Certainly, if it came out now, Schwartz’s story would destroy him, just as kapo trials were haunting the country. Tales of the evil Jews who collaborated with the Nazis filled the newspapers. It was a kind of national cleansing process—the country vomiting its poison in order to feel better.
They would label him a Jew-murderer, and he would be a pariah.
But that wasn’t going to happen. He had seen too many people die in the camps, then in the War of Independence. At first he had asked himself, What was the point of all that death? But then he realized the real question was, What was the point of this life? What would he do with his life to make it all worthwhile? He didn’t have an answer to that, but what he knew for certain was that the jerk, Schwartz, was not going to ruin it for him.
Twice Arie had given Schwartz money to shut him up but Arie knew it would never be enough. He had to stop the blackmail.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, by the worst imaginable luck, after the threats began, Schwartz had seen him hand in hand with Yasmine at the Kaete Dan hotel on the Tel Aviv beach. They’d taken a room there, only to find that Schwartz worked behind the desk. Arie broke it off with Yasmine the next day. He couldn’t see her anymore there and she didn’t want to meet anywhere else. Only the five-star hotel, with a terrace overlooking the beach, was good enough for her now.
The ending became loud and messy, and he had paid her off also, but so what? It was just money and, after all, he still had Batia.
Two days later at noon, Arie pulled up at the café where he had promised to give Schwartz another wad of cash. But this time he had other plans. He would end this, Arie swore to himself. One way or another, the blackmail stops here.
Schwartz was not happy when Arie told him he didn’t have the money yet. But Arie said, “Don’t worry, I’ll have the cash later on, and then you’ll be happy.”
Arie had not wanted to arrange anything by phone or letter; only face-to-face. No trail. They arranged to meet again that same evening.
At first Schwartz had hesitated to meet Arie on the rocks near the Yarkon River, he’d have to take a bus there, it was out of the way, notorious as a seedy place of prostitution, and he didn’t see the point. But Arie’s promise of a bit of fun, at his expense, persuaded Schwartz to turn up as planned. It was dark when he arrived at the clearing, just north of the river where the road ended, and where the ladies of the night gathered between clients.
“I often go there for a bit of fun,” Arie told Schwartz. “Come at nine after work, I’ll introduce you to Osnat, she’s French, genuine blonde, a bonus from me. To celebrate the last payment. This is the last one, right?” Arie said, knowing that Schwartz would never stop blackmailing him.
“Yes, of course, I said so, never again.”
You lying piece of trash, Arie thought. You don’t even know you’re telling the truth.
Schwartz walked alone in the dark from the bus stop. The moonlight was dim, sudden shrieks or groans made him jump. Why had he agreed to come here? What madness made him leave the security of a crowded café on a busy street? Of all the people in the world, he should trust Arie Nesher, who could kill him with his bare hands? He expected to hear Arie’s car approaching and peered all about him, seeking a pair of growing lights in the darkness.
“Hello, Schwartz,” Arie said, clamping a hand on his shoulder. Schwartz jumped a foot and felt his heart would never beat again. When it did it was so rapid he couldn’t talk. Finally, he managed to gasp, “You lunatic, I almost died of fright.”
“A good way to go,” Arie said. “Clean, quick, painless.” He took out an envelope. “Here, let’s get this over with, count it, and then we can go find Osnat, and her friend Michal. Not that those are their real names. It’s all there?”
“How should I know? I can’t see a thing.”
“Well, it is, trust me. And it’s the last payment. Yes? Shake on that.”
They shook hands. Schwartz said only, “I’ll count it later,” and with a comforting tap put the envelope into his trouser pocket.
“Don’t lose sight of your pants,” Arie said with a laugh. “Come on, the fun begins.”
“I don’t think so,” Schwartz said. “This is not my kind of place. I’m going back to the bus stop. I’ll be in touch.”
“Oh no, you won’t,” Arie said. “You won’t be in touch, and you won’t be going. Come on, don’t be a baby, come with me, Osnat is waiting for you.” He took Schwartz’s arm and pulled him along. “She’s beautiful,” Arie said. “All curves and lips. Know what I mean? She’s the best at everything you can dream of. Oh my, her ass!” He felt Schwartz’s resistance weaken and relaxed his grip. Schwartz kept close to his side, stumbling as he walked into a rut.
“Follow me,” Arie said, “she’s over here.” Arie, who had approached on foot, had already scouted out the area and found a quiet spot over the hill where the sloping earth and rocks would mute any noise. They were soon alone. “That’s funny, where is she?” Arie said.
“Let’s go back,” Schwartz whispered, as if someone was spying on them, edging closer to Arie. “Where are we?”
“Near the sea,” Arie said, pushing Schwartz away and, with all his might, he punched him in the solar plexus. There was a sucking sound, Schwartz doubled up and retched, gasping for breath, while Arie twisted his side to Schwartz and smashed him in the temple with the point of his elbow. There was a crashing, tearing sound, like a tree falling through foliage. His world spinning, Schwartz crumpled to his knees and felt his mouth fill with warm ooze. His skull felt like it had caved in. He tried to yell but all that came from his mouth was a rattle and blood. He supported himself with one arm but Arie’s knee to his jaw jerked his head back so far and so hard it may have snapped his neck.
Arie took back the envelope of money. With two fingers he felt Schwartz’s artery. When he was sure it was still pumping, he whispered into his ear, “That’s just a warning. If ever I hear from you again, I’ll kill you.”
DIANA and PETER
TEL AVIV, ISRAEL
February 1954
There was quite a stink at the Office when Peter didn’t show up for the briefing. His affronted section head, Amnon Sela, filed an immediate complaint. Sela had ordered Peter to come straight from the airport to the planning meeting, because he brought new information from Germany that needed to be considered for their recommendations. But Peter had gone straight home to his wife.
“He’s a loose cannon,” Sela told everyone. “Who does he think he is? It’s unacceptable.” Everybody wants to go home to his wife. But first comes a responsibility to the team and the Office.
Sela made sure his accusation went all the way up the ladder, which was his mistake, because the only response from the family man at the top, Isser Harel, was, “Of course he went straight home. It’s been nearly five months. He’s got children he’s never seen. After all, it was just a planning meeting. Who gave the dumb order he should not?”
“Leave it to me,” Sela said to his boss. “I’ll find out.”
Peter’s grin grew the closer he got to home. He had boarded the plane at Berlin Tempelhof Airport as Willi Stinglwagner, all dark business suit and decorum, and he hadn’t yet had time to change into the khaki shorts and short-sleeved white shirt of Peter Nesher. The taxi driver had asked if he was visiting Israel for the first time.
Peter didn’t miss much. When he said he had flown in from Berlin, he saw the driver’s grip on the wheel tighten, saw his neck muscles twitch. The driver, stocky, gray-haired, balding, glared into the rearview mirror. Peter smiled back. “Quite a country you’ve built here,” he said in German. The driver held his look a moment and turned his attention back to the road. He didn’t speak again until he asked for the fare, which was half again of the real price. Peter paid anyway. Who knew what the Nazis had done to him?
And anyway, he had something to celebrate.
He carried his case up the stairs to his two-bedroom apartment in the same building where he had sh
ared a room with Arie.
On the first landing he paused, waiting for his heartbeat to slow down, trying to control his racing thoughts. It wasn’t the stairs, it wasn’t getting cheated with the cab fare, it wasn’t even seeing Diana again and the anticipation of her warm body wrapped into his, after so long.
No, none of those. He murmured their names, savoring the sounds. Ezra. Noah. Noah, who built the ark. Ezra, the prophet. My boys, he thought, four months and three days old. He floated up the last flight of stairs, a grin occupying his entire face.
He stopped outside his door, and heard the piercing sound of a baby crying. Another one joined in. Lusty lungs, Peter thought. He heard Diana calling out in frustration. A bang and clatter as something fell to the floor. Silence.
After a moment to collect himself, he turned the key and opened the door.
And there was Diana, eyes widening in alarm. She was barefoot, her hair partly pinned up with strands falling over her face, her brow gleaming with sweat. His shirt hung over her baggy shorts like a tent. In one hand she held a brush and in the other a pan full of dust and bits of food.
Her face was a kaleidoscope of emotions. Surprise, which turned to horror, which turned to embarrassment and then joy, and finally she jumped into his arms, dropping the brush and tin pan with a clatter.
“You’re early … they said you wouldn’t be home till late, you had to go to the Office for a meeting … I haven’t tidied up … haven’t showered. I haven’t…” until Peter gently pushed Diana to arm’s length.
“I couldn’t wait, I love you too much,” he managed to say. He looked from her to the bedroom door and pointed with his chin. “In there?”
The smile of an angel came to her. She pulled her hair from her eyes, which shone with joy. She nodded and took Peter by the hand. But first he took off his shoes, he didn’t know why, it seemed the right thing, to pad gently and silently into the presence of his dearest twins and meet them for the first time in this life. Before he even crossed the threshold, tears were streaming down his face. Diana touched them in wonder. “I’ve never seen you cry,” she said.
Noah and Ezra, he didn’t know yet who was who, lay across each other like puppies, the foot of one in the eye of the other. They had sparse black hair and chubby thighs and looked up at Peter with wide brown eyes. “I was trying to dress them for you,” Diana whispered. “But they hate clothes.”
“They take after me,” Peter said, with a gentle squeeze of Diana’s hand. “Here,” she said, picking up the top one and as she held him out to Peter, she kissed the baby and said, “Peter, this is Noah. Noah, meet your daddy.” Peter took the tiny wriggling thing and held him at a distance, before shifting his hold, until Noah’s body pressed against his breast. A thin wail became earsplitting. With all his might Noah strained away from Peter, one tiny pudgy hand using Peter’s nose for leverage, and his face turned puce and then scarlet from the effort of crying and pushing.
“What did I do?” Peter wailed as Noah sucked in air between screams.
Diana took Noah from him. “Nothing, he just doesn’t know you.”
“Ouch. That hurt.”
“Try Ezra, pick him up.” Diana held Noah with one arm and with the other hand she pulled her shirt open, allowing a full breast to plop out with a large brown nipple, which disappeared between the lips of Noah, who settled and sucked.
Peter looked on in envy and picked up Ezra, who squirmed, grimaced, puckered up his mouth, and began to scream. “Oh no,” Peter said. “It was easier dealing with Genscher.”
“Lothar Genscher? Never mention his name in this home again. This is a scum-free zone.”
“You’re right,” Peter said, “bad joke. What should I do?”
“Just hold him and walk around till he stops.”
Twenty minutes later Peter could barely stay on his feet but Ezra, his son Ezra, was asleep in his arms, his head warm in the crick of Peter’s neck and, on the sofa, Noah slept at Diana’s breast.
She formed with her lips, “Welcome home, my love.”
* * *
The next morning all Peter wanted was to sleep, but he couldn’t give Sela the pleasure of his missing the nine o’clock meeting. It was a beautiful Tel Aviv morning so he walked, pausing for a black coffee and half a sandwich at the corner budke. Dahlia, a worn-looking woman with a working man’s cap and a loud word for everyone, had managed the tiny kiosk so long that she still had the list of Indian Assam and Darjeeling teas she had served the British troops in the Mandate days. Many of them had served in India and enjoyed Dahlia’s tea and company, without knowing that beneath the wooden floor she had a stash of Haganah pomegranates, slang for hand grenades. She always greeted him with a knowing look; she had fought in the Haganah with half his spy bosses and he wouldn’t be surprised if she still had a stash of explosives beneath the oranges she squeezed for his juice.
“Been away keeping us safe?” she yelled as she poured Peter’s coffee.
“How’s business?” he answered.
“So how was it to see your boys for the first time? Diana was so excited you were coming home. They’re so sweet.”
Before Peter could answer, the stranger sipping coffee next to him said, “First time to see your children? How old are they? Where have you been?”
Peter answered Dahlia, “They are, they are. Amazing. But I don’t think I slept all night.”
The woman behind him said, “What do you mean, ‘they.’ How many are there?”
The first stranger said, “How come you’ve never seen your own children before?” He shifted on his stool to look at Peter. “Have you been in jail?”
“Jail?” the woman said, taking a step back.
A man walking by stopped in his tracks. “Who?”
“Thanks for the coffee, Dahlia,” Peter said. “See you tomorrow.”
“Bye, Peter, have a good day.”
Thanks, Dahlia, he thought, I’m supposed to be low profile. But he smiled as he walked in the shade, thinking, it is a good day. It’s good to be home. He must stay as long as possible. Warmth pulsed through him at the thought of his children, and he silently answered Dahlia’s question: Yes, I have been away keeping them safe.
* * *
At the Office, apart from a few nods of acknowledgment, it was as if he’d never been away, except for his direct boss, Amnon Sela, who came over to shake his hand. He was all smiles and compliments for the Germany job.
Sela’s fake cordiality belied the tension in the room: pursed lips, grim faces, silence. A dozen agents were waiting for Harel, but it was Yossi Duvshani, his number two, who entered the room, carrying just one folder.
He began right away, with a bitter tone. “The defense minister reconfirmed that all foreign operations remain under the army’s command.” His eyes flashed toward Peter and away again. “We in Mossad will continue to gather information, while the military intelligence arm, Aman, will act on it. In Egypt, Unit 131 is their secret weapon, God help us. So this is a disaster waiting to happen, and it will be up to us to pick up the pieces. Remember, our supreme goal is not to change British foreign policy in the Middle East, but to limit our enemies’ ability to wage war on Israel.”
After ten more minutes of general business, Duvshani rapped on the table and called on Sela for country reports.
Amnon Sela looked up from his papers. Reporting on Peter’s work while Peter was in the room would be uncomfortable, he should have spoken to him directly first, but Nesher had gone home yesterday, instead of reporting to him as he should have, so tough luck.
“I’ll start with Germany and Obersturmbannführer Otto Skorzeny,” Sela began. “The head of the snake. In World War Two Skorzeny was an SS colonel, head of their special forces. He’s the man Hitler sent to rescue his buddy, the Italian dictator Mussolini. Well, he’s turned up again. Last year Egypt hired Skorzeny to develop their security services. We have tracked at least a hundred and fifty Nazis, mostly intelligence operatives, who have joined him in Cair
o. Many were hiding in South America, especially Argentina, Brazil, and Paraguay. One of them, for instance, is Franz Buensch, who wrote The Sexual Habits of the Jews. Peter Nesher is leading the operation against these bastards.”
Peter nodded at the unexpected endorsement.
“The trouble is, we are not doing very well.”
Peter’s stomach churned. He’d been set up.
“We track Skorzeny, we know where he is, we know what he is doing, but we haven’t been able to stop even one of those Nazis from joining him. So far.” He deliberately avoided Peter’s glare. Peter shook his head. Not this again. Money. Sela is obsessed with money.
Sela went on. “When Nasser proposed the job to Skorzeny, he said no. They didn’t offer him enough money. Then the CIA stepped in. They want a strong Egypt, to stand up to Russia, so the CIA offered Skorzeny money on top, so then he took the job.” He paused before delivering his coup de grâce. “So if we offer him more money, we can buy him out. He’ll leave and go home to Spain, where he has his own business. But he mustn’t know the money comes from Israel.”
Peter couldn’t help himself. If Sela wanted to bring this into the open, so be it. “Of course,” Peter said, “with our budget, we’ll outbid the CIA. Look, we can hardly pay our own salaries. And as for keeping the source a secret, who else but Israel would want to bribe him to leave Egypt? And then it gets out—Israel wants to pay Otto Skorzeny. What a fiasco that would be. Plus there’s also the small matter of Israel going head-to-head with America over their Mideast policy. Do we really want to do that?”
“This is not the time or place for that,” Sela said.
“You brought it up,” Peter answered.
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