Bashert

by Lior Samson

  “I didn’t know what to do after I first found out. I thought of getting a divorce. I wouldn’t let him touch me for months. But I couldn’t stop loving him. He was my soulmate.” Her voice cracked. “Then … then the baby came along, and he was so good with Binyamin. Such a loving, understanding father he was. I fell in love with him all over again, and I didn’t care what he did or who he had killed. I knew he was a good man. And eventually he left it, Mossad. Or so I thought. Now I don’t know.”

  “Why did he leave it? Was it because of you?”

  “No, not really. He seemed to lose faith in Israel for a while, in what we were doing and how we were doing it. He helped found Trade Now. You know what that is? Yes, well, he thought we brought the Palestinian crisis down on ourselves. When the first intifada started, he said, ‘Now we reap what we have sown.’ What should Israel expect, he would argue, after decades of treating the Palestinians as dogs and our own Israeli Arabs as second-class citizens—or worse. He never condoned the violence, but he passionately wanted to find another way.”

  “But he was American. And he wasn’t even Jewish.”

  “Oh, no. He was Israeli. They made him a citizen. That was part of the deal with Mossad. And he converted. He was a Jew all right.”

  “Because of you?”

  “No, I didn’t care. I loved Migdal. He could have been an Anglican priest for all I cared, and I still would have wanted him. No, I think he just wanted to go the distance. He did things, everything, with a certain quiet intensity, nothing halfway. It scared me at first—maybe it always did—but it also drew me to him. It was like we were part of this network thing, what that girl talked about.”

  “A karass. I remember now. A word that this American author made up. Kurt Vonnegut.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard of him.” She looked down at her hands for long seconds. “I believe in God, I think. Or at least I did when I said the blessings at the start of Shabbat tonight. And I will again at the next Shabbat. In between I believe in Fate. I believe in something that steers us and guides us and whispers to us. It whispers about what we are meant to do and whom we are meant to do it with. Maybe that’s what this Vonnegut meant?”

  Karl shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe it’s just us whispering to ourselves and each other.”

  “So, then, let’s see what my Migdal tried to whisper to us.” She turned back to the screen. “He must have been in a hurry. Some of the letters are blotched, like he pressed too hard on a quill pen.”

  “Wait, which letters. Maybe he meant them to be noticed.”

  “Well there’s a couple of alefs and resh and…”

  “Write them down.”

  She grabbed a scrap of paper and started writing. “So here are the letters that stand out.”

  תראהיראק

  “Tav, resh, alef, heh, yod, resh, alef, kuf,” she recited. “It’s not any Hebrew I know. None of these letters have a sofit form, so we don’t even know where a word might end.”

  “Maybe it’s not Hebrew. Maybe it’s in another language, just written with the Hebrew alphabet, like Yiddish, right? Help me,” he said. “What are the letter equivalents in English?”

  “Well, the most straightforward transliteration into the Latin alphabet would be t-r-a-h-y-r-a-k. Trahyrak.” She laughed. “Mean anything to you?”

  Karl laughed, too. “We have to assume it’s something simple, because Migdal would know we would not have the key to the code. At the same time it would have to be something that would makes sense only to us, that anyone else would not be able to figure out. Like the extra words. Unless you knew the shema, you wouldn’t know that this scroll was not legit. If it fell into Arab hands, for instance, they would probably be clueless.

  “Hang on, you read off those letters and wrote them down right to left, didn’t you, as if they were Hebrew. But what if they’re not? What if it’s English, which is written left to right? So let’s turn it around. We get k-a-r-y-h-a-r-t. Now maybe we’re getting someplace.”

  “But what’s a karyhart?” She pronounced it with a British accent, with both vowels broadened as if it were caw-ree-hawrt. “Sounds like it could be a name. Do you know anyone with a name something like that?”

  “Hmm. Cory Hart? Maybe. Seems vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it. Let’s Google it.” He typed and waited. “Hah, misspelled it. The first two entries are for Corey Hart, a Canadian singer. He had a couple of hits back in the ’80s.”

  “What did he do? I don’t think I ever heard of him.”

  “Oh, you know him all right, even if you don’t recognize the name. His first biggy was ‘Sunglasses at Night.’ Remember that? Pop paranoia, much misunderstood. It must have made it to England.”

  “Yes, of course. But I don’t see what that might have to do with Migdal. I don’t remember him mentioning the song or the singer. And he was never much of a singer himself.”

  “Something to do with sunglasses, then. Sunglasses at night, sunglasses in the dark.” Karl shrugged his shoulders then exhaled sharply. “You know, now I do remember another of Mitchell’s many schemes. He was selling contraband lenses to some European manufacturer. They made sunglasses.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “This was a long time ago. Polaroid had all the patents and a monopoly on plastic polarizing lenses. They squeezed the market for as much as they could get, which kept the cost of polarized sunglasses high. Mitchell found some way to get factory rejects and sell them abroad at a big markup. He used to pack them up in sawdust in these mongo shipping canisters. Made a real mess of his apartment. He kept tracking sawdust all over the building. The building super went bonkers, so he moved the whole operation down to the basement of the apartment house.”

  “Is it still there?”

  “Is what still there?”

  “The building. The building where his apartment was. Maybe we should go there.”

  “Look, this could be just a wild goose chase. The apartment building was in Boston. A lot has changed in the Back Bay. And we don’t really know what the clue means. It could be about the overseas company. Maybe we completely misread the message.”

  “No. I think my Migdal would construct the message so we could read it. Did you know that company in Europe?”

  “No, but …”

  “You did know about the sunglasses, sunglasses in the dark. That’s got to be it. This is a message to you, remember. Migdal sent it to you, knowing what you did and did not know.”

  “But I don’t know Hebrew. I needed your help.”

  “And you think it was an accident that you are here, with me? How did you get Migdal’s mezuzah with my mark on it in the first place? Who gave it to you?”

  Karl looked at her, holding her gaze in his. “You’re saying your husband arranged all this?”

  “Or God. I don’t know, but I know something brought us together for a reason.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I better go back to Boston, then, and see what I can find.”

  “Look, I’ll go with you. I knew Migdal. I don’t know how, but I have a feeling I’ll be able to help you sort this out.”

  “No, this is my responsibility. You need to stay here and take care of your son.”

  “That’s what I’m doing, taking care of my son. Listen, they killed my husband. They carved an X in my son’s flesh. Whoever they are, they’re monsters.” She locked eyes with him. “This business is not going to just go away. We have to get to the bottom of it or none of us will ever be safe.

  “I’ll go pack. I can take Bini back to Avi’s before it’s light. It’s a good thing that I haven’t told him yet about his father or I would never be able to leave now. He’ll be okay with Avi. For a while.”

  “You don’t waste time, do you.” It was said as a statement of fact, not a question.

  “I told you, that is how I do my life. I don’t think we have a lot of time. For Bini’s sake we need to do something now.”

  “But we can’t just go, I mean just
like that? You’ll have to get a visa. It takes time.”

  “No, I don’t need a visa.” She reached into the drawer of the nightstand and pulled out an American passport. “See, I’m the American, not Migdal. I grew up in England but my mother was born and raised in Atlanta. And I never bothered to become a citizen here. At first I felt guilty, as if I were holding back some part of myself while Migdal had given himself completely over to Israel. He burned his bridges. Or had them burned for him. But there I was, hedging my bets. Then Bini was born, and I realized that it was a gift to him to be an American, too. Migdal might be comfortable investing all his eggs in this one basket, but Bini and I might someday need an exit strategy.

  “So, let’s go to Boston.”

  38

  Shira was shivering beside him as they walked up Boylston Street from the Prudential Center parking garage. “I warned you that Boston was pretty cold this time of year,” Karl said. “I should have gotten you a warmer coat when I went out this morning.” He thought of telling her what he had bought at the Wal-Mart but then decided it would not be reassuring. “Let’s go shopping now and pick up something for you.”

  “I’ll be all right. I don’t want to waste time shopping. We’ve already lost another day.”

  They had decided to fly into New York, rent a car in Shira’s name, then drive up to Boston. Karl had planned to return to his apartment, but when they arrived, they found it sealed off with police tape as a crime scene. He next suggested staying with David and Ellen, but Shira persuaded him not to risk dragging them back into things, so Karl drove up to Woburn to look for a hotel.

  “Why Woburn?” she had asked.

  “It’s no place in particular, that’s why,” he had told her. “Hell, half the people in Massachusetts don’t even know how to pronounce it.” Ironically, they ended up at an all-suite chain located in the same industrial park as David’s office. Karl insisted Shira take the king-size bed, then tried to get comfortable on the lumpy sofa. After a largely sleepless night, Karl had reluctantly awakened Shira, and they headed back into town without stopping for breakfast.

  The morning sun struggled to squeeze through the clouds as they crossed Massachusetts Avenue and continued walking. Karl kept looking around, squinting, and scrunching up his mouth. “I wish I could remember better. This is not the Back Bay I knew in college. A lot of this looks familiar in a foggy sort of way, but nothing jumps out at me. And a lot is completely new and unrecognizable. I wish I could remember the actual street address of Mitchell’s apartment, but I don’t think I ever knew it. I just headed across the bridge and walked right to it.”

  “Then why don’t we do that? We could start at MIT and just walk. You turn when it feels right. I think our bodies remember things that our minds forget.”

  It turned out to be a great idea except for crossing the Harvard Bridge, which was gusty as always. As they huddled to blunt the wind, Karl explained the markings on the bridge and told the story of Oliver Smoot, the hapless fraternity pledge who had been used as a yardstick. Once on the Boston side, every so often Karl would pause, frown, and say something like, “It doesn’t feel right. Let’s cross the street.” Or, “It feels like I should turn here.” After passing a row of new buildings on one street, Karl stopped suddenly at the corner. “It should be here, right here, but it isn’t. That’s the wrong building. I must have made a wrong turn. No, I didn’t. That’s gotta be it, but it isn’t.” He continued around the corner, staring up at the building and shading his eyes with his hand. “Hot damn. It is the right building. They put a new façade on it at some point, but this is the building, I know it. It’s still here, Shira. It’s still here.” He took her hand and pulled her back around to the front again.

  The front entrance was far classier than the one Karl remembered. To one side was an engraved brass plate so brightly polished that it looked as if it had just been pulled from its box.

  Property under management of

  Adam Benjamin and Mark Hamm, LLC

  Shira stood staring at the sign, then leaned over and whispered, “Do you see? This is Migdal’s doing, another message. That’s my son, that’s Bini. See? His name is Adam Binyamin Markham. We’re in the right place.”

  Karl pointed at an “Apartment For Rent” sign in one of the first floor windows. “We’re in luck,” he said, as he pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number on the sign. The real estate agent said she was in the area and would be right over to show them the apartment.

  “You don’t have any pets, do you?” she asked. “The management doesn’t allow pets.” Karl reassured her that they were petless. He snapped the phone closed, then held it between his teeth as he took off his jacket. He put it around Shira, then slipped the phone into his pants pocket.

  “You’ll freeze, Karl. I can’t take your coat.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’ve still got a sweater on. Besides, I grew up in the Upper Peninsula. Michigan. Practically in the Arctic. This is downright balmy by those standards. It’s above freezing, a veritable heat wave.” He tugged at his collar and fanned his face. Shira laughed but kept the jacket.

  When the real estate agent arrived, she looked disapprovingly at both of them over the top of her half-frame glasses. “You must be freezing in just a sweater,” she said to Karl.

  “No, I’m hot blooded. Can we just take a look at the apartment?”

  The woman made a point of looking at Karl’s graying hair, then turned to give Shira the once over. She shook her head disapprovingly before leading the way to the door.

  Karl and Shira feigned interest as they were shown the third-floor apartment, which might have been fine for a childless couple who wanted to pay way too much for less space than Shira had in Haifa. Karl asked if there might not be something else in the building a little bigger, but the woman assured him that nothing else was coming vacant and they had better snap up this little gem before someone else did.

  On their way back down the hall, Karl nodded toward the apartment just at the head of the stairs and mouthed the word “Mitchell.” As they reached the ground floor again, he said, “So, is there a back entrance to the building?” He headed down the hall with Shira in tow, bobbing his head and studying the walls and doors as if they were fascinating.

  “No, not that way, you have to—”

  “And what’s this?” he asked, pointing to a low door under the staircase. “An apartment for short people?”

  The woman grunted disapprovingly. “That goes to the basement storage area. It’s not for use by tenants. It belongs to the owner. Perhaps I should say owners. The building changed hands recently. The woman who owned it for many years sold it to the current management, Benjamin and Hamm. They own most of the properties on this block. I suspect they’ll do what they did with the other buildings and replace this with something a bit more upscale. She was always nice, that Mrs. Cashman, the few times I would see her.”

  Karl was studying the door as she talked. “I don’t suppose you could show us the storage area, even though it’s not for the tenants. You know, just out of curiosity. I’m an architect, and I like to see what kind of foundation a place as old as this has. You understand. Just a quick look.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t, even if I wanted to, which I do not. No, it’s off limits, takes a special key. Mrs. Cashman always kept it herself. I assume she turned it over to the new owners. You’d have to take it up with them. Now, are you interested in the apartment or should I show it to the next prospect who called this morning?”

  Karl told her they’d have to talk it over and would call her right away if they wanted it. She warned them again that it might be rented by then, but Shira jumped in and played her part. “We really need to talk first, dear,” she said, looking most seriously at Karl. “We can call this nice woman afterwards on your cell phone, if need be, but we should talk.”

  Back outside, Shira seemed eager to tell Karl something, but hesitated when she noticed a man shivering on the corner, pacing and rockin
g from foot to foot as he held the hood of his MIT sweatshirt pulled tightly around his face.

  “See,” she said. “I’m not the only one not dressed for this weather.” They were clear to the next corner before she spoke again. “By the way, I think I know the kind of special key that the door to the basement takes. Migdal called it a Mul-T-Lock. He told me they are for restricted access, which was why he had a jeweler friend of ours make one into a pendant for me, as the key to his heart. He had it gold plated, with a photo of us cheek-to-cheek laser engraved in miniature on the back. As a jeweler myself, I thought it was a pretty weird piece, but started wearing it because I thought it was so sweet of him to go to all that trouble. See?”

  She reached to her neck and pulled out the key on its gold chain. She disentangled it from the tiny silver Star of David that also hung on a chain around her neck.

  Karl leaned close to study it. Unlike an ordinary key, the edges were smooth, but a series shallow pits were drilled into the flat face of it. Because of the plating, they caught the light and glittered almost like jewels as he turned it over.

  “See, that’s us,” she said, pointing. “It was taken in one of those photo booths when we were still dating. But the laser engraving makes it look pretty good.”

  Karl let her have it back to slip down in her blouse again. “I have seen ones like that before. Not gold plated, of course. In Europe. They’re not very common over here, though. You don’t suppose?”

  “It’s worth a try. We’ll have to come back when Mrs. Real-Estate isn’t around. And did you hear who she said was the woman who owns the building? Cashman. Wasn’t that the name Migdal used when you met him in Germany.”

  “Mmm hmm. Did own. Maybe we should spend some time in the library surfing the Internet this afternoon, seeing what we can come up with on Benjamin and Hamm. Must be something in real estate or tax records.”