A Spy in Exile

by Jonathan de Shalit

  “Do you really think he said that? If he did, he was a perfect fool. And in the end, he shot himself. And there’s nothing heroic about being liquidated by the Russians.”

  “Hemingway was a genius. And since when have you been such a big coward?”

  “But I don’t want anything to happen to you.” Ya’ara sensed that something in her voice was about to break, so she stopped suddenly, taking a deep breath.

  “Are those tears that I see in your beautiful eyes?” Matthias was genuinely surprised.

  “I’m just tired and stressed. You’re right. You know what you’re doing. I can’t be your mother.” She thought for a moment. “And I really don’t want to be.”

  “The thought of you as my mother makes me shudder. Come on,” Matthias said softly, “we’re both tired. Let’s call it a night. Are you organized?”

  “Of course.” She smiled. “I’m at the hotel at the end of the street. Are you going home?”

  “Maybe after a brief review at a bar or two. I need to make sure that the quality of their schnapps hasn’t deteriorated.”

  “Go to sleep. Don’t wander around like that in the middle of the night.”

  When they left the restaurant, wrapped in their thick coats, Ya’ara buried her head in his chest, and his large hands stroked her silky hair. Tiny snowflakes were drifting silently through the air, melting into tiny droplets of water as they landed on her head and sparkling like diamonds under the light of the streetlamps. He had the feeling that this would be their final embrace, that he had to let go of her.

  “Happy New Year, Matthias,” she said after emerging from his arms.

  “Happy New Year,” he said, and wondered if he meant to wish her a good life, a life that would always be lived far from his own.

  36

  BERLIN, DECEMBER 31, 2014

  “I’d like us to raise our glasses and drink a toast to the New Year. You’re all free this evening to celebrate however you like. Berlin is a great city for partying. Tomorrow you’ll board your flights back to Israel, in keeping with the routes we’ve laid out. I hope you get some rest ahead of the next stage in your training. We’ll meet here again on January 12. Monday morning. At ten.”

  Ya’ara looked at them one by one, her eyes locking momentarily with those of Nufar, Helena, Assaf, Ann, Batsheva, and Sayid. Affirming to each and every one of them that he or she was important, central, that the bond that had formed between them was unique. The cadets responded with looks of absolute concentration and readiness.

  “We’ve been through some significant events together. I want to tell you that you were all wonderful. You’re even better than I thought you’d be. You’ll be even better than I thought you’d be,” she corrected herself, “because you’re just starting out. You demonstrated courage, and an ability to analyze and improvise, and you are good team members. What we did was take care of an emergency. And now you need to gain experience and learn in an orderly fashion.”

  “Are you certain we’re worthy of praise?” Batsheva asked. “We were successful in Bremen, but dozens of people were killed in England.”

  “We can’t take on the whole world singlehandedly. Our mission was a success. Larger and more experienced forces will now enter the fray. This is a never-ending war.”

  Sayid wanted to ask Ya’ara where she had been all that night. She only got back to their hotel at four in the morning. He knew that because he had heard the door open and looked at the time on the screen of the phone that was charging on the bedside table. She went straight into the shower and stayed there for a long time. He could hear the water running nonstop. He thought he might have heard the sound of crying, too, but dismissed the thought almost immediately. Ya’ara wasn’t one to cry. After emerging from the bathroom, she went straight to bed, curled up like a baby, tightly gripping the edge of the blanket in one hand. She didn’t say a word, and he dropped off again. Now he wanted to ask, but he had learned by then that there’d be some questions that he’d never ask.

  Helena looked into Ann’s eyes. “Should we go for a drink?” she asked soundlessly. Ann’s eyes smiled in response.

  “L’Chaim,” Ya’ara said. “To the lives of the cadets.”

  As they mingled together by the door on their way out, Batsheva turned to Aslan and asked, “Are you going with Ya’ara or coming with us?” She was referring to herself and Sayid. Assaf and Nufar had already announced that they were off to wander around Unter den Linden. Helena and Ann had hurried out together first.

  “I think Ya’ara would like to be alone for a while. I’ll join you, if that’s okay.”

  “Of course. We invited you, didn’t we?”

  They lingered now at the door, as if they didn’t want to part.

  “Come on,” Ya’ara said, “get out of here already. We’ll meet in a week and a half.”

  “Bye, Ya’ara.”

  “Bye. Have fun. Happy New Year.”

  She hadn’t asked Matthias where he’d be spending New Year’s Eve. Maybe with his sister’s family. Maybe with friends. Maybe alone, in front of the large fireplace, in his home on the outskirts of Hamburg. It’s actually not very far from here, she thought for a moment. No, don’t be so childish, she said to herself, pulling herself together. You’re just feeling lonely.

  She saw her as she stepped out into the street. A fair-haired woman, a little older than she was. A little taller. She caught a fleeting glimpse of her face, just as she turned right at the corner, a pleasant, pretty face, a large, strong nose, full lips, high cheekbones. And now she observed her from behind, the woman who was walking away from her, wearing a long, dark gray woolen coat, which came down to her ankles almost, like a robe. A silk scarf in shades of orange and gold around her neck. She knew it wasn’t her, that it couldn’t be her, and yet it felt as if she was looking at Tatiana. Her older sister. She expected her to turn around and call to her by her old name and jokingly scold her for being so far from home. Ya’ara closed her eyes, and the colors of the scarf, a glowing stain on her retinas for a short while, slowly turned dark. Enough already, enough, she berated herself, taking a deep breath of icy air into her lungs. You can’t keep seeing her everywhere you go. When Ya’ara opened her eyes again, the street was full of people hurrying home on the eve of a new year. She felt a jarring pain, as if she had lost her sister all over again. Once again, Tatiana had disappeared and become a ghost.

  37

  BERLIN, DECEMBER 31, 2014

  Due to the early hour, the revelers had yet to take to the streets. Helena and Ann were sitting at a corner table at what had already become their pub. They had drunk their first cocktail and were feeling comfortable and at ease. Helena’s hair was tied back, and Ann restored a rogue strand to its rightful place behind her ear.

  It was then that Helena noticed that Ann was wearing pajamas under her raincoat.

  “I hate dressing to the nines,” Ann admitted, giggling at the sight of the flannel pajamas she had on. “But that’s what’s always expected of me. As if a failure on my part to dress nicely, to put on makeup and to do my hair, is an offense to those who look at me. Funny, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “That’s an odd expression—to the nines,” Helena responded. “But you know you don’t have to pretend to be someone else on the outside. You’re not a store mannequin. You don’t owe a thing to anyone. And certainly not in that way.”

  “I know, I know,” Ann sighed. “Maybe it’s got something to do with the fact that I always have to be the best at everything, the most educated, the most diligent, the most beautiful. Maybe it’s because I’m a new immigrant.”

  “Not much newer than me.”

  “Nonsense, you were a child when you moved to Israel.”

  “That just means I’ve been a new immigrant for many years.”

  They went silent, sensing that something meaningful was transpiring between them, something beyond words.

  “I hate Christmas,” Helena suddenly said.

  “Strang
e, me, too, ever since I was a kid. Apart from the presents,” Ann agreed.

  “What’s happening at home?” Helena asked.

  “I don’t really know. I left Daniel a message to let him know I’ll be arriving tomorrow evening. He didn’t even respond. To be honest, we’ve hardly spoken since I’ve been here. He’s busy, I’m busy. What about you?”

  “It’s complicated. These past weeks have left me pretty shaken. You know me a little. I’m fixed in my ways, organized. I need things to run smoothly. The next step was clear to me. Marriage in 2015. Eli is a great guy. He’ll be done with his doctoral thesis within three to four months, so we could reserve a hall for the summer already. But I feel confused all of a sudden. Nothing seems logical any longer. My plans were so clear and now they’ve faded . . . And that’s so not like me at all. To be confused, I mean. I’m not one to get muddled.”

  “We need to give all of this some time. These aren’t normal circumstances. It’s not the right time to make decisions.”

  “You’re very right.” Helena took Ann’s hand and held it, under the table. They were sitting right next to each other now. Ann gently stroked her hair, and Helena rested her head on Ann’s shoulder. Ann tilted her own head, her cheek resting on Helena’s hair.

  “Your hair smells like flowers,” Ann murmured.

  “For the first time in a long while, my head is in exactly the right place,” Helena said in a whisper, her head resting in the crook of Ann’s delicate neck, with her own neck curving softly and straining upward.

  38

  BERLIN, DECEMBER 31, 2014

  Ya’ara wrapped herself in the thick comforter, her body stretched out diagonally across the double bed in her rented apartment in Berlin. She loved the apartment, and when the cadets dispersed and all went their own separate ways, she got the chance to go back there again. Two spacious rooms in a building erected before World War I, a gleaming and glistening wooden floor. Like many others in the neighborhood, the structure had undergone a refurbishment of late. It was located opposite a small square, with access to the square itself along a quiet road, lined with tall overhanging trees, that also featured an Italian restaurant, a Pakistani restaurant, a local pub, and a secondhand bookstore. Visible from the end of the street, in all its sobriety, was a red-brick church, topped by a bell tower, the heavy bells peeking through the openings of the double arches. She thought about the architect who had designed it three centuries ago, and wondered about the journey he had taken, months on end in Genoa, Lucca, Florence, Naples, descending from the north to the south, the skies gradually clearing, the heat rising, the flowers boasting bold colors, clouds of bugs humming in the scorching air, the waves of the blue sea crashing up against white cliffs, the light breaking on them bright and blinding.

  For the thousandth time she watched a YouTube clip to which she was constantly drawn. A Beatles’ song, “While My Guitar Gently Weeps,” from a performance at the Albert Hall in London. Eric Clapton was leading a huge ensemble, with Paul McCartney at the piano, three drummers, one of them Ringo Starr, at least five guitarists, two back-up vocalists, one black woman and one white, neither of them young, and a hyperactive old man with dark sunglasses banging his hands on a set of bongos at a furious pace, and Clapton himself playing wonderfully and singing in his flat-sounding baritone voice. But she was drawn most of all by one of the guitarists, whom the camera keeps panning back to. He was playing a large acoustic guitar, to the left of Clapton and a little behind him, playing with breathtaking self-confidence, quite surprising, considering he was sharing a stage with some of the greatest musicians in the world. He looked just twenty-something, so thin, so beautiful, his eyes hidden by his hair, wearing a big white shirt made from an airy cotton fabric, and he was playing like an angel, sadness in his eyes, singing along now and then, present on the stage. The circular hall was filled to the brim, packed with a thrilled and seemingly electrified audience. This was clearly no regular performance. By now she knew the identity of the young, the beautiful, the fragile and self-assured young man, whom the cameraman returned to time and again. Something about solving the mystery had left her disappointed; she should have guessed herself. The song was recorded during a one-off performance in 2002 in memory of George Harrison, who had died of cancer a year earlier.

  The young man was Dhani Harrison, George’s musician son. Yes, she should have noticed for herself how much he looked like him, even though the famous father looked more dark and tormented and hermitlike than his beautiful son, and if she had realized that he was the son of George Harrison then she would have clearly understood what he was doing there on the stage with his father’s friends, and why the camera kept focusing on him, not simply because he was young and attractive and mysterious and talented but because he was so reminiscent of his father, like some kind of ghost, but she chose to forget what she had found out, and wanted to ask herself time and time again who that young man could be. Twelve years had passed since that memorial performance, and she had seen recent pictures on the internet of Dhani Harrison, and he looked different now, more rugged, less beautiful, filling small arenas in Portland and Seattle. He would never be a superstar like the late George or John, or their friends.

  She was here while Matthias was in his house in Hamburg just two hours away from her. She was cuddled up, alone in her bed, watching videos on the screen of the phone she should have used to report all that had happened in Bremen, but she was putting it off. She would be in Tel Aviv tomorrow, breathing in the smell of the rain and wet leaves, tasting a hidden hint of salt from the sea on the air.

  39

  BERLIN, JANUARY 11, 2015

  Nufar and Sayid ran into each other as they exited the terminal at Tegel Airport, on their way to the long line of taxis that was waiting idly, spewing fumes, for the few passengers who were arriving in ice-cold Berlin on a Sunday afternoon. Nufar arrived on a connection from Frankfurt, Sayid flew in via Amsterdam. Nufar was pleased to see him, and she allowed her emotions to brighten her face with a broad smile. “It’s so good to see you,” she said as she hugged him. “I’ve missed you. All of this.” She gestured to form a wide circle with her hand, her movement designed to include the aircraft and the airline counters and the cold air and the low clouds that lay over the city.

  “I’m happy to see you, too,” Sayid said. “And to get back here. I’ve been restless over the past few days. I’m a little surprised by myself, but I’m missing the action. Me, an economist in the bank’s research department, who’s missing a few hours of surveillance in the swamps around Bremen.”

  Nufar laughed. “What you’re saying is so true. Those brief and action-packed weeks have messed with our heads. I’m like some kind of a junkie now, craving more.”

  “How were things back in Israel? All good?”

  “I spent time with my mother and sister. It’s always nice, even if we start arguing about every issue in the world after a few days together. And yes, I wanted to get back here already. Everything seemed a little strange to me. As if I was seeing something in regular things that others couldn’t see, like I had a third eye.”

  Sayid wanted to ask her about her father, but he didn’t want to encroach on her privacy, which until now seemed to envelop her meticulously from all sides. And he didn’t ask. “Yes,” he said, “you’ve got a point there. As if the world itself is different, strange. You know, I was just hanging out one day at a café on Weizmann Street in Givatayim, enjoying the Israeli winter sun, thinking of the cold here with a shudder, and suddenly the entire street seemed different to me. Nothing was necessarily as it appeared to be. Is that electrician’s van really an electrician’s van? And that older woman over there wearing a headscarf and sunglasses and carrying a small dog, what is she really up to? To be honest, we need to keep things on an even keel. After all, most things are truly as they appear to be, right?”

  “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar,” Nufar responded.

  Sayid looked at her, and she couldn’t te
ll if he had understood the Freud reference.

  “Should we share a cab?” she asked, and immediately suggested he join her for dinner, if he didn’t have other plans.

  “Gladly,” Sayid replied gallantly, “wherever you choose.”

  “I feel like Vietnamese. I’ve been dreaming about a bowl of noodles with chicken.”

  “Is that all?” he asked with a smile. “That sounds like a dream that’s easily realized.”

  Nufar smiled, too.

  As they walked side by side, dragging their trolley suitcases, there was something natural and simple between them, so much so that Sayid was required to remind himself just how much his life had changed. It’s me, Sayid, he said to himself. The shy boy from Algiers. A cadet in a unit so secret that it still has no name. Going out to dinner in Berlin with a young woman, so smart and beautiful. It’s me, Sayid.

  40

  The cadets were kept busy over the following two days with intensive debriefings concerning their activities in Bremen. They had the chance now to analyze the events quietly and without any pressure, and to actually learn something finally. Ya’ara and Aslan reviewed the events with the cadets in a systematic and methodical fashion. They spoke to them in concrete terms and added background and context to moves that were carried out quickly and in such a manner that they had appeared to the cadets to be instinctive. They discussed planning, situation assessment, intuition. And with the aid of hindsight, they analyzed the various actions they had taken and tried to assess the risks involved in them and to identify the steps that had led to breakthroughs.

  “We did a very good job,” Ya’ara told them. “You did. We thwarted a very sophisticated and extremely cruel plot. We saved lives. At least three families were not destroyed because of your solid field work, your courage, and your devotion. And we managed to prevent an earthquake in the German banking system. And to help a good friend.” She looked around, looking straight into their eyes, each and every one of them. “True, we had luck. True again, we were not able to do anything about the attacks in Britain and in Italy. But this war is a long one. We are not alone in it, although it seems that we have to lead and be in the front lines. All the time. And with perseverance and valor and faith we will win.” She paused, slightly embarrassed. She resorted to talking business.