They were walking in shirtsleeves along the busy Tel Aviv promenade on a glorious sunny day, which only emphasized their good fortune, the freedom they enjoyed in contrast to the horror of the camps, which had taken the lives of six million Jews.
“For every Jew you see around you here in Palestine,” Shiloah had said, “nine were murdered. Can you imagine such a thing?” He stopped and took Peter’s hands. “Spread out your fingers. Now close all but one.” Peter did, leaving the index finger of his right hand. “That last one standing is you, safe,” Shiloah went on. “But for how long? And don’t you owe a debt to the dead? Why, of all people, did you survive? For what?”
Men and women were laughing and splashing in the calm sea and sunning themselves on the sandy beach. Boys played paddleball, the rat-a-tat of solid rubber on wood like gunshots mingled with honking cars and calls of “Artik, artik,” from the dark-skinned men selling fruit ices. “Nine dead bodies for every one here,” Shiloah said, shaking his head. “Can you imagine? Never again.”
They paused, watching a boy chase a girl, kicking up sand, and the silence lengthened. “Well, do you?” Shiloah insisted. “Want to avenge your parents? By protecting our country?”
Instinctively, Peter rubbed his leather watch strap. “How can I say no?”
“Wrong answer.”
Peter turned to the older man, who had become something of a friend, and had to grin. “How’s this? Of course. Of course I do. Very much. This time the answer is yes.”
“That’s better,” Shiloah said, taking Peter’s hand. “Come with me.”
They had crossed the beach road and walked past the low homes and shops to Ben Yehuda Street, a tall, powerful middle-aged man with graying hair and spectacles, accompanied by a slim, tough man half his age. Two men with a purpose. Shiloah had guided Peter to the secret headquarters of the spy agency, Shai, the same nondescript apartment building at number 85 where Shiloah was now, three years later, showing Peter the photographs.
Shiloah grunted involuntarily. They made even his stomach curl.
“Horrific, but we don’t choose our enemies. And sometimes not our friends,” the spymaster said, gathering up the evidence. He repeated: “You leave in the morning. No contact from now on with anyone in Israel but me. Everything you need is in this envelope. People, profiles, addresses. You won’t travel with it, you will receive it again on location, sealed. In each case our goal is the same. And be very, very careful. These are killers.”
That night, torn between duty and desire, Peter decided Shiloah would never know he had had one last contact, and if he did, he’d approve. Peter took the stairs down to the office on the ground floor, where he found two sheets of paper, two envelopes, and a stamp. He sat at a desk and in the pool of light from the swivel lamp wrote a short note to go inside the first envelope: “Arie, my brother, please give this letter to Tamara.” He didn’t add anything else, Arie would understand that he could give no information about where he was.
Inside that envelope he folded the second envelope, addressed to Tamara, with a second brief note. In case her family read it, he wrote as discreetly as he could:
My Dear Tamara,
Stay away from my brother! But seriously, I want you to know how special our brief time together was. I hope that you will wait for me to return. I don’t know when that will be and this may be a lot to ask, but I feel and pray that I can ask this of you.
Peter
It was past midnight when he slipped the envelope addressed to Arie into the Frishman Street postbox and returned to his room at the Office. His suitcase ready for the early call, his papers in order, Peter fell into a deep, satisfied sleep, dreamt of Tamara, and woke with the sun as Wolf, alias Willi Stinglwagner.
TAMARA and ARIE
TEL AVIV, ISRAEL
February 1950
Arie and Tamara were trying to cross Allenby, one of Tel Aviv’s busiest streets. Their drive into town along the narrow coastal road had been harrowing enough, with all the hooting and gesturing drivers, but here, buses and cars billowing blue fumes competed with groaning engines, honking horns, and the curses of pedestrians. Women pushing prams dodged the vehicles, Arabs in keffiyehs peddled coffee from steaming urns, offering warmth in the morning frost. Tel Aviv, less than forty years old, was chaotic, improvised, inventing itself day by day.
Tamara was almost overcome by the din and the tumult, but not quite. Laughing, she took Arie’s hand and pulled him through a break in the traffic to Nachalat Binyamin Street, where Arie had said there would be a surprise.
By the tree in the little square where Nachalat Binyamin met Allenby, they looked up at the rounded prow of the notorious Polishuk House, which looked like a beached boat in the center of town. Its surprising shape and small round windows like portholes distinguished it from the bleak, angular buildings everywhere else. It was known as “The Monstrosity” but was also the home of Naalei Pil, Elephant Shoes, and here Arie held the door open for Tamara.
It was icy outside and warm inside and just for that Tamara was grateful. But when Arie sat her down and asked the salesman for a pair of Bata shoes in her size, she was surprised. “For me? Really? No, I can’t.”
“Come on,” Arie said. “You need them, you deserve them, it’s muddy in that camp, and cold. You’ve just got sandals. Anyway, try them on, see how they feel.”
But even as he spoke, Tamara had pulled off her sandals and was waving her feet. Thank God she had darned her socks last week.
When the man returned with three pairs to try, Tamara hesitated. “You know, Arie, in the camp everyone wears sandals. The rich people wear better sandals. What will people think? Can I really go back in these?”
Arie put his hand on hers. “Yes. Yes, you can.”
She selected soft leather boots in two-tone black and dark gray with low heels and a straight toe. She trailed her fingers over the leather, thinking of her escape from Cairo with just the sandals on her feet, but dismissed the image. “You’re right, I really do need these, thank you so much, I don’t know what to say.” She squeezed his hand. She shouldn’t really accept them, but what a relief they would be.
In another shop in the same building Arie wanted to buy her a knee-length burgundy wool coat with a fur collar. When she tried to object, Arie overrode her, saying they must buy it because soon Israel would introduce rationing for shoes and clothes, and then they wouldn’t be able to buy anything. It was now or never. And, anyway, he added, what’s the point of saving money, who knows if there’ll be a tomorrow? And also, why freeze when you can be warm? It was hard to disagree with anything Arie said.
Relishing the comforting soft fur against her throat and her snug new boots, Tamara clung to Arie’s arm as they walked along Sheinkin Street. Feeling hard muscle through his coat, she only now realized how strong he must be. Amid the strangeness and bustle of town, she felt safe.
They entered Café Stern, akin to a kibbutz dining room, with its crowded tables, familiar faces, and miserable coffee. Sarah Stern, the gruff and beloved owner, shrugged off complaints, saying she’d serve better coffee if her clients asked for it, but they didn’t.
“It’s bitter, this coffee,” Tamara said with a grimace. “I make better. But mmmhh, wonderful poppyseed cake, though. And that reminds me,” she added, leaning forward, forking the last moist black crumbs into her mouth. “I shouldn’t ask, or maybe I should. The boots. The coat. Isn’t this very expensive for you? I really shouldn’t have accepted them.”
A thought had disturbed her and now she knew what it was. Walking to the café, they had passed shouting children throwing snowballs, and when Arie had playfully thrown one at her, without thinking she had turned her back and didn’t join the fun. Now she suddenly understood why, and it made her sad. It was the children back in the transit camp: children of the desert, from Yemen, Morocco, Egypt, Libya, Iraq. They weren’t bundled up in warm clothes, playing in the novel snow in the streets, or skiing down the slopes of Mount Carmel in Haif
a or sledding the streets of Jerusalem. They were curled up in bed with frozen toes, shivering in thin clothes under a single blanket. It wasn’t fair. Why couldn’t they be out playing too, with gloves and woolen hats?
Setting down her fork with a louder clang than she had intended, Tamara demanded, “Your car. What do you do? I mean, all the money. How do you make so much? And if you’re so rich, why do you live in one room with Peter? And, anyway, when is he coming back?”
Arie gazed over Tamara’s shoulder and around the room, through the bluish haze of cigarette smoke that rose from every table. Behind the wooden counter Sarah held out two cups of fresh coffee to a waiter. The door and windows were closed against the cold while outside, a flurry of snow whitened the stacked tables and chairs.
Why did he still share a room with his brother? He knew that splitting the rent helped Peter; he earned peanuts with the government. But it was more than that. What was it? Duty? No. Guilt? No. Or, maybe a bit of both, and more. They were family, it was just the two of them now, all the others had been murdered in the camps, as far as they knew. Every day began with a twinge of hope: Maybe today someone would turn up. It happened all the time. Everyone knew someone whose relative, mother, father, sister, cousin, believed dead, suddenly knocked on the door, or a letter appeared in the post: Are you so-and-so from so-and-so?
And then there was this, clear to Arie, even if Peter did not fully understand: at home, in their little shared room, Arie could be himself. Outside, he was the new Israeli—ambitious, powerful, clever, funny. But he could never mention what drove him: the camps. If he did, people’s eyes dropped, they looked away, as if it was a crime that he was still alive. What did you do to survive? So he buried his pain and his shame. But at home with Peter he was safe, he could be himself, be the younger brother, short of temper and manners, and while Peter could never fully understand, at least he didn’t judge him.
Peter could only say: There, but for the grace of God, or rather the Quakers, go I.
Their childhood ended when Peter was randomly chosen to go to America, while he had to stay behind. Peter had promised, on that last day, at the train station, to bring them all to America. But how could he? He was only fourteen. Arie knew Peter had felt guilty then, and still did now. He had left his family to their fate in Germany, while he went to live in safety and luxury. But wouldn’t I have done the same, Arie thought, if I could have?
Yes, they didn’t share just the room. They shared everything, and nothing. They had each other and nobody else. They weren’t yet ready to let go.
And, as a matter of fact, he also didn’t really have much money to spend, he put it all back in the business, even if he’d told Tamara there was no point saving.
He heard her say “Well, is it a secret? Where do you get so much money from?”
“Have you finished your coffee?” he asked, draining his cup.
“Yes.”
“So come with me, I’ll show you something.”
As they drove, Arie prepared Tamara. “When I was in your camp the other day, when we met, you know what we were doing there, right? Me and the other men?”
“Looking at the way we live.”
“Yes, but more than that. The government wants you out of there, and not just you. There are more than half a million immigrants like you, and almost all go through the transit camps. You’re supposed to be there a week or two, three at the most, yet you’ve been there for months and some are approaching a year; there’s nowhere to go. We have to build, and fast. There are more Jews landing at the ports every day, tens of thousands a month, so many our Jewish population doubled in less than three years. All these people need homes, jobs, schools, clinics, transport, clothes, food. Someone has to provide all that, so there are fortunes to be made. By doing good work. It isn’t just about making money. We’re building a country, we’re in a hurry, and it isn’t always pretty.”
As if to prove him right, a car on the outside made a sharp right turn, pulling across Arie, causing Arie to swerve to the left, toward an oncoming truck, which hooted and skidded as its driver hit the brakes. As he straightened Arie hooted too, and all three drivers shook their fists. “Welcome to Israel,” Arie said with a tight grin.
“Ben Zonah!” They heard a fading shout, “Son of a bitch!” Dozens of men and women lined the road, hitchhiking and shouting good-natured insults at cars that ignored them.
They turned east off the new tar road at the one gas station in the dunes between Tel Aviv and the rising town of Herzliya. They bumped by orange groves until the rutted track ended at a building site, a blunt, elongated structure rising from shrub and sand.
Trucks unloaded, others exited with debris, and workers swarmed over the three-story building that was nearing completion. It was long and squat, with a stucco exterior: roughly mixed cement, Arie explained, cheap, easy to apply, low maintenance, weather-resistant. The last of the concrete blocks and steel girders were still visible as workers laid rows of bricks.
“We’re close to the end,” Arie said, winding up the window against a blast of cold air. They watched from the warmth of the car, the engine throbbing. “Five buildings with their own entrances, all connected at the first floor, three levels, eight apartments on each level, a hundred and twenty apartments. Built in eight months. Not bad. Another acre and a half to build on. Roads, maybe a playground, shops. Who knows, maybe your family will move in.”
With her sleeve, Tamara wiped moisture from the window and looked from the buildings to Arie. “And?” she asked. “You work here?”
A smug grin. “Sort of. I own it.”
Tamara’s mouth widened. “Really? no…”
“Really, yes. With my partners. And another site like it. They should all be ready in eight weeks. And we’re breaking ground on two schools.”
“But … but, you’re so young.”
“So what? That’s just it. Everyone’s young. It’s a young country. Two years old, and half of that we’ve been at war, and nobody thinks the fighting’s over. We have a lot to do in a very short time. Think of it. Two years ago the country’s main export was oranges. Total Israel exports were six million dollars. But now the sky’s the limit. And I aim to be part of it.”
“But … if you own all this, why do you live in one room?”
“Well, first of all, I don’t have much cash, I…”
“But you bought me shoes. And a coat. Why, then? I knew I shouldn’t have accepted…” She flushed with embarrassment.
“No, no, don’t worry.” Arie laughed. “I have plenty when I want, but mostly I don’t want. Every penny I make goes back into the business. We build fast and cheap. Walls and a roof, that’s all that counts…” In his excitement, he spoke so fast Tamara could barely follow. “I’m in construction, but there’s a lot more too. I import materials for construction, some foods, some … there’s such a shortage of everything: plumbing. Copper. It’s so expensive, America’s using it all for the war in Korea. You can’t find anything here. Everything’s rationed.”
Tamara listened with a growing smile of bemusement. She had never met anyone like him. If he had been a refugee in the camp, they would all have been in houses long ago. He didn’t stop talking. “There was a fire in a mill in Haifa and now there’s not enough bread. I have a friend, we’re going to start a bakery. And everywhere you look they’re planting trees. I know someone at the Jewish National Fund, they’re going to plant six million trees, one for each Nazi victim; someone has to provide them, the seeds, or saplings, or whatever you call baby trees, they have to come from somewhere, that’s a great business too, and … well, anyway, there’s a great future here for anyone who wants to work. And I want to work. And of course, you have to know the right people. And I’m getting to know them.”
“But how did you start? You said you came here with nothing.”
“I worked, I saved, I bought a small piece of land, against that asset the bank lent me money to build, I sold, did it again, and it all
just grew. As long as I can pay the bank interest, I can keep borrowing. And because the country is growing so quickly, the projects become bigger, and, well…”
“Well, I’m surprised,” Tamara finally interrupted him. “If I’d known all this, I’d have asked for a woolen hat and leather gloves as well!” She shouted out a laugh. “I’m joking.”
After lunch back in town Arie left Tamara alone in the Romanian restaurant for twenty minutes, saying he had some quick business to attend to. She drank mint tea, observing the crowd of European women in warm coats and woolen scarves. How snug they were, all bundled up against the cold, chatting over their coffees and cream cakes. A special treat back in the camp was black bread soaked in the juice of stolen oranges. How long had they been in Israel? When would she have a home of her own, and money for meals in a place like this? It hardly seemed possible.
It made her sad, thinking how little she had, and how much she had lost. She often thought of Pascal and the River Nile. Egypt, so far away, was closed to her; Israel, not yet open. She felt neither here nor there. Unwanted, almost unseen. It was horribly hard, living in the tent. Worst of all was the cold and the rain, they had had no idea it would be like this. She longed to be warm, to live in an apartment like Arie’s. As for Peter, it was only three days but it already seemed like a long time ago. He had just walked away, saying he couldn’t call, and he hadn’t written. Why not, why so secretive? Was he married? Didn’t he love her? She didn’t want to ask Arie about him again. It had been a big mistake. A big, beautiful, crazy mistake.
Promised Land Page 3
