Promised Land

by Martin Fletcher

  “That’s wonderful,” Moshe said. “But I don’t know anyone who can afford to buy a car.”

  “Nor do I,” said Peter.

  “Well, I do,” Arie said. “And Peugeot will be the car of the future here. Now, Tamara, serve the food.”

  “I hope it isn’t cold.” Tamara served beef stew in an Italian porcelain tureen, with mashed potatoes that soaked up the gravy, and on matching porcelain side plates a coleslaw salad. The red wine was a nice little one, Arie said, from Cyprus.

  “I saw that,” Tamara said to her father who had swapped a glance with Rachel. Moshe laughed out loud. “And I know just what you’re thinking,” she said.

  “What am I thinking?” Moshe said with a wink to his wife.

  “You’re thinking, where’s the rice kushari? Oh, what would you give to eat a good rabbit mulukhiya?”

  Moshe hooted with laughter and slapped Rachel on the knee so hard she yelped in protest. “Indeed, my wife, when will you make mulukhiya again for your husband? Real Egyptian food.” He turned the salad over with his fork. “What is this anyway, this yekke stuff, coleslaw and beef stew. Ya Allah, is this Munich or the Middle East?”

  “Well, I have to keep my husband happy, right? That’s my duty,” Tamara said. She caught Peter’s eye, who raised an eyebrow as if to say, Is it? “It’s excellent, Tamara,” Peter said. “Right, Wolfie?”

  “I’m staying out of this. I’m lucky to have anything to eat.” Wolfie was on leave from his base in the Southern Command, near the Egyptian border. After his compulsory thirty-month service he had signed up as an infantry officer with the regular army.

  “On the kibbutz all we eat is cucumbers, tomatoes and mystery meatballs. This is all amazing. Thank you, Tamara, and you, Rachel,” Mayan said.

  “Well, there must be something right about your kibbutz diet; look at you,” Arie said.

  Tamara glanced at Peter and rolled her eyes.

  As Tamara cleared the plates away and served coffee, Diana, holding her twins, apologized for not helping: “I wish I could but I have a boy on each tittie.”

  “Don’t worry, please,” Tamara said. She didn’t want Mayan’s help either, saying, “You’re guests here, relax and enjoy.” Tamara didn’t want anybody else in the kitchen. She had prepared a surprise for her father. And when she presented it, her face lit up at his reaction.

  “Alḥamdulillāh,” Praise the Lord! he cried, clapping his hands in delight. “You are your father’s daughter after all.”

  She gave Rachel the first helping, telling her father, “Ladies first, not like in Egypt.”

  “I agree,” Moshe said. “But still, real men don’t wait, it is the law of the desert. And of course Ibn Tulun wrote…” and he sank his fork into Rachel’s slice of konafa, even as Tamara served him next.

  The dessert was perfect: baked golden brown, a pie from thin strands of pastry filled with double cream and cheese, topped with halved almonds, all drenched in heated honey water.

  “Delicious,” Moshe said, helping himself to another piece. “Now I feel at home.”

  Konafa was the favorite Ramadan dessert, for one month Egypt’s national dish. It took two and a half hours to prepare and bake.

  It was all gone in ninety seconds.

  As she contemplated her father licking his plate, Tamara’s smile was one of pure satisfaction. But after the children fell asleep on the floor, sprawled across cushions, their limbs all jumbled up, it hurt her to hear him complain.

  Wolfie had asked him about his new job.

  “It isn’t working out for me at the foreign ministry,” Moshe said as the adults sat smoking in the garden. The harsh tobacco smell mingled with the sweet scent of citrus carried across the orchards and strawberry fields. “They just don’t want to hear me. To them I’m an aging Egyptian professor while they’re all young graduates from Europe and America or sabra ex-army officers and they think they know it all. There is a groupthink you can’t argue against.”

  “What do you mean?” Peter asked. “What does the group think?”

  “What worries me most is that they’re looking for any reason for war with Egypt. Egypt is the bogeyman, the ultimate military threat, and when I disagree they all say it’s because I’m from Egypt, that I can’t see the wood for the trees. Apparently being an Egyptian is a disadvantage when trying to understand the Egyptians.”

  “But there is a real threat,” Arie said. “Every day there are attacks across the borders, from Sinai, from Gaza, they’re killing our people.”

  “Of course, but it doesn’t justify going to war. Anyway, we’re retaliating and killing more of them.”

  Peter listened with interest. Moshe always had a counterargument, and whether he was right or not, it was good to hear the other side. “Doesn’t Nasser mean it when he says Israel is the natural enemy of the Arab people? A plague?” he asked.

  “Yes and no,” Moshe said. “Look, take all his war talk, his speeches, that’s all for the Arab street, and then look at what he’s really doing. The first thing Nasser did when he took over six months ago was to reduce his defense budget. He moved his troops away from our border. There are not-so-secret peace talks between Egypt and Israel, everyone knows that. Does that sound like someone planning a war? Nasser personally has nothing against the Jews, he grew up next to a synagogue, Jews owned the house he lived in, and they were friends. If anyone is rejecting the idea of peace it’s Israel, because we don’t want our hands tied by agreements—we want to manufacture excuses to take more land.”

  “And we need it,” Arie put in, getting heated. “We need more land, we’re too small to survive more wars.”

  “True,” Moshe said. “But why fight more wars? Isn’t it a better solution to give up on more land and just make peace with what we have? Anyway, the Egyptian military is a joke.”

  They all looked at Wolfie. He should know, he was a paratroop lieutenant near the Egyptian border. He smiled. “You talk. I’ll smoke. My lips are sealed.”

  “Then how can you smoke?” Mayan said, and they laughed.

  Arie said, “Still, there are twenty-three million of them and one point five million of us…”

  Moshe interrupted him. “Take their air force. Out of thirty aircraft, only six can fly at any one time. They don’t have spare parts, no maps, no functioning airfields, no ammunition. You know how many tank shells they have? Enough for one hour’s combat. One hour. Peter, what do you think?”

  “If Wolfie’s lips are sealed, mine are sewn shut with steel wire. But look, there’s some truth in everything you’re all saying. From my point of view, the only thing that counts is that Israel must be ready for anything. War, if we can’t avoid it. Peace would be better, but to make peace we have to be strong, and that means preparing for war. But in the meantime, who wants to make peace with us?”

  “Egypt!” Moshe almost shouted. “Did you hear anything I said?”

  “I did,” Peter said softly. “I hope you are right but I fear you are wrong.”

  “Excuse me for saying this,” Diana said, “but Moshe, is the real reason you’re upset with the Ministry because you’re not part of the Ashkenazi white boys’ club?”

  “That’s just another way to muddy what I’m saying. We’re heading for an unnecessary war.”

  Tamara touched her father on the knee. “Abba, why don’t you leave the foreign ministry? Be a journalist. Write for a newspaper. Israel needs to hear different voices and nobody understands Egypt better than you.”

  Moshe squeezed his daughter’s hand. “Well, as a matter of fact, I’ve thought about that. Maybe I will. If they’ll have me.”

  PETER and ARIE

  TEL AVIV, ISRAEL

  September 1954

  Sunday morning was the one day of the week when Peter and Diana walked to work together, making time to stop at Dahlia’s budke for coffee and bourekas. Regulars crowded around the serving hatch, or fought over the two seats in the shade, and argued over the latest news, a welcome rout
ine in Peter’s schizophrenic life.

  Today it was Bat Galim, a small Israeli cargo ship the Egyptians detained in the Suez Canal. “They put the crew in prison, we have to bust them out,” said “the lawyer,” nicknamed for his black suit. He was a restaurant waiter. Everyone spoke at the same time, their voices overlaid like a music score: “It’s an international waterway, they have no right, the UN must condemn Egypt.” “The UN? Huh!” “And what about yesterday, another shooting by Gaza.” “Where’s the army?” “Where’s Ben-Gurion when you need him?”

  Two weeks earlier the Old Man had moved to the Negev kibbutz of Sde Boker to leave politics, a claim nobody believed. “He’ll be back, you wait and see,” the lawyer said.

  The new prime minister, Moshe Sharett, was considered a moderate, and as Peter and Diana continued their walk to work, Diana asked, “So, will Sharett change things at the Office?”

  “We’ll see. Maybe he’ll put a halt to the German operation. Part of me hopes so.”

  Diana nodded. “It’s getting too complicated. I just hope you stay at home.” But “home” was about to get a lot more complicated too.

  Gingie was waiting for them. “That policeman called again. His office is asking for an official response to his specific question: What was Diana working on that required that dead man’s file? They said they need to know today.”

  Diana frowned. “Why today? Did you say anything?”

  “Not yet. I’m sitting on it.”

  “Say it’s to do with my operation,” Peter said. “And it’s top secret, only Isser Harel can approve. I’ll talk to Harel.”

  “Is that true?” Gingie asked.

  “Wait a minute,” Diana said, pulling Peter by the arm away from Gingie. “You said Arie denied it. Strongly. You said he got angry and didn’t know the man.”

  “Yes, that’s what he said. And I don’t believe a word of it.” Peter said with a groan, “He was shifting around like he had ants in his pants, a sure sign of lying. This is getting us into hot water. Before I speak to Harel I need to know for certain what’s going on. I’m going to see Arie now.”

  “What about the morning meeting?”

  “Tell them something came up.”

  “Sela won’t like it.”

  “What does he like? I’m going now, Arie is in the same café every Sunday morning. If I don’t find him now I won’t see him till tonight.”

  Peter did his best to shut out the cabbie; it was something about the price of chicken breasts, then about whether to raise pork in Israel. The rabbis said pigs could live in Israel only if their cloven hooves did not touch the Holy Land, so pigs would have to spend their entire lives on concrete or wooden floors. “Can you believe that?” the driver shouted. “All I have is a dirt floor.”

  “I have a headache,” Peter said. “Do you mind?”

  He got out early and walked the last few blocks of HaYarkon Street. Diana always found it curious that Peter could slit a man’s throat but couldn’t tell a cabdriver to shut up.

  Arie was deep in conversation with two men in suits so Peter found an empty corner table and waited to catch his eye. He waved him over. Arie shook his head. Peter tapped his watch repeatedly. Now.

  Arie was not happy to be called away from his table. “What is it? To you this is just my café but to me, this is where I do business.”

  “This is business. You lied to me, didn’t you?” He switched to German. “I know you murdered Yonathan Schwartz.”

  Arie looked around sharply. “Are you crazy? Keep your voice down. And, no, you don’t know that. How could you? I didn’t.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Arie. I told you, the police are onto Diana, she’s getting mixed up in something we know nothing about.”

  “You just said you know I did it, now you say you know nothing about it.”

  “Don’t play smart with me, Arie, I’m trying to help you here. The police asked Diana why she wanted his file.”

  “Why did she?”

  No point holding back any longer. “Because Tamara told her you asked her to say you were at home the night he was murdered.”

  “So what? I could have asked for a dozen reasons.”

  “So give me one. Why did you?”

  “Look Peter, I’m sorry, but it’s none of your business what I get up to at night. I can tell you this: It wasn’t because I killed someone. Who do you think I am?”

  “I know exactly who you are, Arie. I know what you’ve done and I know what you can do.”

  “Well, I didn’t kill that man.”

  “In that case I can tell Diana to just tell the police the truth. Your wife said you came home late, you told her, if anyone asked, to say you had never left home. She wanted to know more, so Diana did her a favor and asked for the police file for that night, to see if there was any connection to you. That’s the truth. And then you’ll be the detective’s next call. Are you okay with that? Is there any connection to you?”

  Arie pursed his lips, linked his fingers, played with his thumbs. Three seconds became ten.

  Peter knew this was the moment to be gentle, responsive, encouraging. That’s how he would behave if this was work. But this was his brother, whose lies were threatening Diana, and Peter was getting angry. “You’re evasive, pensive, nervous as hell. You’re lying.” Instead of talking calmly, he was losing his temper. His voice rose. “I’m asking again. Is there a connection to you? You want to tell me, or the detective?”

  Arie stared into the distance, his face puckered up; Peter knew this was the moment of truth, he had seen it dozens of times.

  “Arie. Hello. It’s me, Peter. Your brother.” He forced himself to lower his voice, or he’d lose the moment. “I know you thought you had a good reason. I don’t even need to know what it is. I just need the truth if I’m going to help you.”

  “Are you?” Arie swallowed hard. Drumming his fingers, he stared into Peter’s eyes.

  All signs of fear, Peter knew. “Going to help you? Of course I am.”

  Arie’s shoulders slumped, he leaned forward and whispered. “Look, all right. It was an accident, I swear it was. Yes, I knew him, we argued, he ran away in the dark over the rocks. I didn’t even see him, I just heard a shout, and I ran home. That’s all I know. That’s the God-honest truth.”

  “There was blood nearby.”

  “Was there? Was it his? Someone else’s? Maybe someone else attacked him. Maybe he fell and hit his head.”

  “His head? Why his head? Was his head beaten?”

  “How should I know? I’m just telling you. I panicked and ran away.”

  “Okay look, I’m not going to ask any more questions. I don’t want to know. You never told me this. I’ll try to make this go away.”

  Their eyes held, until Arie looked away.

  “I know you’re still lying, Arie. You haven’t told me the real truth.”

  Arie bit his lip, his eyes moistened. “Enough of it.”

  Peter laid a hand on Arie’s. “It’s all I need for now. But, Arie, another thing.” He had been looking for an opening.

  “What?”

  “Tamara. Stop cheating on her. She’s too good for that.”

  “What, me? What are you talking about?”

  “For God’s sake, stop lying. Everyone knows. You’re hurting her, everyone can see it.”

  “Peter, mind your own business.”

  “Is it my business to protect you from that detective? Then this is my business too. It’s a package deal.” His voice was raised, people were looking. “You have the most beautiful, lovely wife and you treat her like dirt.”

  “How do you know what goes on in my home? And anyway, you think I don’t know about you two? Always flirting with her, those knowing looks, your hands touching, you’ve never forgiven me.”

  “You’re out of your mind, none of that is true. Anyway, I haven’t forgiven you for what?”

  “You know for what.”

  “No, I don’t, say it.”

  �
��For marrying her, that’s what.”

  “Listen, I love Diana, I’m very happy. Don’t slide out of this like the snake you are. I’m telling you, stop cheating on Tamara.”

  Peter pushed the table and stalked away.

  Even though he’d be even later for work, Peter walked back to Ben Yehuda Street, fuming all the way. Bringing up Tamara was a mistake. Arie was a cornered rat, he came out with bared teeth and nails and he was cunning too, he knew just how to go for the jugular. Flirting with Tamara, indeed. He couldn’t help feeling sorry for her whenever Arie was rude to her in public, that’s all. And when Diana reported back about Tamara’s latest fight with Arie, he felt responsible for his brother, as if it was his fault Arie was a disgrace. And now this. Murder. And he’s covering up for him. That brother of his will sink them all.

  No wonder he was so successful in business, he’s ruthless. Peter had said what needed saying but Arie didn’t want to hear it. That meant he’d never change. And it would get worse between him and Tamara. What could he do? Speak to Tamara? What good would that do? Arie was right about one thing. It wasn’t his business.

  Peter hesitated outside the whitewashed Office building, trying to push Arie from his mind. He had to stop using Auschwitz as an excuse for whatever evil things Arie did. And he had to stop feeling guilty that he had escaped it all, and he had to stop babying his younger brother because of it. For how long can the past excuse the present?