Promised Land

by Martin Fletcher

  Yehuda looked the Mossad chief in the eyes and said, “Sir, he’s one hundred percent right in what he decided.”

  “Shut up. I’ll decide that,” Harel said. “Sela, what do you think?”

  “I wasn’t there, sir. I can’t really comment on what Nesher says here, we need to investigate and find out what happened.”

  “With all respect, I just told you,” Peter said, his lips thin.

  “Well,” Sela said, “there are a couple of questions I could raise.”

  “Raise them,” Harel said.

  “Why wasn’t there a backup safe house in case the first was compromised? Why weren’t guards on the perimeter to stop those kids approaching? Should the kids have been dealt with differently? Bohlendorf’s wife? Why wasn’t it planned better so that she would not leave the house and blow Ulrika? The operation was full of holes from the start.”

  Yehuda glared at him. Peter’s face was inscrutable. If only Amnon Sela was as skillful at managing the European operation as he was in office politics.

  In the pause, Harel was looking from Peter to Sela, tapping his fingers on the table, nodding to himself, his face softening. “Just before I came in I had a call from General Reinhard Gehlen, who runs the West German security apparatus,” Harel said. “He told me to ignore the diplomats, they don’t know anything yet. He was full of praise and expressed deep thanks for catching Bohlendorf. He’s the most highly placed East German spy they have ever discovered, and he has already confessed. He had access to almost everything that passed through the chancellor’s office. Gehlen is an old Nazi, a pragmatic man, his own organization is full of ex-SS and Gestapo, all he cares about is defeating the communists. And I care deeply about cooperation with West Germany. Outing Bohlendorf is quite a feather in Mossad’s cap. So let’s keep it that way.”

  Now Sela was inscrutable. Peter and Yehuda didn’t react.

  “Sela. The best plans fall apart and our job is to pick up the pieces. How you do that defines who you are,” Harel continued. “Peter. Yehuda. That’s what you did. You salvaged something big, very big, from a mess. We all know what it’s like. Shit happens in the field. But let’s keep it there. Sela, you’ll handle the debriefings. Peter, I’ll be waiting for your written report. Now I’m going to tell the Old Man the Germans owe us a big one. Just when we need their help in Egypt. The timing is perfect.”

  TAMARA and ARIE

  NEGEV, ISRAEL

  January 1956

  It was Arie’s nod to the fellowship of man: he hitchhiked home from the desert. He would have taken a bus, but it didn’t come. And he didn’t have the heart to summon Yaacov; his tank-mates would have crucified him if he’d left the base in a chauffeur-driven sedan.

  They had just spent twenty-one days of reserve duty oiling, cleaning, and preparing their M-50 Sherman, the American army warhorse that Israel had picked up cheap after World War Two. They took apart and reassembled its main gun, greasing every part, and tested the secondary gun. They raced across sand dunes at close to thirty miles per hour, backed across ditches, maneuvered at night. Their thinly armored tank was built for speed and mobility, but Arie’s 27th Reserve Armored Brigade trained as a strike force that would fight head-to-head with the enemy. It was their second call-up in three months. Somebody somewhere was expecting something.

  Dudu, the Iraqi driver, a police sergeant in real life, whined that they would be outgunned and out-armored. “One rocket and we’re all dead. It’ll cut through us like a knife through butter. This sardine can will split open like a can of beans.”

  Itamar, the gunner from Jerusalem, didn’t help. “We’ll fry. It’ll be a barbeque in here. That’s why the Brits call these things the ‘Ronson.’ Cos it’ll burn like a lighter.”

  Lucky the Egyptians didn’t have any battlefield rockets and, even if they did, they’d shoot each other. For three weeks they laughed at the same old jokes. The food was awful and there wasn’t enough of it; the water was warm and tasted of oil. The sun baked them and the night froze them, they could barely sleep inside the tank, their beards itched, they itched more from sunburn, mosquitoes, and sandflies, they despised their commanders, they fought about everything and agreed on only one thing: reserve duty was better than being at home with the kids.

  * * *

  Carmel and Daniel, now five years old, were asleep when Arie returned home in a taxi, which he’d caught in Tel Aviv after his last ride. Seeing his passenger disheveled and crumpled in army fatigues, his hair still caked in sand, the Polish cabdriver had immediately launched into his own plan for the next war, a three-pronged paratrooper push through the Negev into Sinai, with a surprise left hook by armored divisions against Jordan in the east that would continue all the way, God willing, to Iraq, but Arie soon shut him up. “We don’t need more generals. Just drive, please.”

  “What we need,” Arie called to Tamara from the shower, watching weeks of desert dust swirl away, “is a highway from Be’er Sheva to Tel Aviv. It would cut the drive time by hours. I should put together a consortium and build it.”

  “What I want,” Tamara came into the bathroom and said, “is a talk.” She sat on the toilet, holding a beach towel.

  “I don’t want a walk, I want to sleep.”

  “I didn’t say walk. I said talk.”

  “I don’t want to talk either. I want to you-know-what and sleep.”

  “That’s what I want to talk about. I have something to tell you.”

  Arie emerged from the shower, flicking water from his body with his hands. He stood close to Tamara, smiling and stroking her head, holding her hair to the side, pulling her toward him. She stood and handed him the towel. “I’ll make tea,” she said.

  “I’d rather have coffee.”

  “But then you won’t be able to sleep.”

  “Who wants to sleep?”

  Tamara put the kettle on and went to the utility room, where she emptied Arie’s kit bag into the laundry basket. A mini sandstorm drifted in with socks, underpants, T-shirts, and other stuff. She rescued a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches, placed them on the shelf, and put his Sten gun up with the hats so that the children could not reach it.

  When the kettle whistled she turned the gas off, tiptoed into the twins’ room to make sure they were still sleeping, and returned to the kitchen, where she made tea with fresh mint and honey. As she carried it into the living room on a tray with biscuits, she grimaced: the perfect little housewife, fulfilling all her duties.

  Arie lounged across the sofa, in shorts and a singlet. His body was divided like a graph, shaded in red by the sun. As she set the tray down he pulled her toward him on the sofa. “Not here,” Tamara said, “the children may come in. Eat your biscuit.”

  “They’re fast asleep,” Arie said, “and you’re my biscuit. With a soft center.” He cupped her buttocks, kissing her on the mouth, just as Tamara realized what she had barely noticed written on the cigarette pack: a name and an address. Afterward, as Arie stumbled to bed, Tamara went back to the laundry room and found the pack. She read a name: Rosie, and an address, 81D, Ahad Ha’am, and a time: Tuesday, 3:00 P.M.

  That’s tomorrow.

  Arie was fast asleep, snoring lightly, but no rest came to Tamara. She lay on her back, staring at the whirling ceiling fan, her heart thumping almost as fast. She was angry with Arie, but furious at herself. Why did she put up with this?

  Rosie. Tomorrow. Three o’clock.

  She clenched her fists. She bit her lip. She felt like seizing Arie by the head and shaking him till it came off. She drummed her feet in frustration but it didn’t wake him. She turned and edged as far away as she could, staring at the wall.

  Diana didn’t understand. Diana came from England, she worked at Mossad, she was trained in deceit. “Just leave him,” Diana kept saying, as if there was no question. “He’s a cheat, in business and love, he’s rude to you, he doesn’t appreciate how lucky he is, leave the bugger.”

  But how could she? She came from Egyp
t, where to speak against her husband was heresy, to leave him inconceivable. Arie had saved her whole family, rescued them from the camp and set them all up in homes and jobs. He had given them something, a lot, when they’d had nothing.

  She could imagine Diana’s voice, persistent and strong, “So what? You don’t owe him anything. He doesn’t love you.” But he does, in his own way. “No, he doesn’t, all he cares about is money, other women, success, ha ha.” But he suffered so much. He’s never really recovered. Nobody can imagine what he survived. People froze to death around him. Beaten to death. My God, gassed to death. “Stop making excuses for him. It will only get worse. You deserve better.” But the children. He’s a wonderful father. I could never take them from him. “Remember what I’m saying, it will only get worse.” Worse. Worse. The word echoed in her head, a drumbeat that became a chorus: Worse. Worse. Worse. She wanted to scream. She tossed and turned until finally, she must have drifted away.

  And in the morning, it was worse. She could hardly look at Arie. He had been away three weeks and already all he could think of was some skirt. He said he would have a long day catching up on business. I bet he would. He’d said, don’t expect me home for dinner. So what else was new?

  Tamara hadn’t even had a chance to tell him her own news. Now that the twins were five years old, almost six, she was going to think of herself for a change. Her parents always wanted her to go to university. In Cairo it hadn’t really been an option. Here in Israel, everything was possible.

  She had always wanted to be a lawyer and her news was that she had been accepted into the Tel Aviv School of Law and Economics, starting in September.

  But how could she dare be a lawyer, it occurred to her, to help people stand up for themselves, if she couldn’t even stand up to her own husband?

  * * *

  At one o’clock, with the twins safely in the hands of Lupita, the babysitter, Tamara took the bus to Tel Aviv, with no clear idea why. She got off at the corner of Allenby and Balfour. As she waited for the traffic to thin, she looked down Allenby and felt a tinge of sadness. So close to Polishuk, where Arie had bought his first present for her, a pair of leather boots. He had been so sweet. She still had them, but the leather gloves and the woolen hat, where were they? Where were those days? What had happened? What had she done wrong?

  She dimly remembered that her mother had the hat.

  She can keep it. And the gloves too. And the boots. Tamara crossed the road and walked up Balfour all the way to Ahad Ha’am, where she turned right toward number 81. The closer she came, the more her heart raced and her thoughts jumbled. Why was she here? What could she do? What odious compulsion drew her? As each man passed she lowered her hat.

  She walked right past the building and by now she was breathless and ashamed. I’m going to keep walking and go to Rothschild Boulevard for a coffee at the kiosk. And a cake. Poppyseed.

  Instead she crossed the road and walked back by the house, sticking as much as possible to the shade of the trees. This is madness, she thought. He’s driving me crazy. She looked at her watch: 2:20. She glanced up quickly, as if searching for the guilty apartment, and hurried by. It was a whitewashed building on columns, with bushes and neat flowers on either side of the path, and an entrance door with glass panes. Each apartment had its own balcony; some had been closed in, others had plants and chairs. There were four stories, apartment 4D must be on the top. Maybe it has a roof terrace. She hoped the plants blew away in the wind.

  Rosie. Single or married? Is she cheating too? What horrible people.

  Now she noticed that the steps to the basement of the corner house thirty yards away led to a small café below street level. There were a couple of chairs and tables outside, and more inside. There was a counter with a coffee machine, shelves of books for sale, and at head height, narrow windows that looked onto the street. From the corner seat she could observe the entrance to number 81.

  She ordered coffee and carrot cake. Her mind was ablaze. Part of her felt excited. I’m a spy, she thought. What a perfect vantage point. Peter would be proud. At the thought of Peter, her whole being relaxed, for a moment. Then she was flooded with sadness. Why wasn’t she enough for Arie? What mistake had she made, what was wrong with her? She felt heat in the corner of her eye, a tear began to form and tickled her, she brushed it roughly away with the back of her fingers. There is nothing wrong with me, nothing at all. There is a lot wrong with Arie. She felt strong, determined, confident as she had not felt for a long time, she would not let Arie dig away the ground beneath her. I am a powerful, beautiful woman, she told herself. But if so, then why am I skulking in a basement, spying on my husband?

  “Would you like another cake?” the waitress asked. Tamara looked up with shining eyes.

  “Are you all right?”

  Tamara swallowed and nodded. “No more cake, thank you, but may I have a glass of water?”

  When the waitress sat the glass on her table, Tamara said, “Thank you. Tell me, I was wondering, do the local people come here?” Silly question, of course they do. She wanted to ask, Does Rosie come here, but didn’t want to give anything away. Then she thought, what on earth do I have to lose?

  “Does Rosie come here?” she asked. Mistake. Now she’ll tell a detective: Yes, she asked about the dead woman.

  “Rosie? I don’t know, I don’t know a Rosie. I’d remember that name. It sounds English. Or American.”

  So she thinks she’s too good for the little café.

  The closer it came to three o’clock, the lower Tamara slumped in her chair, her hat over her brow. She stared through the window at the entrance to the building, and as people came and went at neighboring tables she didn’t glance at them, afraid that the slightest lapse of attention would make her miss him.

  The minutes ticked by. Where was he? She knew she must look strange, in her frozen posture. Focusing through the narrow window frame was hurting her eyes. At ten past three she went to the door and looked up and down the street. Men walked by but no Arie.

  Was she wrong after all? Was it an old message? It had seemed fresh to her. Was this all a crazy flight of imagination? Was she so jealous that she could fabricate a lover’s tryst out of a name and a time? Was she misjudging Arie? How cruel, how stupid she was. A jealous, bored housewife who can’t even trust herself, let alone her husband. At three fifteen she thought she could cry with relief.

  At three twenty, just as she was getting ready to pay, Yaacov pulled up. Arie stepped out of the car, glanced up and down the street, and hurried to the building’s entrance. He looked back to Yaacov, tapped his wristwatch, mouthed something, rang a bell, waited for the door to open, and disappeared.

  Tamara, watching in horror, felt herself sinking against the doorframe. The horror turned to disgust, for him, for herself.

  “Can I get you some more water?” the waitress said, holding her by the elbow. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  Tamara nodded, her eyes wide, and she fell into a chair.

  For ten minutes Tamara was unaware of any thought; her mind was blank. She sipped her water and stared at the wall, her head sunken, her spirit broken.

  She paid her check in silence. Supporting herself with a hand on the wall, she climbed the steps to street level. In a daze, she turned left to walk back to the bus stop on Allenby Street, but stopped to lean with one hand against a tree. She felt she might vomit. At that moment a woman walked into number 81 with two small children in tow. She called for them. One shouted, “Look, a tortoise!,” and the other ran over to examine it, while their smiling mother waited patiently.

  Maybe it was the woman’s pleasant smile that gave her courage, for without thinking Tamara crossed the road, mumbled “Rosie on the fourth floor” as she passed her, and took the stairs slowly. On the third floor, littered with shoes and schoolbags, with plants in dry earth in cracked pots, she stopped and thought, Oh my God! What am I doing?

  She felt herself tremble to the tips of her fingers.
She also felt her feet moving, as if on a journey of their own. Up they took her, around a corner, and there she found herself, at the top of the stairs, confronted by apartment 4D. The name plate read Grossberg but she didn’t see it. Still in a daze, with all her senses telling her to flee, she knocked on the door, faintly at first and then with fury.

  A woman’s voice called, “Who is it? Stop banging,” and the door opened a fraction. It was on the chain. Tamara could see part of a young woman’s head. She had disheveled black hair and small brown eyes, with eyebrows that needed trimming and thin lips. Her shoulders were bare, and bony. “What’s the noise?” she said. “Who are you?” American.

  Tamara still had no idea what she was doing or what she would say. How did she even get here?

  Was she poking through the ashes of a burned-out marriage? What came to mind was a steak burned black.

  The thought amused her, and the girl disappointed her. She drew herself straight. “Good afternoon, Rosie. You don’t have to hide. Tell my husband,” Tamara said, and in that instant she knew she was wearing a beautiful smile, “not to come home for a steak ever again.”

  She slowly turned, displaying her profile, sashayed to the stairs, looked coyly over her shoulder, and gave a slow wink.

  Only when she reached the floor below did she hear the door bang.

  She all but ran to the nearest pay phone. “Diana,” she shouted, “stop saving the country and meet me at that café around the corner from your office. Oh my God, you’ll never believe what just happened!”

  * * *

  “You … winked at her?” Diana choked with laughter.

  Tamara was howling, everyone was looking at them. Between gasps she said, “Don’t come home for a steak. I can’t believe I said that. I meant to say, Don’t come home late, but it came out as ‘steak.’ Oh, I could die,” and tears of laughter streamed down her cheeks. Diana gripped Tamara’s hand. “But why, ‘don’t come home late?’ That’s even more stupid. Late? Don’t come home ever is more like it.”