by Shlomo Kalo
In a way that cannot be explained, that was uninvited, my lungs began breathing in a rhythm different from that in which they had breathed hitherto. It began with the row of houses blazing white below me, strewn across arid, overheated land – “We’re coming home!” – I stretched out in my seat. A gate invisible to the eye opened and substitution began, between what was outside it and what was inside. As if the whole of the Bible had put on intangible skin and sinew and passed through this gate. Abraham and Isaac and Jacob and his twelve sons, David and Solomon, Isaiah, Jeremiah, Amos and Elijah. They sprang up in our hearts like something that will never be revealed to the senses and yet exists – was, is, and shall be
It isn’t a question of a piece of land but of the spirit, homeland of the spirit, which nothing can impair and which impairs nothing. I was the most fortunate of men and not immune from sorrow, I knew that finally I had found myself in the dazzling light, streaming below me, above me and in me, I knew there were no words capable of expressing this, and yet, I am writing these lines, to spread happiness over the whole world, consummate happiness, which cannot be shared and yet can be lived in such a way that one is an inseparable part of it, happiness which erases all sorrow and above all – cleanses the soul of the last vestige of doubt. All the world has a share in this light of joy, which will not be taken from it, not ever. I was ready, at that moment, to break into song. My wife leaned over and sang King’s Bride in my ear, understanding my thoughts and bringing them to a conclusion.
The plane began its descent, resembling a gigantic messenger, bringing with him a thousand tidings of truth for which the world is thirsty, and it shall accept them and be changed.
Chapter Eighteen
We returned full of impressions of all kinds and tendencies; this was unlike any other holiday we had ever spent, in that place, and between approximately the same dates, over the past dozen years. Neither of us could say for certain whether this made things better or worse. My wife was firmly of the opinion that events had been bizarre, intervention had been crude and always negative, and henceforward she would be taking more seriously, and certainly paying more attention to – the stories I told her about my past and in particular the warnings I gave, which to her mind had all too often smacked of outright paranoia. I accepted everything submissively, in the solid hope that there might still be unexpected developments in the right direction. On our arrival at Ben-Gurion Airport, another surprise awaited us. After we had collected our baggage we were accosted by a group of ruffians who escorted us to a special department set aside for the reception of V.I.P.s. In the spacious, rather dingy room, we were met by Shmulik, in person. He extended his broad hand and to our utter amazement he apologised, the kind of apology that wasn’t at all his normal style. And he didn’t just mumble a few barely intelligible words either, as might have been expected, but spoke out with uncharacteristic clarity:
“I’m very sorry, but I had no other way of welcoming you home and wishing you a long life of health and happiness.” The words were sincere, with no remaining vestige of the sergeant-major about them.
There’s nothing to be said, I thought to myself, the Mossad is pretty efficient when it comes to training its operatives. By way of reply, I spoke a few words of thanks and appreciation, and couldn’t resist the temptation to say:
“The Mossad ploughs a deep furrow in its people. If we hadn’t met recently, I wouldn’t have recognised you!”
“You have to understand, Madam,” he said, turning to my wife and ignoring my comment, “we shall need to bother your husband for a few more days, as few as possible, and the bother shouldn’t be too troublesome, although as I’m sure you know, the situation is serious, things are hotting up and they must not be allowed under any circumstances” – he stressed the under any circumstances and the thought that flashed into my mind was that Shmulik would never make it as a diplomat; the sergeant-major syndrome had left a deep imprint in his soul after all, and deviousness did not come to him naturally; the end of the sentence, addressed to my wife was – “to get out of hand.” Our troubles must not under any circumstances be allowed to get out of hand.
This statement on Shmulik’s part sounded like a vow, and I had not the shadow of a doubt this was one of the vows that would be kept, in all respects and senses, in the letter and in the spirit.
“And now, I apologise again for the delay I have caused. Go out and meet your reception committee. There seem to be a fair number of people waiting for you. I know – I did some checking-up,” he admitted and steered us towards a side-exit – straight into the familiar Israeli maelstrom, the crowd waiting impatiently for returnees from abroad.
It took us a whole week to get ourselves sorted out at home: we put things back in their places, filled the freezer, told friends and relations we were back. At the end of that week, Shmulik phoned.
“I won’t ask how you got my phone number” – I was rattled, feeling that my privacy had been violated. “It’s supposed to be protected,” I added. “All the same, maybe I should learn to be more careful.”
“If someone wants to learn, he’ll learn,” Shmulik retorted, ignoring my bruised sensibilities. “The secret of learning is to leave behind any kind of conceit, and take on a little humility – however little it may be.”
“I agree with every word of that,” I conceded sincerely. “But I still want to know who leaked you my number,” I demanded, without any real hope.
“The phone company,” was the answer.
“How?” I asked, although I realised my question was superfluous.
“There’s a certain hierarchy in every properly run state,” Shmulik explained patiently. “One official service defers to another official service, and this deference is sanctioned by higher authority in the public interest.”
“I’m well aware of all that,” I assured him. Shmulik changed the subject and arranged a meeting at a time convenient to me, which he reckoned was eleven in the morning, in a café on Ben Yehuda Street, Tel Aviv.
We met, had something to drink, and a snack of some kind. He paid, and made a point of getting a receipt. I asked if it was at his employer’s expense. He nodded. Our conversation was both practical and succinct. Shmulik began by asking me again if the elimination of Amin Abu Halil would lead, in my opinion, to the eradication of the plague. My unequivocal answer, after thorough consideration lasting some five minutes, was “No!”
“For the time being you’ve saved his life,” Shmulik commented with a faint smile and added: “I’ll make sure he gets to hear of it.”
I couldn’t restrain my curiosity, and I asked Shmulik again about the man who saved my life.
Shmulik smiled a broad, unexpected and magnanimous smile, transforming the expression on his face beyond recognition – from dour austerity to a look of fatherly understanding, and willingness to oblige. “Your gratitude has been passed on,” he began, “and if you want to know more of his particulars…
“He’s a Polish Jew in his early thirties, who did his army service in Poland. He did not get on with his sergeant-major, a tough guy who hated Jews – it was like an intoxicating drug in his blood-stream. He knew all the derogatory terms for Jews in all languages and dialects and enjoyed applying them to Mr Atlas. Mr Atlas’s first name was Saul, or according to the translation of the Christian scriptures – Paul. This was the name he adopted. On manoeuvres with the Polish army, he put a bullet in the sergeant-major’s thick skull with a revolver fired from long range, and then deserted. He turned up in Paris and became a professional hitman, hanging out with underground types at the “Poule” – that’s what they call the basement café in the centre of Paris. Naturally, he has a sentimental attachment to his persecuted race, and he’s the one we usually turn to. Your story impressed him. Incidentally, he sends you this greeting: ‘Enjoy life and don’t sell yourself short’.” Suddenly he returned to the subject that interested him most: “Never mind that, what in your opinion is likely to halt this disease – meaning,
besides identifying it. The medical establishment is baffled by the diagnosis that’s been thrown at it so readily, and has no rational explanation for it, or any hope of a rational explanation. Doctors are strangely reluctant to go anywhere near Hasda, and the same applies to all the ancillary services too, so if you can think of any way of halting the spread of the disease, or alleviating the symptoms, anything at all, let’s hear it. We can’t afford to lose the battle with the crude racism that’s in the ascendant now, getting stronger all the time and threatening to take us all over, whatever the outcome is going to be. We have no mercy to look forward to, and it seems the only one we can trust – is God.”
“I suppose you have read some other books, besides Erral,” was my comment.
“The point has been made, that homework is needed, and anyone as thoroughgoing as me does this in depth, not missing any crevice, as everyone has to do everything he possibly can, to stop this volcano that’s erupting and going on erupting…” He fell silent. I took the hint.
“I very much hope you’re not pushed for time,” he added – it was part question, part statement.
“I’ve done everything I can to free up as much time as possible.”
“You’ve done the right thing,” Shmulik concluded, and after a couple of minutes of concentrated thought he asked: “Tell me everything you know about Rocky Mountain spotted fever, in as much depth as possible and from all angles. Sometimes the insight of the layman can uncover things that the experts and self-styled pundits are incapable of grasping, simply because they are experts and self-styled pundits. I assume you’re familiar with the disease and its causes.”
“Very much so,” I told him truthfully, and went on to explain: “Well then, the disease is caused by a micro-organism that isn’t a bacterium and isn’t a virus, and is called ‘Rickettsia” after the man who discovered it – Howard Taylor Ricketts.”
His notebook in his left hand, and his right scribbling away at furious speed, Shmulik asked for clarification: “What is the difference between a bacterium and a virus, and what are the distinguishing features of Rickettsia?”
“A virus can pass through bacterial filters, something totally impossible for a bacterium. A virus proliferates on a medium of living cells, while a bacterium readily proliferates on a normal medium.”
“And where does Rickettsia fit in here?”
“It doesn’t pass through bacterial filters.”
“And in that respect it resembles a bacterium” Shmulik deduced. I nodded.
“It proliferates on living cells.”
“And thus it resembles a virus” Shmulik concluded.
To save time, I made no reference to his highly commendable perspicacity. I went on to say: “Antibiotics destroy bacteria, but they have no effect on viruses. For Rickettsia, no effective antibiotic agent has yet been discovered. There have been suggestions that chloromphenicol might be of some use. All these facts are known to us thanks to the hard work put in by Ricketts, who transmitted the disease from infected to healthy animals, and isolated Rickettsia not only of the sick animals but also of ticks and their eggs. And thus he has proved this is a natural channel of transmission. A tick infected with Rickettsia attaches itself to a host, and infects it with R.M.S.F. The cycle of infection, on the basis of the bite of a tick carrying Rickettsia, includes human beings, with all the implications resulting from that. Ricketts made another step forward, when he proved that very few humans infected by R.M.S.F., only ten percent of them, have any immunity to it. But he was unable, in live experiments, to create antibodies. Ninety per cent of sufferers from R.M.S.F. die. To this day, as far as I know, there has been no success in using animals to create antibodies to Rickettsia rickettsii, which causes R.M.S.F.
“Cultures of Rickettsia can be grown in human blood, until they become dependent on this particular blood – in other words, they only attack this type of blood. Just now, Doctor Amin has made them dependent on a certain type of human blood, bearing certain D.N.A., the D.N.A. of Jews. Those Rickettsias won’t proliferate in any other blood, and therefore they will attack and damage only those whose blood is Jewish.”
“Isn’t it possible to make them dependent on other blood – Arab blood for example?” Shmulik asked.
“It certainly is possible, if Arab or other blood carries D.N.A. different from that of any other blood. In fact it would be quite feasible, it seems to me, to make it dependent on all types of human blood.”
“And then the whole of humanity will be wiped out,” Shmulik hissed.
“Wiped out is a bit of an overstatement,” I commented.
“Thanks very much for the concise lecture. It seems to me,” Shmulik continued, “that by investing effort worthy of the name it should be possible to come up with something that will halt this infernal disease. By the way, the offer of a post in the Nes Ziona laboratories is still open…”
“Thankyou very much,” I thanked him wholeheartedly, but I’m not interested.”
“Don’t forget, you could be drafted!”
“That never does anyone any good,” I replied, rejecting the threat, “but I think there are things that can be done.”
“We shall do and listen,” Shmulik declared, quoting the Bible.
“I’m going to meet Amin Abu Halil,” I said, taking up the cue that he wanted me to take up.
“That shall be done!” Shmulik declared, with a return to his sergeant-major’s manner, and after a moment of silence he added:
“Your good friend is currently living in Berlin. As I told you before, he’s married to Hilde, granddaughter of a Nazi general, who died alongside Adolf Hitler. The energetic Amin has already made his lady pregnant. They’re expecting a baby. You’re to go to Berlin. You know the address. The happy couple are living in the general’s house. Frau Hilde has a sister called Erika, who lives in a separate apartment in the same building, the late general’s property. Fraulein Erika is a spinster, and apparently man-hungry. You can start breaking down the walls with her. Come back here tomorrow, we’ll drink some more of this vile coffee and eat some more stale buns, and you’ll get all the information you need.”
I nodded in assent. I sensed his satisfaction, which he made no attempt to conceal.
“If all goes according to plan,” he went on to say, “the day after tomorrow, you’ll be walking the streets of Berlin. Don’t take any excess baggage, you don’t need it.”
Shmulik stood up, held out his hand in valediction. “Tomorrow,” he said, “same time, same place.”
My wife was not best pleased on hearing the news, but she realised that no argument, however acute and persuasive it might be, could compete with the accumulation of facts.
“Watch out for those German women!” she made a point of warning me.
“By the grace of God we shall do our best.”
“Amen to that!” was her blessing.
Chapter Nineteen
From Shmulik I received a ticket for a Lufthansa flight, business class: a window seat, comfort guaranteed. Next day, carrying just a light suitcase, I was driven to the airport. My wife came to see me off and after a brief conversation we parted. The flight was smooth, and could be described as pleasant and agreeable. It seemed the stewardesses had agreed (or been asked?) to take special care of me, with the kind of womanly concern universally reserved for an attractive man (I knew I hardly qualified as that).
In Berlin I boarded a taxi, and gave the address, which I had memorised. The driver dropped me off, at midday, beside a tall and somewhat antiquated building, reminiscent of a watchtower on a medieval city wall. A listed red-brick building, protected by a pair of cumbersome doors, constructed from heavy Teutonic timber, extravagantly carved. I stood on the opposite side from the house on Humboldt Strasse, Number 19. No doubt, I looked strange to the passers-by, as well as to the residents of the old house, rising to a height which with some slight exaggeration could be described as great, and containing no more than three modern storeys. I didn’t want to
waste any time. On the contrary, all I wanted was to get the job done in the minimum time possible, not a particularly encouraging omen for the success of the mission, but I decided to take the risk and I really didn’t care that much. The tenants of the house in question didn’t seem to be on edge in anticipation of some attack coming from outside, on the part of a (hitherto) unseen enemy.
I leaned my case against the decidedly modern wall of the house facing Number 19 Humboldt Strasse, and there was nothing old about this one: fenced like the house opposite with a low wall, but freshly whitewashed, and gleaming white. The sun beat down with the harsh light of late summer on the old house, and I was lucky to be standing in the shade and not exposed to the full force of the rays, which would have been quite capable of microwaving matza bread. I waited. An hour passed, and still no one showed any interest in me. From the whitewashed house behind me, a portly, dignified German gentleman emerged, in a blue suit, blue shirt with white stripes, and a big blue bow-tie, matching his eyes. He looked like a business partner in some corporate institution, hurrying to his work-place, not far away, with heavy tread – indicative of age and lack of interest in his work. No doubt looking forward impatiently to his date of retirement and planning a round-the-world cruise in the company of his wife or alone. About twenty minutes after him, a woman built on generous lines came out, evidently his wife, and turned in the opposite direction to that taken by the man, behaviour perhaps symbolic of the total lack of understanding between the embittered pair, who have stopped asking questions and stopped arguing – while each cherishes secret expectations of the departure of the other. And then one of the heavy doors opposite opened, and a large-limbed woman, heavily pregnant (Hilde, I guessed), came out, waited for about ten minutes, stopped a taxi and disappeared inside it. The taxi sped away, in whatever direction she had asked for.
