by Nathan Ronen
The eyes of the Orthodox Jews who had come to console them spied the scene through the open door of the room, and they turned up their noses in amazement. It was not the custom for a son in mourning to be fondling his wife in public.
Arik kicked at the door, slamming it shut.
“My mother died twice,” he told her, blowing his nose on a tissue. “She died once eight years ago, when the hard disc in her head was deleted, and she no longer knew who she was and who we were. And she died again two days ago, when her body collapsed from an infection resulting from bedsores.”
Naomi knocked on the door and asked Arik to come out and thank the people who had come to express their condolences. A heavyset neighbor walked over to Eva and offered her a disposable plate laden with food. “Eat!” she ordered. “It’s a mitzvah44. You have to eat, because life goes on, and the proper thing is to keep on living.”
Eva looked at Arik in distress, whispering to him, “Do I have to? I ate on the flight. I’m not hungry.” Arik took the plate from her and placed it on a cabinet. She picked up a chair and sat next to him.
The door opened, and about ten unfamiliar men entered the living room, each of them wrapped in a tallit, the traditional prayer shawl. “Hello. We’re sorry for your loss. We’re here to fulfill the mitzvah of consoling the bereaved. We’re from the neighborhood’s Ashkenazi synagogue, and we’re here to say a prayer for the ascension of the soul of the deceased, as well as to recite the Ma’ariv evening prayer with your honor, and to allow you to say the Kaddish prayer together with us,” said the rabbi of the community synagogue.
Arik looked at the rabbi in embarrassment. He didn’t know how to pray. His look of pleading evoked the rabbi’s empathy. He smiled understandingly, opened his prayer book to the appropriate place, and extended a friendly finger that guided Arik through the sequence of the prayer. Arik read the text in the Aramaic language that was foreign to him, and all of the attendees yelled out “Amen,” as he recited the Tziduk Hadin (Affirmation of Divine Judgment) prayer as part of the Mourner’s Kaddish prayer for his late mother.
“Can I sleep here tonight? Or should I find a hotel?” Eva whispered to Naomi while Arik was busy with the prayer.
“Of course. You can sleep in my parents’ bed. But, excuse me for saying this, intimate relations are prohibited during the seven days of mourning.”
“Of course. I understand and respect that,” Eva said.
“I looked for you lots of times, but your mother blocked me every time. She wasn’t exactly nice to me,” Arik said once the prayer ended.
“My mother is a leader by nature,” said Eva, responding to his barb. “She might be the leader of the witches’ coven, but this time she was simply protecting me.”
Eva acted as the perfect partner, cooking and serving food to the mourners, as well as cleaning and serving drinks and snacks to the many guests. She loved the fact that neighbors and acquaintances were constantly coming in, bringing dairy-based quiches, pastries, fresh fruit, dried fruit and cakes. It was her first encounter with the appealing, community-based side of Judaism, which embraced a person on days of mourning or joy.
Arik tracked Eva’s actions appreciatively. At some point he whispered to his sister, “Naomi, where are Mom’s rings and jewelry?”
“Why? How come you’re preoccupied with that now? We’ll deal with it after the unveiling of the tombstone, on the Shloshim45.”
“Do you think I can give Mom’s red ruby ring to Eva, or do you want it for yourself?”
“No, no! Take it. I was thinking of giving it to your daughter Nathalie. But I’ll find one of Mom’s gold necklaces for her.”
“I have to go back to Germany the day after tomorrow,” Eva told Arik that night. “I’m sorry, but I don’t want to leave little Leo for too long. He has separation anxiety, and my mother says he’s crying constantly.”
“What’s going to happen with us, Eva?” Arik asked, gazing into her pretty eyes.
“That’s entirely up to you, darling. I thought I could be the girlfriend of a man with a profession like yours, but I found out I can’t handle all those nights alone, lying there in bed, worrying and fearing for you. Never knowing where you are and when you’ll be back and what sort of condition you’ll be in. I’ve failed. I thought I could do it, but it broke me,” she said sadly.
“Sweetheart, I don’t do this job because I enjoy it. I do it because I have to. Because I don’t have a choice.”
Eva stroked his thinning hair affectionately, paused briefly, then said: “Darling, the pessimist and the optimist both die eventually, but they live different lives. The difference is in the way they interpret life. They’re the ones turning their lives into a thrilling experience or an ongoing nightmare.”
Arik gazed at her, trying to discern her meaning.
Eva continued: “I understand that you can’t escape the fact that you’re a second-generation Holocaust survivor. I don’t expect you to be able to shed the pain and the fears you absorbed along with your mother’s milk, but you have to learn to deal with them. Now that your mother has passed away, it’s time to break free. If you need to grant conscious legitimacy to the pathetic nature of the fat, asthmatic little boy suffering inside you, give yourself a pat on the back and get on with your life.”
Arik looked down. He was embarrassed by the extent to which she knew him and by how much she loved him.
“Darling, you have to learn to rely on others, to trust and to make room for me and your children next to you. Most importantly, you need to learn how to talk and share things with me. The thing that’s killing our relationship is your silence.”
Moved, Arik extracted the gold ring inlaid with a large ruby from his pocket. “I want to give you something that belonged to my mother. This is the ring my father gave her on their wedding day. It’s been in his family for several generations.”
She looked at him with her large gray-blue eyes, a question reflecting on her face.
He took Eva’s finger, placed the ring on it, and told her in Hebrew, his voice emotional: “Harey at mekudeshet li, betaba’at zo, kedat Moshe veIsrael. Behold, by this ring you are consecrated to me as my wife according to the laws of Moses and Israel.” The ring was made of old-fashioned antique yellow gold, in a flower design, with a large red ruby at its center, surrounded by petals inlaid with diamonds.
“You see, this is the first ring I’m giving you,” he mumbled in embarrassment. Eva played with the ring, which was too large for her finger, examining it. The gesture of giving her a ring that had belonged to his mother touched her deeply. Her eyes shone with a glaze of tears.
“This ring is actually my declaration of intent. That was the blessing that a Jewish man recites to his wife on the night of their wedding, consecrating her with a ring signifying ownership,” Arik murmured.
Eva was flustered. “I’m sure Naomi will want this antique ring for herself.”
“No, Naomi has enough of my mother’s jewelry, and I trust her to distribute the rest to the other granddaughters, and to the female cousins my mother raised.”
Tears of joy rolled down Eva’s cheeks.
Arik mounted an immediate attack to take advantage of her momentary weakness. “Come back to me. I need you. It’s so hard for me without you.” For the first time in his life, he found himself telling a woman he needed her. Despite his macho exterior, he was declaring his commitment to her.
Eva debated whether to tell him what was on her mind after his declaration of love and the gift of his mother’s ring.
A heavy fatigue spread through Arik’s bones. He crawled into bed and felt Eva’s warm body clinging to him from behind. The touch of her breasts against his body through her thin nightgown induced a thrill in his loins that he had not experienced for quite a while. Her scent was intoxicating, and he could not resist the temptation. He turned toward Eva and kissed her passionately
.
“I thought we weren’t allowed,” she said, quivering all over and yielding to his touch.
“I miss you, and I’m sure God and even my mother will forgive us,” he said, hovering over her, removing her nightgown and kissing her entire body with unbridled lust.
“Ow, you sting. Why didn’t you shave?” she complained.
“It’s a mourning tradition…” he mumbled in arousal, nibbling on her pretty breasts. Eva moaned. “I’m not on the pill,” she told him casually, removing her panties, but he didn’t hear her, or did not want to hear her, and she didn’t repeat her statement.
He penetrated her forcefully and came very quickly, biting the pillow to suppress the cry accompanying his orgasm, while shaking all over. She continued to rub against him for a while longer until she, too, climaxed, biting his shoulder to mask the sounds of her own pleasure.
“Do you think Naomi heard?” she whispered in his ear.
“I don’t know and I don’t care. I love you and I want you here with me. I need you. Our son needs a father,” Arik said.
They lay entwined in bed, the combined scent they had created—the aroma of sweat in secret folds of skin, mingled with the scent of perfume and bodily fluids—enveloping them like a sweet cloud under the sheet. He loved the smell of her tan skin, placing his head on her breasts and snuggling into her like a child.
She sat up in bed, looking into his eyes: “Arik, my darling. On the day you decide that you love yourself, me and your children more than your work, come see me in Germany, marry me officially in a civil ceremony, and bring me back here. I admit, it won’t be easy for me to live here, but I’m willing to do it for you. For our son. For us.”
He no longer heard this last statement. He had fallen into a deep, sweet slumber. They slept, holding each other tight in his parents’ bed. Arik dreamed that he had been asked to write the eulogy for his own funeral ceremony. He didn’t know what to write. How did he want to be remembered? As a fighter? Or as a father and a family man?
After midnight, the Chameleon buzzed under his pillow. Arik leaped up, tiptoeing away from the bed. He covered Eva’s body and left the room, putting on his father’s old robe.
“We’re downstairs. We brought a command shelter with us, and we’re ready for the first presentation of the operational plans and their approval,” said Jonathan Arieli, head of Caesarea.
Arik walked over to the window of the house and shifted the blinds. In the parking lot on the street stood a truck carrying a large mobile tactical shelter with a satellite dish on its roof. The shelter sported the words: “Galei Zahal46—production trailer.”
Arik showered, slipped into his tatty jeans and an old t-shirt and took the elevator downstairs.
* * *
44 A mitzvah is a Jewish religious commandment or decree.
45 The Shloshim is the thirtieth day from the burial of the deceased, marking the end of the month-long mourning period.
46 Galei Zahal, meaning IDF Waves, is Israel’s army radio station, broadcasting a combination of music and news.
Chapter 69
The Command Shelter in Neve Sha’anan, Haifa
Arik entered the brightly illuminated command shelter and looked around him. He was glad to see Joe Amar, head of the Mossad’s Morocco station, among the attendees. Joe had arrived to express his condolences, but mainly for coordination purposes.
Aerial photos of the mosque had been affixed to one of the walls, while across from them were the infrastructure plans. A lieutenant colonel in an olive drab uniform shook his hand. “My name is Yigal Bar-Tzuri. I’m an engineer from the Ministry of Defense’s Construction Center. I want to present the terrain in which we’ll have to act.”
He pointed at a map of the city of Casablanca. “Hassan II Mosque is the largest open mosque in the world after the mosque in Mecca, Saudi Arabia. The mosque’s vestibule can house up to 80,000 worshippers, the prayer hall has room for up to 25,000 worshippers, while the mosque courtyard can encompass another 120,000 people. The roof of the prayer hall can be raised with the push of a button, letting in natural air and light. At its center is a minaret constructed in the Andalusian style, at a height of 230 yards, making it the tallest mosque minaret in the world, as well as the tallest active religious structure in the world. At the head of the minaret is a laser beam pointing toward Mecca. Part of the mosque is built over the sea, based on a verse from the Quran, ‘Allah’s throne is on the water.’”
Arik followed the construction officer as he elaborated on the mosque’s blueprints, including the foundation floor, housing a large hamam bathhouse, the massive concrete supports propping up the mosque over the waters of the sea, the glass floor, the sewage canals, the air-conditioning infrastructure concealed beneath an artfully sculpted cedar ceiling, and the decorative tiles, each of them differing in design from those around it in order to evoke the feeling of a giant cathedral.
Arik raised a series of questions: “Where will the podium that the king will speak from be placed? Where’s the VIP stage? Where will the media representatives broadcasting the inauguration of the mosque to the Muslim world be stationed?” These locations were pointed out to him on a clear plastic scroll unfurled over the map of the Grand Mosque, in which the replies to all his questions were illustrated in blue.
Strong, hot, sweet coffee was served to him in a disposable cup as Arik surveyed the site of the operation in detail. Under the circumstances, protecting the king was nearly impossible. He was especially apprehensive about the fact that the open part of the mosque blended in with the sea. From an architectural standpoint, it was a brilliant idea. From afar, the mosque looked as if it was built in the middle of the sea. However, with regard to control and defense capabilities, it was a recipe for disaster. He remembered what he had learned as a young officer in the naval commando from his admired commander: if you encountered even the smallest thing that bothered you in a “zero mishap” operation, you should cancel the task. Israeli soldiers could not be captured carrying out a murky mission in Morocco. This could never occur, and certainly not now, when the head of the Mossad was eagerly anticipating his downfall.
He turned to Jonathan Arieli: “Do the French have access to what you’re showing me at the moment?”
“Yes, definitely. After we interrogated Rashid, I personally conveyed copies of all the material Rashid gave me to Louis-Pierre, including the locations where the weapons and explosives are concealed in the fake plaster walls, as well as the information on Iman al-Uzbeki.”
“Did the French remove the weapons and explosives from there?” Arik asked.
“As far as I know, the French were wary of exposure by some of the parties working at the mosque, and so they’ll infiltrate the mosque the night before the mission, break the firing pins on the weapons and sabotage the accelerants of the explosives.”
“Great,” Arik said. “If that’s the case, we should focus mostly on the cell arriving by sea.”
“No need. I understood from the French that they’re taking care of it,” Jonathan said, while the others nodded in satisfaction.
“Joe,” Arik turned to the head of the Morocco station. “Thanks for coming here to offer condolences, but I need something out of the ordinary from you when we’re in Morocco.
“I need you to discreetly take over a police car.”
Seemingly, nothing could surprise Joe Amar; however, Arik’s creativity amazed him. “What?” he asked in disbelief. “A real cruiser with Moroccan cops inside?”
“That’s right. I need one of the newer models, the kind equipped with a computer, and the cops need to have an access code to the police database.”
Joe Amar was still staring at him in amazement.
“I know that the police’s morning shift comes in at six a.m.; that’s the standard in most police forces all over the world. Eight-hour shifts, thre
e shifts a day. I need you to drive into town and hijack a police car, including its crew. All the newer cruisers are equipped with a computer and a communication system. Other than top-secret information concerning terrorists, which will only be stored on intelligence computers, most security agency databases are connected to the internet via cellular means in order to allow rapid user accessibility. Most of the criminal and civil databases can be accessed from every police patrol vehicle through a mobile terminal. Each one of these terminals communicates directly with the databases of the Ministry of the Interior, the Ministry of Justice, the District Attorney’s Office, and dozens of other agencies. The moment you’ve hacked into a mobile terminal, Moroccan Big Brother’s databases are in the palm of your hand.”
Joe Amar was still taking in this latest information.
“I need you concealed beyond the blocking range of my electronic warfare system,” Arik told him. “Meaning I need you to hijack the police car with the two cops in the city and immediately retreat to the French safe house in the Habous Quarter in Dar El Beida, where they once hid me. Coordinate it in advance with Michel, the head of the French station in Morocco. If you hear a voice with a Caucasian or Russian accent on the police band, try to ask Michel to monitor him, and then have them try to eliminate him, or call me.”
“But, as you know, I’m persona non grata in Morocco at the moment,” Joe said. “And so are Michel and his station.”
“Let me handle that,” Arik said. “Be ready to go back there on short notice, you and Momi Castiel.”
“So we’re done here?” Jonathan said, rising from his seat. Plenty of coordination was still required before they took off for Morocco.