by Shlomo Kalo
“Go on then, ask.”
“What does he talk about? Has he been agitated lately?”
“He’s more agitated than any other time since I’ve known him. And all his conversations revolve around one single axis – the destruction of the Jews. My learned brother-in-law asserts that God has put into his hands the clean, sophisticated and purely scientific means of bringing about the end, once and for all, of Jews and of Judaism, without any harm resulting from this to anyone who isn’t Jewish. When he said this I couldn’t resist suggesting, in all seriousness, he should go and consult a shrink, immediately if not sooner, preferably a shrink with a sound reputation, and I was prepared to pay the costs of consultation and psychiatric treatment, the best that’s available in Germany.”
“And how did he react?” I interjected, wanting to save time and bring her back to the main issue.
“You could have no idea! Do you want three guesses?”
“OK, but not just now. I’m agog with curiosity, more so than anything I’ve known since I was ten years old, and I want to hear the facts. So, how did he react to your frank comments?”
“With three simple words,” Erika conceded.
“And those words were?” I prompted her.
“You are right!”
I wasn’t satisfied with this. I waited and Erika didn’t disappoint.
“A few days ago,” she continued, controlling her impulses, “Amin went on to say: Now I have to plan, in all seriousness, bearing in mind the presence of that accursed race in all corners of the world, to ensure that my bacterium gets there, and does its job.
You’ll need millions to do that, I told him. That’s where you’re wrong, he said, Not millions – billions, and I’ve got them!
“That’s all I can tell you up to now… if there’s any more to come, you’ll hear it from me. An insignificant payment for the fuck that you were so opposed to. You know my address and you’ve got my phone number. I don’t know anything about you… maybe it’s better that way. You can come looking for me. Once a week at least.” She smiled a broad, bright, surprising smile.
“Thankyou very much, Erika!” I thanked her wholeheartedly.
Chapter Twenty
I left the apartment. I returned later that evening, and asked a favour, with all the courtesy which the English language affords:
“Erika, I’d like to meet Amin.”
“Is it urgent?” she asked, with all the solemn dignity she was capable of.
“Urgent!” I confirmed in a tone which almost scaled the heights of German brusqueness.
“I’ll go down at once and find out for you. Is it OK to tell him you’re here?”
“It’s OK.”
She returned about an hour later, agitated to the roots of her flaxen hair.
“He came close to bursting into tears! He says he’s dying to meet you as soon as possible. Something else he mentioned, like an afterthought – he reckons he owes you his life. It seems there’s a grain of truth in it.”
“More than a grain of truth!” I thought it appropriate to stress, remembering Shmulik’s words: “I’ll make sure he gets to hear of it.” Half an hour later I was invited into the downstairs flat. A spacious flat. I was ushered into the sitting-room. There were a number of broad, deep-seated armchairs, some with foot-stools, upholstered in provocative and repellent purple velvet, like blood and perhaps fire too. A long and heavy table, highly polished, a grand piano in the eastern corner. A jumble of photographs and pictures, mounted on dark green card. A grandiose salon indeed! There were paintings too: some classical prints and also examples of work by the leading artists of the Twentieth Century – the century we were all glad to see the back of. The pregnant Hilde, very like her unruly sister, and just as capable of being unruly herself, were she not inhibited by her swollen belly – sat in the western corner, furthest from the piano. I was invited to sit in one of the armchairs, which to my surprise proved to be very comfortable. Amin appeared out of nowhere, clicked his heels, German officer style, held out a familiar, bony hand, which I shook with genuine warmth, and sat down facing me in a matching chair. I scrutinised him, with curiosity. He had hardly changed. His face had grown thin and his big sad eyes protruded. We both sank into the soft upholstery, fit to dispel any troublesome thought. Hilde disappeared somewhere, evidently to a concealed kitchen, re-appearing a few moments later pulling a tea-trolley, its two shelves laden to overflowing with cakes, sandwiches, thinly-sliced bread, saucers of butter and various kinds of jam. The drinks on offer were mineral water, coffee and tea. Amin apologised for not serving alcohol, in accordance with his religious obligations, but said he could offer me a can of beer or a glass of wine or brandy if I chose, although – and here he smiled a smile devoid of any pretence – to the best of his knowledge, I was not an outstanding aficionado of hard liquor, of any kind or strength.
“Your memory isn’t failing you,” I confirmed.
“Not yet,” he rejoined, as if to take some of the gloss away from my compliment.
I drank a little tea, with its warming and encouraging influence, which I needed so much. I took a dry, unostentatious biscuit. He poured himself coffee, and took some of the same biscuits.
“A proper English high tea!” he declared, feeling the need to say something.
“The English and their customs!” I responded, for the same reason.
“Take their customs away, and they wouldn’t be English any more!” he concluded.
“We admire them so much,” I continued in the same vein.
“It’s better and nicer that way,” Amin chimed in. I sipped more of my tea. I held the cup in both hands, to warm them, as a way of overcoming my embarrassment, an effort which proved eminently successful.
“So,” I began, “you’ve done what you threatened to do!”
“And you have to believe me,” he countered with some warmth, “I’m very sorry for this!”
I could not restrain my professional curiosity – even if I had wanted to – and without any diplomatic preambles, I demanded brusquely:
“Who did you get the Rickettsias from?”
It seemed he sensed the turmoil inside me and evidently, despite his regret which was apparently sincere, clear and emphatic – he was proud of his achievement.
“From the university lab.”
“They don’t just give away lethal micro-organisms. That’s strictly and absolutely forbidden.”
“I still got the stuff.”
“How?” I controlled myself in an effort not to risk losing the information, which interested me very much.
“Through Miss Davenport.”
“The laboratory superintendent?” – it was more of a statement than a question.
This was an elderly spinster, who managed the laboratories at the University of Columbia, a perfectionist and a pedant who could reduce strong men to tears, acutely conscious of the weight of responsibility laid on her narrow shoulders and the salary she earned. A lady with a distinguished family pedigree, dating back to the legendary Mayflower.
“How did you do that?” I pressed him, although I sensed he was just as eager to share his stunning scientific achievements as I was to hear about them.
“I made love to her.”
“But she’s over sixty!” I marvelled. “And you know,” I couldn’t resist adding, “if this ever comes to light she’ll be dismissed, in disgrace and without entitlement to any pension.”
“It won’t come to light,” he declared firmly and added, “I’m not going to tell, and neither are you!”
“That’s right,” I confirmed.
“What is right anyway?” – he poured out his bitterness.
“Right, is what leads the wrongdoer to full repentance.”
“And who is the judge of what is right?” he fired another bullet.
“Only God.”
“In other words,” he persisted – “mankind has neither the right nor the ability to form a just judgment.”
“Absolutely so, and in all circumstances!” was the categorical answer.
“And why is that?”
“Because you will find no human being who has not sinned, has not committed some offence, from a white lie to violent murder, in his imagination or in reality, which amount to the same thing.”
“How is the justice of God attained?”
“By not interfering with His business and His activities.”
“And how is that done?”
“By earning the privilege of believing in Him, adhering to Him, trusting in Him.”
“In other words – the one who believes in Him, adheres to Him and trusts in Him, has nothing to fear or to complain about!”
“Exactly,” I concurred.
“From which it follows, that every dispute between neighbours, relatives and peoples, even our two peoples, will come to its full and comprehensive resolution, in direct proportion to faith, adherence and trust in God.”
“Which are directly opposed to hatred, vengefulness and arrogance.”
“So what we have to do, is dispel hatred, vengefulness and arrogance!”
“That is the truth,” I responded emphatically.
I returned to the topic that interested me.
“How did you keep the Rickettsia?” – my curiosity was overflowing.
“It went through a process of adaptation.”
“You mean, you don’t depend any more on Rocky Mountain deer…”
He completed the sentence for me:
“But on the stray dogs of New York City.”
“You’ve been working hard,” I declared.
“I had outstanding assistants.”
“Half a dozen elderly New York virgins?”
“Perish the thought!” he protested, “A full dozen young Arabs, studying in higher education institutions across the USA. They all studied life sciences or medicine. They answered the call. They left the lecture-hall bench and moved to a house that I rented. We opened what amounted to boarding kennels, and they helped with the work which wasn’t free of serious danger, the risk of death. They knew this and worked tirelessly, with commendable enthusiasm. Soon, the dogs started dying of Rocky Mountain fever, suffering terribly. It was a shocking spectacle. We had to ensure that the ticks, causing the sickness and death of the dogs, could be transferred to new dogs.”
“How did you do this?”
“We enabled uninfected dogs to come into the closest possible contact with infected or dead dogs. And we were entirely successful.”
“Those bastard ticks did the job for you!” I declared.
“That’s true, of course. Ticks, as you know, sense the warmth of the victim approaching and attach themselves to it in any way possible. We buried scores of dogs.
“The next stage was the most repellent and dangerous. We had to transfer infected ticks to plastic containers, with air supply, and on to the main testing station, meaning of course, the village of Hasda in Galilee. And here the most decisive phase took place: adaptation of Rickettsia on the basis of Jewish D.N.A.”
“You must have needed massive quantities of Jewish blood!” I commented with a certain sense of pride.
“True,” Amin concurred – “and where was I going to find it if not in the place with the world’s highest concentration of Jews, in Israel.”
“Stocks of blood in Israel’s hospitals,” I offered a superficial guess.
“Bull’s-eye!” Amin commended my superficiality, and continued:
“The transfer was smooth. In Israel the dogs were distributed, free, to the Jewish families and also to the Arab families in Hasda.”
“In both Judaism and Islam, the dog is considered an unclean creature.”
“The rumour was spread, that progress and unity demanded the rearing of dogs and their treatment with the appropriate degree of respect. It was hinted to the Arabs that love of their homeland required this, it was a form of holy war, the Jihad. The Jews, seeing themselves as equals to the Arabs in every respect, could not conceive the possibility of lagging behind the Arabs, with their understanding of dogs. The ticks, doing what comes naturally, also passed on to human beings, the ones tending the dogs, infected them with Rickettsias and the results were publicised in the media… not in an appropriately scientific form of course” – he could not conceal a sense of professional pride.
“How many ‘passages’ did it take to reach dependence?” I asked.
“Nine to twelve,” the answer came.
“Did you use a liquid or solid medium?”
“Exclusively liquid,” he replied, “although I would have preferred to work with solids. The way I did it was time consuming, caused a lot of complications and raised all kinds of question-marks. But I had no choice.”
“Did you have control checks?” I returned to the subject, barely daring to hope that the experiment had not been properly conducted, such that the results on the ground would be discredited and the whole murderous theory invalidated.
“Arab blood donated free of charge, European blood – at full market price.”
“The Europeans didn’t ask what was the purpose of the research?”
“All they asked for was payment in dollars and within twenty-four hours.”
“You’re talking about hospitals in the European capitals?”
“Berlin, Paris, Rome – the best hospitals,” he replied briefly, a reply that embarrassed him too, though it hardly amounted to a trauma.
“The results?” I demanded to know and he wasn’t slow to inform me:
“Without Jewish blood – the Rickettsias die, disintegrate and disappear.”
“Bingo!” I couldn’t resist saying, “Fantastic!”
“It’s pure micro-biological science.”
“An impressive piece of work,” I couldn’t help but tell the truth.
“I won’t be a candidate for the Nobel Peace Prize,” he retorted reluctantly, “and you have to believe me, I greatly regret all this and I apologise most sincerely.”
I gave him a keen look. His brown, almost swarthy eyes, his face, so Arab in all its sharp lines, made him the epitome of the proud and pure-bred son of the Arab race, warrior and enthusiast, the conqueror who doesn’t know how to treat those he has conquered and how to hold on to his conquests, the religious fanatic, bowing devoutly five times a day in the direction of Mecca, praising his God and thanking Him for the very air he breathes. Since I said nothing, Amin took the opportunity to back up his words and clarify them to some extent.
“We never had the suffering of any human being on our conscience, irrespective of race or nationality. In fact, I believed the conscience was a Jewish-western invention, with its roots in flawed personality, misunderstanding of responsibility and absence of faith. And then suddenly something crops up, devil or angel, I still don’t know which, and hits me in the chest, right here in the chest, where my heart’s supposed to be. A physical blow, and this heart starts missing beats or the opposite, working double time and racing like a runaway horse, without a rider. And I wish I could turn the wheel backwards, but God has imposed on us the ineluctable rule that the wheel cannot be reversed once it is rolling down the slope, so we must learn to be more cautious in the future. I should say, so we must learn to guard against arrogance. Suddenly I began to understand the world of Subhan Ismo!” He glanced at me quickly to see if the benediction was familiar to me, and went on to say, “I saw the pictures in the paper. The children who died of the plague. On TV they screened horrific images of the dying and for the first time in my life, this was not a nice experience for me!”
“You mean, the fact that they were Jewish and not Arab children?” I demanded clarification, to gain a deeper understanding of the bitterness infecting his soul.
“Exactly so!” he declared in typically peremptory style that meant – I have changed from the person I have been since birth. “Besides this,” he added, “there’s no guarantee that tomorrow this will not be inflicted on other children – Engli
sh, Indian, African, Arab…” his words sounded convincing.
At this point I couldn’t resist the impulse to say: “His Name be blessed” - the direct translation of the Arabic Subhan Ismo
He pondered this and added the response: “His Name be blessed for ever and to all eternity!”
I felt tears in my throat. I turned to him again:
“I can say to you in all sincerity, that I see in you more than a blood-brother” – and in the whole of my being something began to settle and ease. Faint stirrings of overwhelming joy were filling my chest:
“In my humble opinion, you should make some kind of public statement and let the world breathe a momentary sigh of relief.”
“That’s exactly what I intend to do. Call a press conference and bring it all out into the open, before the eyes of the world. Only then, will I know peace,” Amin declared and I believed him. He sensed this and hurried to confirm it: “You believe me!”
“With absolute belief,” I did not hesitate to corroborate his words. “But…” I said.
“No ‘buts’,” he stepped in quickly to stop me.
“I mean, how will your controllers take this?”
“I have no controllers. I am the controller, the planner and the executor… and you have to understand, the ones who provide the financing for my activities don’t belong to some kind of highly intellectual coterie, they have money and that’s all.”
“How can you explain this to them?” I insisted.
“In the language they understand, which is ultimately, at the end of the day, my own language.”
“And the ‘Jihad’?” I asked a pertinent question.
“Will find its rightful place.”
“Which is?” I pressed him.
“The personal struggle of every man against his negative instinct,” and he saw fit to add, “as you know as well as anyone.”
He fell silent.
“May God go with you,” I blessed him.
“And with you!” he responded at once, the response of a brother in faith to a brother in faith.
“The finger of God is everywhere,” he continued with the fervour that had not yet abated, “I was hugely relieved when I heard they hadn’t harmed you.”
