers and expel the brothers too. To do it and continue to believe that, afterward, they could still be brothers. And to trust that this served the greater good. A good for all: the enforcer and the resister, and the nation of onlookers who sat wringing their hands in front of their televisions. Vey iz mir, as his father would have said. Where were they headed?

  —I was going to call you, Kotler said. I was waiting until seven.

  —They are moving us now. A few of the guys are still davening shacharit. But they can only drag it out for so long before the commanders say, Enough.

  —A busy day for God. So many prayers to answer.

  —Not so many, Benzion said. Not enough.

  —How are you, Benzka? Kotler asked with fatherly inflection.

  —Don’t say it like that, Benzion said. That isn’t why I called. I don’t want to talk about that.

  Benzion’s voice faltered and Kotler felt the same impulse he had had when his son was small and someone had caused him pain. The innate desire to console. But his son was no longer small and didn’t want to be consoled. Besides, this time Kotler was the one who had caused him pain. So what use was his sympathy?

  —I talked with Rabbi Gedalia and I talked with some of the guys, Benzion proceeded. We don’t want to do it.

  —I understand, Benzion. It’s a terrible thing that is being asked of you boys. I wish with all my heart that it hadn’t come to this. But are you calling to inform me of your decision or to ask my opinion?

  —Tell me why I should do it.

  —I have no inspired answer to this. You’re a soldier in our nation’s army. The answer I’ll give will be the same as the one you get from your commanders and the minister of defense. However much I disagree with him about this operation, I don’t disagree that a soldier’s job is to obey orders.

  —Even immoral orders?

  —No, not immoral orders. But it says nothing in the Geneva Conventions about dismantling your own settlements.

  —It says it in the Torah.

  —I’m not so sure it says it in the Torah either. But you know I’m no Torah scholar. Anyway, that’s neither here nor there. Like it or not, our country is a democracy. The Torah is very nice, but we don’t run the country by it. If we ever did.

  —Rabbi Gedalia says different.

  —I’m sure he does.

  —So do many other people.

  —Well, if you have a majority, you can form the next government.

  —So that’s it? You’re saying I should go along with this even if it makes me sick? Even if I believe with perfect faith that it is wrong, a sin against God to give up our land? You can tell me honestly that this is what you would do?

  —Benzka, if you have called for my blessing, I can’t give it. I would like to give it. After what has happened and after what I have done, I want nothing more than to give you what you want. But as much as I love you, and as much as I want to please you, I can’t lie to you, my son. Because I love you, I can’t lie to you.

  —You lied already.

  —There are lies and there are lies.

  —You say.

  —This is your father, imperfect.

  —So that’s all?

  —You ask what I would do in your place. Let me ask you. What would happen to our army and our country if soldiers started to choose what orders they would follow? One believes evicting settlers is wrong, another believes the occupation is illegal.

  —So instead we should all go against our consciences and wait until the next election? Is
this what you did in the Soviet Union?

  —Despite what some people say, the time has not yet come to compare Israel to the Soviet Union.

  —I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about a person’s soul. When it screams, No. What are you supposed to do? Ignore it? If you see that your country is on the road to ruin, do you not do something about it? Before it’s too late.

  —This is what you believe?

  —It’s what you yourself said.

  —As a politician, not a soldier. And not exactly for the same reasons.

  —I don’t see a big difference.

  —So then what can I say, Benzka? You’ll do as you see fit.

  —And you won’t support me?

  —If you disobey orders, no. I’m sorry.

  —But I’m telling you I have no choice.

  —That’s not true. If you think there’s no choice, look harder. There is always a choice. A third way, if not a fourth. Whether we have the strength to make those choices is another matter. Of which I am no less guilty than anyone else.

  ELEVEN

  Leora and Svetlana looked down the corridor to where Kotler had disappeared. They kept their eyes fixed on the spot past the point of all discomfort. They were now trapped together without a word to say. Leora laced her fingers around her teacup and looked anywhere but at Svetlana. If necessary, she could sit like this for hours, for as long as it took. How many times had she sat in some government office or waiting room waging a silent war with a receptionist or rival aide? How many times during the last round of negotiations had she been sequestered with the junior members of the Palestinian delegation staring at the closed door behind which the fruitless talks were being conducted?

  She had grown up waiting. She had watched her parents wait. Righteous, implacable, and unheralded. They were modest heroes, nothing like Kotler and Miriam and the others whose names had made it into the newspapers. But they had waited no less honorably. And from their example Leora had learned her first and most instructive lesson. The iron lesson: We will out-wait them. The lesson that had sustained and defined the Jews for thousands of years. It now also sustained and defined their enemies. Both parties, masters of waiting. Across the table and across the fence, waiting each other into oblivion.