by Nathan Ronen
When he arrived at the apartment, he was surprised to see that Eva’s red Suzuki was not in its parking spot. He opened the door, expecting to smell the mushroom and cheese quiche that was her traditional Sabbath meal, which he loved so much. However, the apartment was utterly quiet, the blinds tilted closed.
He opened the electric blinds, airing out the house. The kitchen was spotless, and the living room, where the baby’s toys were usually scattered, was clean and sterile-looking. His nest was empty.
When he opened the refrigerator to put in the fruit and ice cream he had purchased, he found boxes with pre-cooked meals, lined up like soldiers on parade, marked with stickers noting each box’s contents and the date in which it was packaged.
He walked through the rooms, and on their queen-sized bed, found an unsealed envelope. She had written to him in English, as was her habit when she wanted to be precise.
My darling, for both of our sakes, I’ve decided to take some time off. I’ve been patiently waiting for more than two weeks for you to make time for me. I was hoping we could talk about our relationship. Love means missing someone even when you’re with him. But you retreated into silence and chose to go your own way without taking us into consideration. Sometimes I’m not sure if you love me, and whether you’re able to love without an agenda, unconditionally. Just because… love for its own sake. I feel that you see me mainly as a source for fulfilling your needs: your need to find release from the stress of your work, your sexual and intellectual impulses. But ultimately, everything always revolves around you.
I feel there’s still a giant hole inside you when it comes to family, even though you’ve been through all this before. I went to a couples’ therapist to get some advice, and she explained to me that you’re a typical example of people who are second-generation Holocaust survivors. A family that’s present yet absent, comprised of many people who have died, parents who have suffered an immense trauma, which is inconceivable, unspoken, and sometimes denied as well. And it all comes wrapped in a package of Israeli machismo and an inability to discuss intense, hidden distress.
I’ve decided to go and stay with my parents in Heidelberg for a while. Please collect my car from the parking garage at Ben Gurion Airport.
Love,
Eva.
Arik was stunned. It had always been difficult for him to deal with emotional decisions. He was angry at her for unilaterally deciding to leave without consulting him. He was angry at himself for being stupid enough to allow a woman he loved, and whom he now needed more than ever, to leave. Mostly, he was displeased with the fact that he had been caught by surprise and had not anticipated the step she would take. A massive wave of frustration enveloped him.
He was stricken with a fear of abandonment. The dagger of fate had stabbed him twice today. He had been betrayed both at work and at home. He walked over to the fridge and poured himself a shot of frozen Zubrowka Polish vodka, then sat down in his armchair, feeling hurt, delving silently into his sense of insult while staring at the view in front of him. Angry, frustrated thoughts surfaced within him, confusing him: What do I want? What’s right for me? What do I need? What works for me?
Arik nestled into the anger in order to avoid the pain. He was ashamed of himself when he realized he was reverting to habitual patterns. On the other hand, he couldn’t behave otherwise. After a few drinks, memories also began to surface from the ugly saga of his divorce from Rachel, his first wife, flooding over him. His children had been impacted then as well, and once again he felt that his partner was using his child in order to emotionally blackmail him. He was confused over his anger at himself along with his anger at her. He did not like emotional manipulation as a means of attaining power and control over another, unless he was the one employing such measures as part of his work, in the land of masks and shadows.
He had already gone through this breakup scene in the past, a painful, miserable affair. He knew there were no winners in this battle, only losers. Unconsciously, he bit his lower lip, as he tended to do when under stress.
His method of dulling the pain was escaping by sequestering himself in the basement of his home, where he worked on repairing an old motorcycle, or retreating into himself, staring vacantly at a particularly violent action film. But this time, his motorcycle collection had been left behind in his house in Tsuk Kedumim, at Palmachim Airbase. He chose the film Leon, by French director Luc Besson, and watched it with emotional detachment, without focusing on the plot, the images flickering in front of his eyes until the vodka got the better of him.
A few hours later, early in the morning, he woke up in their big bed, lying fully dressed in a fetal position. His headache and half a bottle of vodka next to the bed testified that last night, he had needed the drink to ease his inner pain. He knew these were the hours when Eva woke up to breastfeed their son, and called her cell phone. “The line you’ve called has been disconnected,” he heard the electronic reply.
He put on his tatty exercise clothes and went out for a half-hour morning run in the empty streets of the neighborhood. It was a frigid morning in a typical Jerusalem winter, clear skies and the temperature near freezing. The sun rising in the east warmed his back. When he returned home, he wriggled out of the shell of his clothes and entered the warm shower, where he stood for a while, savoring the stream of hot water massaging his aching shoulders.
He needed to hear Eva’s consoling voice, and dialed her mother’s home in Heidelberg.
“Von Kesselring residenz,” he heard an elderly woman answering in German.
“Hallo, guten morgen, Frau Kesselring, it’s Arik,” he continued in English. “Could I speak to Eva, please?”
After a taut silence that went on for half a minute came the reply: “Leave her alone. You broke her heart. She hasn’t stopped crying since she came back. You are a dummkopf 11,” she yelled at him in German and slammed down the phone.
He was in pain. If only Eva had answered the call, he thought to himself, he would have quoted a line from an Arab poet whose name he had forgotten: “One day you’ll ask me which is more important—my life or yours? I’ll answer mine. And you’ll walk away not knowing that you are my life.”
He turned on the espresso machine then the radio. The newscast opened with an update: “We’ve just heard that an Iranian ship bearing weapons from North Korea is on fire and going down about one hundred nautical miles east of the Bab-el-Mandeb Strait. Our military correspondent states that it was apparently damaged as a result of a collision with an oil tanker in the thick fog occurring in the area overnight. As far as we know at present, there are no survivors.” No international news agency was cited as the source for the item.
* * *
11 A German curse, meaning ‘idiot’ or ‘stupidhead.’
Chapter 16
The Old Military Cemetery in Kiryat Shaul, Tel Aviv
The state funeral for former prime minister Lolik Kenan had been scheduled by the policymakers to take place immediately after the conclusion of the search for the remains of his body in the area where the mysterious plane accident had taken place and the post-mortem exam. The military censor blocked publication of the suspicion that the aircraft had been hit by a missile fired at it by separatist rebels working under Russian patronage. At the censor’s request, the Editors Committee was summoned and instructed to suppress the news of the prime minister’s plane crash. However, the rumors that had spread on social media over the last few days triggered a decision not to wait any longer, and to issue an immediate official announcement regarding the prime minister’s death about ten days after the crash.
Authorized assessments had still not been received from the CIA to explain why the prime minister’s plane had crashed. The Ukrainians continued to insistently claim it had been an error by an inexperienced pilot who had waited too long to land during a snowstorm, and had hit a mountainside.
The momen
t permission was granted by the Prime Minister’s Office, the disaster was made public, along with the appointment of Ehud Tzur as acting prime minister. The country entered a state of shock and true mourning. During the day of the funeral, masses of Israelis streamed past the flag-encased coffin, placed in the Knesset courtyard, flanked by six members of the Knesset Guard. A military rabbi read from the Book of Psalms. Throughout the country, flags were at half-mast, and an official three-day mourning period was declared. The radio played melancholic songs.
Despite the custom of burying heads of state in Mount Herzl Cemetery, in the Memorial Park for Great Leaders of the Nation, Lolik Kenan’s sons requested that he be buried in the Generals’ Plot of the old Kiryat Shaul Military Cemetery in Tel Aviv, beside his brothers in arms. The burial was scheduled for five p.m. Veterans of Israel’s War of Independence and subsequent wars, many of them over the age of eighty, hobbled to the burial plot on the northwest side of the cemetery, where their comrades were buried. A handful of the remaining esteemed members of the generation of pioneers who had fought for the establishment of the State of Israel came to bid farewell not only to their dead friend but to their live friends as well, and perhaps to themselves, before they lost the remainder of their wits to the encroaching disease of oblivion.
Cornfield watched his old friends and acquaintances, spinning the wheel of life in his head. Some of them were his former commanders, officers who had once evoked fear within him. Not many years ago, the photos of these military strategists would fill victory albums. One whisper from them would launch thousands of people, sometimes to their deaths. One wink from them would cause female soldiers to assent to their every whim. They were the heroes of the past at a different time, before feminism gained prominence.
Today, they stood by his side, some of them with their full-time caretakers, of Philippine or Indian origin, some of them trembling, gaunt and weak, or fat, bald and lacking in masculine grandeur, bent over walking canes, leaning on walkers or sitting in wheelchairs, silently observing the open grave of the man and the myth: commander of the Armored Corps, the minister of agriculture, the minister of defense and the country’s eleventh prime minister. They assessed the proportions of the open grave into which the Israeli flag-encased coffin was carefully being lowered, into the rain-soaked loam, watching with awe as Military Rabbinate personnel piled dirt on the concrete tiles placed over the simple wood casket, a soldier’s burial. The Guard of Honor consisted of handsome young soldiers from all IDF corps. They fired their rifles three times, and the large crowd began to disperse.
Cornfield continued to stand over the grave, silently bidding farewell to his good friend. He had had enough time to mourn his close companion. Geula, Tzur’s office manager, approached him and signaled that the prime minister wanted to have a word with him, pointing at a small grove of eucalyptus trees.
Cornfield detached from Amira and began to limp toward Ehud Tzur, who was waiting for him, surrounded by a group of burly bodyguards. Tzur did not waste any time: “I just wanted you to know that I’ve asked Major General Izzo Galili to assume the role of Mossad director on Sunday. We won’t issue any kind of press release until his appointment is approved by the government.”
“I thought you’d reinstated Arik Bar-Nathan as my replacement in the Mossad,” Cornfield grumbled.
“No, that was a short-term experiment that failed,” Tzur said, turning away and beginning to walk toward his vehicle.
Cornfield didn’t say a word, turning on his heel. He already knew about the identity of the candidate for Mossad director from Major General Amishav, the prime minister’s former military secretary, and was concerned. Even highly concerned.
He limped toward Amira, who looked at him from afar with worry. His body language told her everything. Cornfield looked very tired and already wanted to return home.
“So, how are you doing, Cornfield?” he heard a familiar, friendly voice behind him.
“Motke Hassin, how are you?” Cornfield warmly hugged the man who had been his deputy, and who had quit the Mossad after an incident with Lolik Kenan. Motke hugged him back affectionately, taking care not to scratch Cornfield’s back with the metal hooks he wore over the stubs of his arms. His face, burned in a secret military operation while he had been commander of Sayeret Matkal, had undergone a transplant of skin sourced from his buttocks. His smile appeared somewhat strange and warped, and his eyes, with no eyebrows, looked like black hollows in a suspiciously smooth face mask. He would break through the terror of those observing him by cynically introducing himself, saying, “Nice to meet you, my name is Motke ‘Steak Face’ Hassin.”
“Where are you, what’s going on?” Cornfield asked.
“I went back to my kibbutz after trying out the business world. Apparently, I’m not suited to it, and conmen sucked up all my money. The girls grew up and left home, and I’m pretty lonely, trying to get it together to write my memoirs, if the censors allow it. It’s a good thing the kibbutz agreed to take me back. You know, they’re going through privatization right now.”
“Sometimes it’s better to be alone with your truth than surrounded by a pack of hyenas, which is how I’m living,” Cornfield said cynically.
“Well, I understand that you and Ehud Tzur aren’t exactly a love story.”
“That son of a bitch. That piss-ant politician, who, by an error of fate, became my boss, informed me ten days ago that he was throwing me out. Can you believe it?”
“Life isn’t all black or white, boys,” Amira interjected, putting her arm around her husband’s waist as he towered above her. “If they don’t want you, maybe the time has actually come, my dear, to retire like everyone else. You’re already seventy, and after all, you finished a pretty good term in the Mossad. No one will check whether you completed exactly five years.”
“We need to talk. Are you up for it, or do you want to go home and mourn?”
“No, I’ve known about the crash for over a week. I’ve mourned enough.”
“Well, why don’t we go eat at Ariana, the Greek restaurant, like we used to? You think old Jacko is still running things there?” Hassin asked.
“Oh, man,” Cornfield moaned, “how I miss his taramasalata, his sardines pickled in olive oil, his grilled baby octopus, his fried red mullet and his tzatziki, all served with freshly baked bread and ouzo he distilled himself.” He was salivating.
“Boys, Ariana closed down a long time ago,” Amira said. “I think I’ll leave you two alone, because I have a folk-dancing class at the country club, and I have to get back to Yavne. Go to Tel Aviv Port, to the Mul Yam or Manta Ray eateries on Dolphinarium Beach, or to our favorite restaurant, Davis’s Fish, on Rishon LeZion Beach. You can find what you like to eat there. Just don’t let Cornfield drink—he’s not allowed,” she concluded in the authoritative tone of a protective mother.
“Amira, you look wonderful,” Motke Hassin said. “Looks like Cornfield is taking good care of you.”
“You always were a hopeless flatterer,” Amira said with a bashful smile. “We have an equitable division of labor. I take care of myself, and Cornfield takes care of the country.”
“Did you bring your car?” Cornfield asked. Motke Hassin nodded, and Amira left the two friends to their own devices, turning toward Cornfield’s official state car, which would drive her south.
“I got horny just thinking about Greek food. I could eat a horse, and I’ve got some urgent issues to discuss with you,” Motke Hassin said, entering the big car that had been adapted to the needs of a disabled driver.
Chapter 17
‘Fish’ Restaurant, Rishon LeZion Beach
The heavyset Davis, owner of Fish Restaurant, recognized Cornfield as a longtime customer and seated them at a private table facing the large bar overlooking the beach. He brought them a medley of olives cured on site and a basket of sourdough rye buns that had just come out of the oven. He whisp
ered in the ear of a waiter, who nodded and returned with a bottle of Ouzo Metaxa and three glasses with ice.
“So what’s this I hear, you’ve quit drinking completely?” Motke Hassin asked, loading his plate with seafood and a sampling of the fresh salads served to the table as appetizers.
Davis had intended to pour the three of them a shot of anise ouzo, but Cornfield blocked his glass with his big hand.
Davis poured the ouzo into two of the ice-filled glasses; the ouzo turned milky in shade.
“Yia mas,” Davis called out to Motke, downing the shot in one gulp. Hassin quickly followed suit.
Davis disappeared and returned with an oval plate containing six warm bruschetta, heaped with chopped tomatoes, Norwegian salmon ceviche, plenty of chopped garlic and basil, dripping with greenish olive oil and balsamic vinegar. He filled the shot glasses again.
Cornfield filled his glass with water and sadly shook his head when offered a shot of ouzo. He remembered nights of drunkenness and debauchery with Motke at a rear suite of Kfar Maccabiah Hotel at the end of a successful operation, as a means of discharging the tension accumulating in their loins, nights on which they polished off more than one bottle of fine whisky between them, telling dirty jokes, while random dates from Tel Hashomer Hospital’s nursing school or adoring female soldiers from the office cheered them on.
“That shit impersonating a prime minister is going to bring Major General Avigdor Galili, that dandy pilot, to replace me,” Cornfield said sadly, manually filleting the fried red mullets, “and in the meantime, he’s pushed in Arik Bar-Nathan to serve as acting director until the attorney general approves the appointment of that pretty boy. But he’s already tossed Bar-Nathan out, too. I’ve heard Pretty Boy is stepping into office as managing director of the Mossad this Sunday.”