by Y. I. Latz
I never parted from it.
I took a brief look at the central square in “my” village.
I knew—
This was a final parting look.
I began walking slowly, taking small steps, along an inner tiled sidewalk leading to the pedestrian mall. When I reached it, I switched to speed-walking and soon transitioned to running. On my way, I crossed back yards, gardens and paths known only to the locals.
I didn’t look back.
My heart was heavy.
Later, when I was on the train to Marseilles and from there to Barcelona, I would pause to interpret the signals my heart was sending me.
The triumphant joy at managing to escape by the skin of my teeth from the American CIA agents had been eclipsed by the melancholy of saying goodbye to Valbonne. I knew I would never again see Marcel or his café, which had been a proper home to me; Jamal Marchant, who had rented me a room with no questions asked and had secretly placed cheese, homemade cookies and fruit on my table, without charging me a single euro; Marion and Jacques, who greeted me with a resounding “Bonjour, Monsieur,” although the sum total of my purchases at their gourmet meat store had been no more than the occasional chicken wing; Francis, Michael, Claude, Agnes, Louis and Madeleine, the café’s regulars at various hours of the day, whose jokes made me laugh till I cried, although I didn’t understand a word, and whose jolly, vocal conversations among themselves revived both my joie de vivre and my faith in life, reaffirming my belief that one day, there might be a life for me, too.
A different life.
◊◊◊
Barcelona—
I’d still gotten no sign from Singer. “Handsome 52” had yet to contact me via the chat site. My nerves were fraught. My financial situation was at an all-time low. I only had 421 euro in cash. My last magnetic card, one of the three usable ones in my wallet, had also been swallowed by the ATM machine.
Most of my meager cash supply was spent on hotel rooms and train tickets.
Food actually presented no problem. I ate for free. I had a system. I roamed through the large supermarkets with a shopping cart. It was loaded up for camouflage purposes only. As I pushed it among the overflowing shelves, I ate slowly—cheese, salami, vegetables and fruits, discreetly tearing open the packaging.
After my hunger was sated, I would park the full cart in a side corner and take off without paying one euro.
My hotel rooms became more decrepit from one night to the next. I took advantage of the warm weather and spent several nights on a bench in the park, half asleep, yearning for morning, stirred by every murmur, siren or police uniform.
I passed the days in various Internet cafés. I continued to avidly track the news sites. They reported that the relationship between the United States and Israel remained strained after Washington refused Jerusalem’s offer to conduct a “spy exchange,” the two Mossad agents under arrest in Annapolis in return for the CIA agent captured in Israel.
The Americans’ reasoning: while the Israeli Mossad agents were professionals whose intelligence activity caused immense damage to the U.S. and its deterrence capabilities, the Harvard professor was merely a small fry, and the information she had conveyed was “inferior” to the kind that could be found in any newspaper.
The exact nature of this “inferior” information was not specified.
◊◊◊
Algeciras, in southern Spain—
A gray harbor town in the south of Spain, serving as an exit port for ferries sailing to North Africa, primarily to Morocco. The only tourists who find themselves there are quick to move on to dazzling nearby Gibraltar.
I came across the town by mistake. I had meant to get to Granada, a city I knew from previous visits, and find work there as a cook. But I fell asleep on the train and a few hours later, found myself at the last stop. The train in the opposite direction would depart only the following day. I decided to stay.
I found work. Cleaning the crappers on multi-car trains. Algeciras was the final station before they flipped around and headed north again. I had no other choice. I needed a job where I would not be required to produce a work permit or any similar document.
I learned that crapper-cleaner was the most despised job on the ladder of despised jobs for the train cleaning crew. Only mentally challenged immigrants with a quick temper from Africa or the Far East agreed to do it, and they, too, fled at the first opportunity. The work was so universally looked down upon and dismissed that not only was I not required to show ID, but I was not even required to provide my name.
In some twisted way beyond my comprehension, I was glad to do the job. I was once again earning money, had a task to accomplish, was in human company, found myself tired at night, and was capable of sleeping more than the usual two or three hours.
My coworkers didn’t acknowledge me at all, and so I had no need to use the cover story I had concocted. My white skin and the fluent English I spoke also distanced them from me. They saw me as an eccentric. This removed any suspicion that I might not be who I appeared to be.
I lived close to the train station, in an overpopulated poor neighborhood. I rented a tiny room that had once been a storeroom, and still looked accordingly. The landlord insisted on leaving an assortment of old possessions there, which were strewn around everywhere. There was no kitchenette and the bathroom—a tiny stall made of asbestos, with a lime pit—was in the yard. I purchased a kettle and a hot plate, but didn’t use them much. I ate my meals in the kitchen of the train station restaurant, and in the few hours I spent in my room, was too exhausted to make myself a meal.
After the regular cook in the station’s employee kitchen burned her hand and I filled in for her for two days, the restaurant owners asked me to step in for her permanently. The work included a bit of cooking but mainly scrubbing giant pots, washing the floor and constantly emptying the numerous trash cans. Consequently, I reeked of fish, garlicky sauces and detergent.
I wore a giant cross on a silver chain around my neck. I thought there was no better way to conceal my true identity. As I walked, it swayed on my neck and hurt my skin. On Sundays when I was off work, I went to church in order to make my presence known. None of the clergymen exchanged a word with me, or asked how I was doing. Sometimes I heard myself being referred to as “that weird Irish pig.”
I was glad. This indicated that my new identity was successful.
Once every two weeks, I received a three-day weekend off. I used it well. I took the night train to distant destinations such as Barcelona and Madrid. Once there, I took a room in a reasonable hotel. I threw the cross and the filthy clothes off me. I soaked at length in a tub with quality soap, shaved off my beard, dined out in expensive restaurants every evening, including a bottle of wine, and for two brief days, returned to my true self once more.
“My true self”? Who the hell was this self? I was asking the same question. I had even managed to confuse myself.
During these forays, I dared to call my home in Israel. I conducted short, businesslike conversations with my wife.
Neta wouldn’t get on the line.
“I’m sorry,” Smadar explained to me, embarrassed. “She says her father is dead.”
◊◊◊
Two more weeks passed. I still hadn’t heard from Singer. His silence evoked a fury in me. He had explicitly promised to keep in touch with me. He also didn’t respond to the dozens of messages I sent him. My sense of indignation became a focused rage. Soon, however, I understood why he had disappeared. The news sites described how he had become embroiled in an affair with a married woman. Reluctantly, he found himself forced to embark on a new campaign, the greatest campaign of his life: clearing his name. Unwisely, his opening move was sweeping denials, followed by a bombshell: the false rumors were spread by his rivals, who wished to sabotage his race for head of the Mossad.
The media interpre
ted “rivals” to mean his major rival, the one and only, Nachmias, head of the Shin Bet.
However, Singer, the master of deception who had lived under false identities his entire life, underestimated the effect of smartphones, which could transform into digital cameras at any instant. The Web was flooded with photos showing him in various locations with a mobster’s wife. Some of the images caught him in highly compromising positions. There was no room for misinterpretation. Singer had been caught red-handed.
The print newspapers followed the lead of the anonymous publications and came out with their own embarrassing photos.
The experts unanimously decreed that although his actions did not constitute a criminal offense but merely an example of ethical insensitivity, there was now no chance that he would be appointed as head of the Mossad.
I took all this personally—
I felt as if a bucket of ice water had just been thrown over my head.
Adultery had not only killed Singer’s career, but was about to sabotage our scheme to restore my freedom after he was appointed as head of the Mossad.
Unless—
◊◊◊
Four more days went by before I came up with an idea for a new deal.
I was so happy I was leaping from foot to foot.
The gist of it: I would sacrifice my freedom for him for a while, and he would regain his glory.
I quickly sent him a detailed message.
He didn’t respond.
My spirits crashed again.
I was out of ideas. The future seemed bleaker and more ominous than ever.
In contrast, death was within arm’s reach.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
My Little Cross
Late December. ‘My’ restaurant had been adorned with gaudy decorations. New Year’s Eve was only a few days away.
The peaceful routine I’d constructed had veered off course. A group of Israeli travelers entered the train station restaurant where I worked. I recognized them based on the ruckus they made, even before the sounds of their language reached my ears. I was working in the kitchen at the time. One of them took a wrong turn on his way to the restroom. He found me kneeling on my knees on the floor, scrubbing away at a stubborn stain. I recognized him before he recognized me. He had once been a soldier at the naval base in Haifa where I had worked. I looked familiar to him. He hesitated. Questioning what was in front of his eyes. I hurried to leave in the direction of the back yard with an overflowing trash can. He followed me.
“Excuse me, buddy,” he addressed me in Hebrew. “You speak Hebrew, right?”
I nodded. The cross around my neck swayed with me.
“You son of a bitch. You goddamn motherfucker,” he hissed. I understood what was getting to him. The cross. “You faggot.” He pushed me lightly with both hands. “You’ve gone all Jesus on us, you bastard?!”
His friends heard him yelling and joined him. They surrounded me. Two of them tried to rip the cross off my neck by force. Chaos broke out. I sustained blows to my back, my face and my stomach. If the owner hadn’t come to my aid, the result would have been a lot more painful.
◊◊◊
Two hours later.
I made a decision. The time had come. I was laid out in my bed in my shabby room. Even the slightest movement caused me intense pain. My mood was at an all-time low.
I was tired of all this—
I was out of money; I hadn’t heard from Singer; it was only a matter of time until the Americans were on my trail once more; I needed medical attention urgently. I would not receive any treatment without paying and without registration of my true identity. I still had to get through the harsh winter. I couldn’t roam around aimlessly forever.
And one more thing.
I was hungry—
I made an effort. Once in a while, I let out a scream of pain. I shuffled to the nearby Internet café.
I sent an encrypted message to London.
The answer arrived almost immediately.
Could I make my own way to some British representative, at an embassy or a consulate?
“No,” I replied. Traveling to Madrid in my condition seemed tortuous and unappealing.
“Where are you?” I was asked.
I didn’t think twice. I had no more energy to play Cops and Robbers. “Southern Spain,” I answered.
A pause.
“Can you get to Gibraltar?”
How hadn’t I thought of that myself?
◊◊◊
Two hours later.
I didn’t even bid farewell to my employer at the restaurant. I boarded a bus to the town of La Línea de la Concepción, where I began walking slowly toward Her Majesty’s domain.
I became elated.
In a moment, I would be stepping on English soil.
◊◊◊
Gibraltar—
I stalled a bit before the passport inspection station.
I looked back.
Singer—
Perhaps he would keep his promise and materialize.
I kept going. I passed by the inspection station, which was not even staffed at this hour, and crossed the landing strip of the picturesque airport. This was the only way to enter the city by land.
My exultation increased. I knew Gibraltar well from previous visits. It had always charmed me. This time, the alleys were bustling, the shop windows glistened, smiling shoppers entered and exited.
But mostly, it was the signs that filled me with joy and made me feel at home, a feeling I had been sorely missing for many months. They were all in English.
I pampered myself with a generous portion of fish and chips and a giant pitcher of beer. For a moment, I forgot all my travails and became just a regular person once more.
I had about fifty minutes before I’d be meeting the British intelligence representative. We were meeting at a café in the Departures lounge of the terminal. I believed that after a brief conversation, they would fly me home.
To London—
This would put an end to the pretense to which I had been clinging as hard as I could. I would be considered a British spy, and Israel would never allow me to set foot on its soil again.
It was this fact alone that filled me with sorrow.
Once again I looked back.
Hopefully—
No sign of Singer.
And why would there be—
Instead of my old friend, I noticed a group of ultra-Orthodox Jews, men, women and children. They passed in front of me, holding trays with sufganiyot, traditional holiday pastries filled with jam.
I remembered.
It was Chanukah today—
I quickly leafed through the pocket daily planner I always carried in my backpack.
It was indeed the fourth day of Chanukah.
I followed them.
They didn’t go far, disappearing into the ground floor of a regular residential home.
I read the sign. Most of the wording was in Hebrew.
“Chabad House—”10
From an apartment with barred windows, I heard familiar holiday songs emerging. I listened in. I hadn’t been wrong. “Maoz Tzur,” “We’ve Come to Banish Darkness,” “Candle My Candle.” Some of them were sung in Yiddish.
A menorah stood in one of the windows, displaying the shamash, the “helper” candle used to light the rest, and four more lighted candles. Occasionally, solitary people or larger groups arrived at the doorway and disappeared inside. Some of them were local Jews wearing skullcaps, while others were probably Israelis touring the country. Every time the door opened, the songs burst out.
My vision blurred—
These were the exact same songs my grandmother had sung to me when I was a child.
I held on to the post of a traffic sign, overwhelmed
by weakness.
I was filled with regret.
What was I doing—
At that moment, I received a message over the phone.
London.
Their representative was waiting for me at the terminal, as we’d agreed. What was keeping me?
The tears were followed by pity. Self-pity and regret for the decisions I’d made, for my double and even triple life, for the folly of my actions, for ruining my family, for my ambitions to take on powers stronger and smarter than myself all on my own, for the hopelessness of all this.
I swore to myself this was it. I had to transform this date, the fourth day of Chanukah, into a turning point in my pathetic life. I had grown tired of my own games, tired of my disguises.
And even if my loyalty still lay with my country, how could I live with the knowledge that I could never visit my second, historical homeland, and that I would never see my wife and daughter again?
I was tired.
I had failed—
Failure had a bitter taste—
It was best if I acknowledged my failure—
I wanted to go home, even though I myself was not sure where my home was.
Was I doing the right thing?
Who could know what was right and what wasn’t under these circumstances?
Staying true to my decision, I turned back and despite my pain, began to stride quickly toward the adjacent airport.
The way to London had never been shorter.
◊◊◊
I didn’t get very far.
Out of nowhere, four or five shadows clad in black emerged, wearing billed caps. They seized hold of me from every direction with an iron grip, pulling me after them as we crossed yards and fences together.
There, in a side alley, one moment before I was pushed into a car whose engine was already running, one of them addressed me in Hebrew with a heavy Russian accent. “You shut up, you cunt, or I slit your throat like chicken.”
My fear was replaced with joy.
The accent was Russian, but the words were Hebrew.
I was driven to the nearby coast. A swaying motorboat transported us to a merchant ship, which it approached from its unlit side. We waited for a long interval until a rope ladder was thrown down to us.
