The Betrayers

by David Bezmozgis

  —Hello, yes, hello, Leora said.

  She was drawn into the conversation, which left Kotler to return to the computer screen and Miriam’s waiting message. He saw her name, Miriam Kotler, composed in Hebrew letters, as though she were asserting in the most unmitigated sense—before God and man—her connection to him. In those two words—her name—was enfolded their entire history together, a history of nearly four decades. From the time they had met in Moscow as fledgling Zionists, as Boris Kotler and Milena Ravikovich, to her becoming Milena Kotler on their wedding day. It was Milena Kotler, in Russian, that she had written on the first envelopes she mailed to him from Israel. Later, after his detention and the start of her campaign on his behalf, she became Miriam. For the duration of his sentence, that was the name he saw, again in Russian, on the post he was fitfully granted. Only after his release did he encounter this Hebrew version, spelled out on the directory of the apartment building where she had insisted on listing them both, Baruch and Miriam Kotler, years before there had been any tangible hope of a reunion.

  Ah! It was wholly unpredictable where life’s emotional jolts would come from, thought Kotler. He would never have supposed that the sight of Miriam’s name, typed in Hebrew—a thing he had seen a thousand times on the ephemera of household bills—could so stir him.

  He clicked on her message.

  My Dear Baruch,

  I don’t know where my letter will find you, but I believe it will find you. This is the opposite of how it was all those years ago when I knew where you were but couldn’t trust that my letters would be delivered. Much has changed since then, most of it, praise G-d, for the better. I have been reminding myself of this during these last two trying days.

  Baruch, I never thought the time would come when I would be writing you such a letter. I never thought there would come a time when I would not know where to find you in this world. That has been the greatest shock of all. That, if you can believe it, is what seems most painful to me. That you have vanished on us. On me and on the children. That you have treated those dearest to you like informers, like strangers. Somehow I feel that if I knew where you were, I could better withstand my pain.

  Baruch, I am not naïve. I understand that the promises people make to each other when they are young cannot be enforced when they grow old. I understand about men and the temptations of the flesh. I understand it from life and from our Torah, which does not shy away from this subject. I am a sixty-year-old woman and I know that, as pertains to the sexual appetite, this is not the same as being a sixty-year-old man. I do not desire and do not need to be desired the way I did when I was a younger woman. G-d, in His wisdom, made men and women differently, and made men to harbor these desires until their dying days. When King David was old, it was a young girl, Abishag the Shunammite, who was sent to warm his bed and not Bathsheba, his wife, whose beauty had once caused him to commit a terrible sin. The Torah never says how Bathsheba felt about this girl in her husband’s bed. Did she not wish to care for him herself? Or did she accept that she could not provide for him the way a young girl could? Of course, those were different times and a king had many wives and none could make an exclusive claim on him. Still, I have been thinking about Bathsheba and Abishag these past days. There is only one passage in the Bible where Bathsheba and Abishag appear together. It is when Bathsheba goes to King David to ask him to honor his promise to her and to appoint Solomon the rightful heir to the throne of Israel. “And Bathsheba went in unto the king in the chamber.—Now the king was very old; and Abishag the Shunammite ministered unto the king.—And Bathsheba bowed, and prostrated herself unto the king.” Why does the Bible mention again that Abishag was with the king? It must be only to further humble Bathsheba at this moment. Not only must she beg her husband to keep his promise, she must do it before the young woman who now warms his bed. But in the end, she is rewarded. Her husband keeps his promise and her son ascends to the throne and builds the first temple, praise G-d.

  I have been thinking about this and about what lesson I am to draw from it. Is it to accept that there is something in the natures of men and women that must be accommodated? I know that our intimate life is no longer what it was. I am not Abishag. I am Bathsheba. I am your wife, a woman of sixty, the mother of your children. But after all these years of marriage, what can Bathsheba ask of her husband? Can she ask only on behalf of the children, or also on her own behalf? If I no longer possess all the same desires, it does not mean I am without desires. I still desire those other things that we have always had together—comfort, familiarity, respect, affection, and love. For all the years we have spent together and the hardships we have endured, what is the value of the bond between us? What is owed to Bathsheba?

  I am not writing to plead with you or make demands. I also will not pretend that you have not hurt me or that I am not angry with you. But I see that our life together has reached a crossroads and I ask myself which path I would prefer we take. It is true, we have both reached a very mature age and our children are nearly grown. We are no longer in that stage of life where we must worry about remaining together for the sake of the children. And I am past the stage of my life where I would be lost without a man. My mother was widowed when she was not much older than I am now and she lived until the end by herself. She claimed she was content. She would have preferred to have my father beside her, but without him she had the company of her friends and she also had me. Not only me, but all of us, as you well remember. We all cared for her, you no less than me. You were as much a son to her as if you were hers by blood. I too have friends and I have our children. And in time—soon, if G-d grants—there will be grandchildren. I imagine myself living the life my mother lived in her final years and I cannot say it terrifies me. But just as my mother would have wished to have my father by her side, I would still, even after all this, prefer to have you by my side. We have built this family together. It was the dream we shared almost from the first moment we met in Moscow. It seemed such a distant dream, and for so long it seemed nearly unattainable. But we have done it. We have made our lives in the land of Israel, the land of our forefathers, and we have raised two beautiful children here, proud Jews and Israelis who now dream their dreams in Hebrew.

  Baruch, I don’t know what your intentions are. I don’t know what is in your mind or in your heart. I don’t know what promises you have made to Leora, the Abishag in our story. Of course, I always recognized her as Abishag. A younger woman in your house is always Abishag. No matter how doting or polite she may be, you know she poses a threat. It is not even her fault. It is in nature. Our part is to struggle against nature. Our part is to resist our bad inclinations with our good. I do not know how much Leora resisted her bad inclinations and I don’t know how much you resisted yours. But Dafna said you were blackmailed and that, if you had compromised, those dreadful photographs would have been suppressed. (On this, I took your side. One cannot make such compromises and I know you never would.) But if you were blackmailed it means that you did not intend for those photographs to be seen and you didn’t want to make public this affair. And perhaps this affair had already run its course or you were planning on ending it. Perhaps it was never your intention to leave our marriage. Perhaps you had simply strayed, submitted to an isolated temptation, and were now prepared to continue with our life as we have always lived it. That is for you to say. But if you wish to return to our marriage, I am willing to forgive. Our friends, our community, the people who have rallied around me as they rallied around me in the years of our earlier struggle, feel as I do. Everyone is willing to forgive. No one of us is perfect. Just this morning, Gedalia brought me this verse from Ecclesiastes: “For there is not a righteous man upon earth, that doeth good, and sinneth not.” Our greatest sages and prophets were also not without sin. So what right do I have to expect of you, even you, to be more righteous than our sages?

  Baruch, whatever you decide, I ask only that you don’t delay. Even if you decide not to return to me, return sp
eedily to the country and to your children. They are in desperate need of your presence and your guidance.

  Your wife,

  Miriam

  How thoroughly he had fouled the best of what they had once been, Kotler thought. And of the many offenses he had committed, the worst seemed to be against the girl he had met in Moscow forty years earlier to whom he had pledged his love. The quiet, contemplative beauty, like a young Ingrid Bergman, who appeared one evening at the Hebrew class that the Sobels ran secretly out of their apartment. Rak Ivrit—“only Hebrew”—was the rule. In the course of a conversational exercise, he had said to her: Would you like to see a movie and go drink coffee and get married and move to Israel and raise a large family? To which she had replied with the single Hebrew word: Zehu? “That’s it?”

  Somewhere within Miriam this girl was cradled, and also the other Miriams who, through selflessness and loyalty, had enriched and solaced his life. He had wronged them individually and collectively, but they were now out of reach and he could not return to them even if he wished. And to the Miriam who had written the letter? Likely he could not return to her either.

  Leora’s telephone conversation had ended before Kotler finished reading Miriam’s letter. Perceptive to the last, she didn’t disturb him but waited patiently for him to conclude.

  —Something important? she asked.

  —A letter from Miriam.

  —Anything I should know?

  —Nothing new, Kotler said as kindly as the words could be spoken. Other than some wisdom from Gedalia.

  —And what is that?

  —“For there is not a righteous man upon earth, that doeth good, and sinneth not.”

  —He would know.

  They did not pursue it further. They were of the same mind about Gedalia, though Kotler had reasons beyond those Leora could know. It was a young Gedalia, barely out of yeshiva, who had been Miriam’s chief advocate and protector. Her chaperone on her global crusade to free Kotler. There had been salacious murmurings, which had reached Kotler even in prison. In her letters, Miriam denied them, but not long after Kotler landed in Israel, Gedalia came to him, beating his breast, begging forgiveness, tearfully confessing to his impure thoughts and desires.

  —I got our tickets changed, Leora said.

  —Yes, I overheard. Thank you.

  —No need to thank me, Baruch. It felt good to finally manage something. Even something so trivial.

  Kotler looked at his watch. Half past nine. They had more than ten hours before their flight to Kiev. If they left now, they would be facing an inordinate wait at the Simferopol airport. It would be an inordinate wait in any airport, let alone Simferopol, which was not among the world’s coziest way stations.

  —I suggest we go to Simferopol, Leora said. At the airport or the bus station we could stow our luggage and see the city. There must be something to see there.

  —There must, Kotler said.

  —What else would you propose? Leora asked.

  —We’ll be the only tourists to leave Yalta without seeing the Livadia Palace, Chekhov’s house, or Massandra Beach.

  —So you have a reason to come back, Leora said.

  —No, Leoraleh, Kotler said. I have no reason to come back.

  To reach the taxi stand they crossed Lenin Square for the last time. An accordionist, older than Kotler, a roostery fellow in a white baseball cap, had set himself up at the base of the statue. On the ground, lashed to a wheeled dolly, a stereo system piped an underscore of music. Next to the stereo sat an accordion case, open to receive contributions, a few bills and coins already scattered on its incompatibly lush blue velvet lining. The accordionist stood by the case and fingered the melody of a Russian folk song. A small audience formed a perimeter to listen to the music and watch the bolder among them dance. Kotler also slowed to watch, and Leora fell austerely in line beside him. On the impromptu dance floor, some dozen people spun. Kotler counted only one man among them, a youth with a shaved head who led his slim girlfriend by the hand. The rest of the dancers were older women. Some danced in pairs a short distance apart, stepping to the music. The others danced by themselves. They looked like ordinary embattled Russian women of Svetlana’s type briefly forgetting their arduous lives. Nearest to Kotler danced a woman in a flowered blouse and a long white skirt, her figure matronly, her hair auburn but gray at the roots, the skin of her face finely wrinkled. She held her head upturned, her shoulders level, her hands delicately twirling. She revolved in a small circle, her feet moving under the sweep of her skirt. On her feet, Kotler saw, she wore flesh-colored nylon socks and white leather, low-heeled shoes. With a blade she had cut the leather to make room for her bunions, which bulged almost monstrously through the rents.

  Everywhere you look, heartbreak, Kotler thought.

  At the taxi stand, cars were waiting. Kotler approached the first. Its driver sat inside, his window rolled down, reading a newspaper on the steering wheel.

  —Will you take us to Simferopol? Kotler asked.

  —And why not? the man replied. I’d take you to Kherson. The farther the better.

  He named a fee and took charge of their bags while Kotler and Leora deposited themselves in the backseat, Leora turning to face the window, withdrawn into herself.

  They drove along the same road they had taken before, this time heading out of Yalta. Morning traffic was heavy through the tourist center. Cars and buses lurched forward. Kotler gazed out the window at the view of sparkling, modernized Yalta. A resort town in a corrupt country, as it had always been, there to propagate the illusion. But he had loved it as a boy and believed his parents had loved it too. Now he would leave it for the last time and consign more of his life to the impervious past.

  They picked up the main highway and drove through the Crimean countryside. They saw again the scenery they’d seen through the bus windows the previous day: the small towns and villages, visible from the road, little changed from fifty years earlier. They were ramshackle then; they were ramshackle still—though topped, here and there, by a satellite dish. Twice on the way to Yalta their bus had stopped to allow a herd of goats to cross the highway, their minder blithely leading them as though privileged by the antiquity of his trade. Sometimes they saw workers in the fields; sometimes men in the bones of a house engaged in some ongoing construction project. The pace of everything seemed governed by a bucolic torpor. It resembled, Kotler thought, Israel not so very long ago and, even to this day, the Arab parts of the country in the north and the south. The main difference was a peculiarity of the landscape, crude structures strewn haphazardly everywhere. Often they were just four walls without a roof. Or if with a roof, then with gaping holes for the windows and doors. All were of the same yellow limestone and could just as easily have been new and unfinished as old and decaying. But if they were old, Kotler didn’t remember them from before. The previous day, on the bus to Yalta, he’d turned to a young Russian man in the neighboring seat. Drily, the man informed him that these were the instruments of a Tatar land grab. After the fall of the Soviet Union, the Tatars had returned to Crimea in their thousands. The Ukrainian government, bowing to their historical grievances, had ceded them land wherever they built dwellings. These were supposed to be their dwellings.

  Land! The land! What, Kotler had wondered, would his old Tatar prison mate have made of this? The repatriation and autonomy of the Crimean Tatars had been his struggle. He had given his life over to it. Were he still living, he and Kotler could have had an interesting conversation. What dreams they had nurtured and what distortions now obtained. And it was all to do with land. A measure of earth under your feet that you could call your own. Was there a more primitive concept? But nobody lives in the ether. Man is a physical being who requires physical space. And his nature is a prejudicial nature of alike and unalike. That was the history of the world. How much earth can you claim with another’s consent? How long can you hold it if you haven’t consent? And is it possible to foster consent where none exis
ts? Kotler didn’t know the answers to the first two questions, but the essential question was the last, and the answer to that was not favorable.

  —Imagine, Kotler said to Leora, this could have been the Jewish homeland. Then the Tatars and the Russians could have demanded we go back to where we belong, as the Palestinians do now.

  Leora sat on her side of the backseat as she had from the start, looking silently out her window. Kotler had spoken in an attempt to break the silence, make a conciliatory gesture, though he still didn’t know exactly what he’d said or done to alienate her.

  —If you have something to say, Leora, you should say it. Mindful of the driver, Kotler spoke the words in Hebrew. We have two hours in this car.

  Peevishly, Leora turned from her window.

  —What are you doing with me, Baruch?

  —I don’t understand.

  —Why did you get involved with me?

  —I thought that much was clear. I fell in love with you.

  —So you said. But how could someone like you fall in love with someone like me?

  —Someone like me? Someone like you?

  —An exceptionally moral person like you and an ordinary person like me. I don’t understand how that is possible.

  —It is possible. It happens all the time. The trouble with us exceptionally moral people is that there are exceedingly few of us. We must partner up somehow, Kotler said, trying to lighten the mood.

  —I don’t believe it. If I were like you, I don’t see how I could be with someone like me.

  —But you aren’t me. And I clearly haven’t minded.

  —I have always had my doubts about that. I have always wondered how you could be sincere. That compared to you, compared to Miriam, I was insufficient. And this has nothing to do with what they wrote about me in the newspapers. Believe me, they didn’t write a single word that I couldn’t have written myself.