THRILLER: The Galilee Plot: (International Biological Terror, The Mossad, and... A Self-contended Couple)

by Shlomo Kalo

  I tried to reassure her.

  “I’m right beside you!” I declared with excessive confidence. She clutched my arm and almost wept with emotion.

  Sure enough, the next day we went and received two pairs of gleaming spectacles. My wife was euphoric.

  After a few hours of gazing at the splendid world of the Holy One blessed be He, through one of those pairs and a hasty attempt to read a newspaper standing up, my wife again declared she could see nothing, could not pick out objects or letters.

  We returned to the optometrist. He repeated the process and checked everything with commendable thoroughness, and found that in the laboratory his instructions had not been properly followed and there had been confusion. He promised that the issue would be rectified fully and expeditiously, and we were asked to come back the next day.

  Early in the morning we presented ourselves, and were given repaired spectacles. My wife’s mouth was filled with all the praises in the world. We reached the hotel, and the phenomenon repeated itself – no distant sight, letters at close range illegible. As I write these lines, we are planning yet another visit to the professional and may God be with us.

  Chapter Eight

  We went down to Lake Zurich. The temperature was cool, without being threatening, the climate for which we flew to Switzerland in the first place and which we didn’t always get. We walked with the stream of pedestrians and bicycle riders on the broad promenade alongside the lake. People smiled at one another. If someone smiled broadly at someone smiling at him, this was interpreted as an invitation to conversation and so on. We didn’t need this. We reached the end of the promenade and returned, slowing our steps, filling our lungs with invigorating, oxygenated air. We returned the way we had come, walked over the broad bridge crossing the garden where on Saturdays a flea-market was held. We made slow progress, finally arriving at “Sprüngli”, a European café of petty bourgeois flavour, famous for its homemade cakes and chocolate, not only in Switzerland but outside it as well. “Sprüngli” had tables on the pavement and also a large room on the upper floor. We decided to sit outside under the parasols, designed to provide shade from the sun and now affording some protection from the light rain. Before we sat down the rain started falling, adding to the ozone and to the pleasure of the excursion. A waitress in a classic, starched-white Viennese apron approached us, bowed lightly and stylishly and asked what we wanted. We ordered what we ordered and it was served within less than five minutes. We sipped “Sprüngli’s” excellent cappuccino with deep enjoyment, that concoction which my wife, in her exalted mood, described as a “masterpiece”. The rain was merciful to us and didn’t strengthen, while the pink parasol protected us and contributed to the boosting of our spirits. And then we both noticed, with our peripheral vision, and from our separate places, two guys standing by the open-air counter and staring at us. Young men, in Swiss suits like those worn by bank-clerks and schoolteachers. After about two minutes the shorter of the two approached us and asked if the two chairs next to us were free. We couldn’t say “No”, though we would have liked to. It isn’t the Swiss way to refuse to accommodate people who want to share a table, rather the opposite. I hurriedly nodded my head, not wanting to give the impression that the dwarfish young man had broken my wife’s heart. The one who approached us thanked us in clear German, signalled to his friend to come over and the two of them sat down facing us. The waitress arrived, took their order, brought two cups of steaming coffee. I began chatting with my wife in as animated a style as possible, hoping to convey the message that we weren’t looking for new interlocutors. We spoke English. This surprised the two men, and the dwarf addressed me again, asking in English as deformed as himself, the most hackneyed question of all: where were we from.

  The atmosphere was not pleasant, and the expressions on the faces of the two contributed to our unease. The dwarf could have been a sergeant in the Wermacht, with his ruddy face and big dark eyes in constant movement back and forth, like the eyes of an animal in a cartoon film. The tall, thin one was reminiscent of one of Hitler’s more spectacularly stupid generals, only his childlike devotion to his Fuhrer rendering him photogenic to a certain extent. It seemed he knew about photography, as he said a few words about cameras, enlargements and lenses. At a certain moment, chosen by me, I lied to the dwarf about our origins:

  “My wife is American,” I said, “and I’m Bulgarian.” It wasn’t such a big lie: I was born in that country and its language was my mother-tongue, while my wife had spent a fair number of her years in the land of the buffalo and the Red Indian and the Hollywood soap opera, and she spoke fluent American. She took the initiative, turned to me and said:

  “Let’s not forget, the Schwarzewald family are supposed to be visiting with us today.”

  I put on a serious face, agreed with her at once, signalled to the waitress who was exceptionally alert to hints such as these, and was standing beside me just a moment later, one hand in the leather money-belt at her waist, rummaging among the assorted notes and coins. We paid.

  “Just a moment,” the dwarf said as if suddenly waking up, “we know which way you’re going, and we’d be happy to give you a lift to your hotel. We have a nice VW Beetle outside. You can see, the rain has no intention of stopping, on the contrary – it’s getting stronger.”

  My wife turned to me, looking for a response. Her eyes said – find us a way out of this! I found one:

  “We prefer to use the tram. Thanks all the same.”

  Here the thin one intervened, saying:

  “Think about it for a moment! You can hear the rain and the wind. It’s no trouble to us. We’re going to the same destination.”

  “We appreciate your offer, Herr…”

  “Obermann” – he filled it in for me, listening intently to every syllable I uttered, and forcing me to weigh every letter before articulating it.

  “It’s been a great pleasure meeting you, Herr Obermann!” I declared and almost clicked my heels, in the style of long-dead officers of the Reich.

  We moved towards the street. At that moment, a Number 11 stopped. We both ran, the rain catching up with us every other step. We boarded the tram, found dry seats, and relaxed, taking deep gulps of invigorating, therapeutic air. Half an hour later, we were in our tidy, spotlessly clean hotel room. On the table, a couple of ripe apples and two small bars of chocolate. We attacked them without mercy, till nothing was left but the chocolate wrappers, discarded in the bin. My wife was agitated.

  “You saw!” – she pronounced the exclamation mark.

  “There’s nothing to be done. That’s what comes of going for a walk with a woman as attractive as you!”

  “Leave out the Stone Age wise-cracks. They know where we’re staying.”

  “That doesn’t bother me.”

  “I don’t know why you’re being so casual about this.”

  “What is it about this whole episode that you find strange?”

  She repeated emphatically, her voice quivering a little:

  “They know where we’re staying. They know us but we don’t know them.”

  “I don’t mind not knowing them,” I replied in a melodious voice, like a bird set free from a cage. My wife went to the window, and suddenly let out a cry, something not characteristic of her.

  “Look!” she said pointing. I rushed to her side, looked, and saw.

  Someone was pointing a telescopic camera at me. I wasted no time, putting the thumb of one hand to the end of my nose, the other thumb on the little finger, and moved my hands this way and that in a gesture of contempt, intending to annoy and generally succeeding. Without expressing any opinion of me, my wife put on a raincoat and ran to the lift. I followed her example and caught up with her. We went down in the lift and to the edge of the field adjoining the hotel, and possibly belonging to it, where the pair of clowns we met at “Sprüngli” were standing, their faces expressing despair hard to gauge, like two buffoons who have blundered in a popular farce and are exposed t
o the scorn and derision of the audience.

  “Get out of here!” my wife shouted, though she had no legal right to demand this. The tall one got into the Beetle, parked a few paces from us, put the telescopic camera away, picked up a conventional camera from the seat and without any shame, pointed it at me. My wife stooped and found something which I would never have imagined could be found in a Swiss field – certainly not a ploughed field, replete with germinating corn – a round stone, which was immediately flung at the tall man’s face, to be more precise, at his camera, which a moment before had managed to click a few times, being held in the hands of an expert. The dwarf approached my wife, but I saw he had no fighting spirit in him, so I left him, for better or worse, to the tender mercies of her hands, which soon found, to the shame of the Swiss, two more round stones, hurled straight into the face of the dwarf. I ran towards the tall one, and did what they do in all the films – I tapped him lightly on the shoulder, and he obediently turned to me his Quixote-ish features. Two fleshless jaw-bones received one after the other four well-aimed punches, two apiece. He collapsed at my feet. I turned my attention to the dwarf, who in the meantime had managed to take refuge in the vehicle, and from there he waved an admonitory finger, sometimes in my wife’s direction, sometimes in mine – the gesture of a prankster in a class of backward children. My wife approached Mr Obermann, still prostrate at my feet. From the inside pocket of his tailored jacket, peered the edge of a white piece of paper or card. She stooped and with a swift movement, pulled out something that looked like a visiting card. We read the content: written there in square Teutonic manuscript was the name of the hotel where we were staying, our room number, surname and first names. My wife exclaimed:

  “That which I feared has come upon us!” – and put the card back in its place.

  Without exchanging another word, we folded our tents and sounded the retreat. We ran up a hillock and soon we were back in our room. We took off our coats and flung them down on the upholstered chairs. My wife’s face showed anxiety which could not be hidden or disregarded.

  “What are you so worried about?” I asked her.

  “They’re looking for you,” she replied.

  “Why would they be looking for me?” I asked innocently.

  “Stop playing games. Only you can foil their intentions.”

  “Who are they, and what intentions are you talking about?”

  “Your Arab friend and his cronies!”

  “Why should they do that?” I persisted.

  “You’re the only one who knows the material, the only one who can seriously jeopardise their nefarious schemes.”

  “They aren’t that clever!” I declared, and hugged her shoulders.

  “Your face is covered in mud!” my wife cried, with an expression of horror.

  “So is yours!” I replied.

  She smiled.

  I ushered her into the bathroom.

  Chapter Nine

  In the media, especially in the papers and on television, worrying reports began to appear about natural disasters, and this time, unlike in previous times, Switzerland too was hit by severe floods. In the forests of Portugal giant fires raged, and there were victims. As happened every year, a hurricane threatened the coasts of America and China. The mood was gloomy, the air in the room was dense, and not easy to breathe.

  After much hesitation and cogitation, my wife plucked up her courage and turned to me with a question:

  “Why is this happening?”

  We were sitting in the quiet room. Rain lashed the windows.

  “There exists a divine justice,” I began – “and it’s a sure foundation for the balance of forces in nature. When this divine justice is impaired,” I went on to explain, “the balance of natural forces is disrupted and the result: natural disasters, the source of which is – immoral behaviour. In the Bible it is written: For all flesh has corrupted his way (Genesis chapter six, verse twelve).”

  “For example?”

  “Incest. Not long ago we heard about a man who seduced a mother and her daughter, or the brother and sister, each of whom raised a family, and who then embarked on a sexual relationship with each other, and other cases that we haven’t heard about, all of them constituting a serious offence against divine justice and a no less serious disruption of the balance of natural forces. The prophet Jonah, who refused to obey God and to fulfil his mission, offended against divine justice and disrupted the forces of nature. The ship on which Jonah meant to escape from his God, was on the point of breaking up and sinking along with all those on board. Jonah, whose faith was true, and whose trust in God was without flaw, called on those praying on the ship to throw him in the sea, as he was the reason for their disaster, he the one who offended against divine justice and disrupted the balance of natural forces, and they believed him and did as he asked, and the ship was saved with all hands. God rescued Jonah, his chosen and steadfast envoy.”

  “And what about the forest fires?” she persisted.

  “The same principle as for the floods.”

  “As far as I know,” she continued, “the Jews have always been accused of offending against divine justice and disrupting the balance of natural forces, as you call them.”

  “The Jews are the only people in the world who are not content with not acknowledging Jesus Christ and not believing his message, but – unlike every other people, nation and race in the world – the Jewish race persecutes Jesus Christ, hates him and curses him, and this is a serious offence against divine justice and the balance of natural forces.”

  “And if the Jews stop persecuting, hating and cursing Jesus Christ, who incidentally was born and died a Jew – what will be the outcome?”

  I replied with solid and unassailable confidence: “It will be the age of the salvation of the human race.”

  “Why do the Jews refuse to stop persecuting, hating and cursing Jesus Christ?”

  “Why does the blind man not see the light, so that any small stone can trip him and bring him to the ground?”

  “I don’t think the Jews will ever abandon their blind behaviour.”

  “Then there will be no salvation for the human race, of which the Jews are a part.”

  “Why is a man born a Jew?”

  “Why is an elephant born an elephant?”

  “That isn’t a fair analogy!” – a note of serious protest in her voice.

  “One necessarily exists as does the other, so that divine justice will be revealed and the balance of natural forces maintained. Any thought, word or deed which offends, intentionally or otherwise, consciously or unconsciously, against divine justice and disrupts the balance of natural forces, resulting in natural disaster, is defined both in ancient and in modern Hebrew as a ‘despicable act’.”

  “An apt definition!” – she expressed emphatic satisfaction. “And what your friend Amin is doing or planning to do, isn’t that a ‘despicable act’?”

  “A despicable act in the first degree.”

  “But that hasn’t caused any natural disasters.”

  “If that isn’t stopped, it’s going to bring about the murderous business called war.”

  Chapter Ten

  I had a cousin, eight years older than me, articulate and well-mannered, shrewd although uneducated, not renowned for his diligence or for his conscientious approach to work. In the tradition of Jews of Spanish ancestry, he was named, as was I and a dozen other cousins on my father’s side, Shlomo, after our grandfather.

  In the place where I was born and grew up, sustaining a family was the mark of manhood, and more important still was the achievement of sustaining that family with integrity and honour. Also in the place where I was born, an acute economic crisis erupted, and thousands were thrown out into the street, without any source of income whatsoever. My cousin, may he rest in Paradise, was one of them. He had a family: a pleasant and sharp-witted wife, two wonderful children. Responsibility for the family was laid on him, and slowly but surely it became clear
that he needed no help from relatives, and more than this, my cousin proved himself a man, in other words – he sustained his family with integrity and honour. Obviously not through his former profession, seriously damaged as a result of the economic crisis, or any other regular profession either. My shrewd cousin, with a total of four years of primary education behind him, sustained his family with integrity and honour, incredible as it may sound – by playing poker. We were good friends and enjoyed each other’s company and conversation, so I suggested a meeting and asked him directly, as was customary between us: “Tell me, Cousin, do you really earn all your income in these turbulent times – from poker? And the big head with the tousled, dense and curly black hair, went down and up again, twice, in an abrupt movement. His vocal version of the answer was a resolute: “Yes!”

  “But how can it be so?” I wondered. “I know you’re a member of a poker club for factory managers, which was disbanded although it continues to meet secretly, and there, to the best of my knowledge, anyone caught cheating is thrown out. Final and irrevocable expulsion.”

  “They’ve never caught me cheating and they never will.”

  “So how is it that you always win?” I pressed him: “Can you explain?”

  “Willingly!” he declared. “You’re familiar with all the thirty-two cards. You see the cards dealt to you, remember the cards you’ve discarded and what replaced them. With a sidelong glance, often enough – you catch the edge of a card that’s been discarded or has fallen, and you make your calculations, which aren’t particularly complicated. You have a rough idea of who’s holding what. You also know the personalities of the other players. There are the frivolous ones and the sensible ones, the pedantic and the broad-minded. All of this guarantees you an adequate return at the end of the working day, and we’re talking one day a week.”