The Jewish Candidate

by David Crossland

  Renner shifted up and accelerated. “Are you OK?” he shouted over the roar of the engine.

  “Don’t know. You?” Carver mumbled. His mouth was full of blood. His heart was beating too fast. He gasped for air. Renner lowered the window. The wind and the drizzle helped. Carver’s hands were shaking. Blood was seeping from his right shoulder. “I think I’ve been stabbed.”

  “Fuck,” said Renner. “Deep?”

  Something black appeared from the right. Carver turned. “Watch out!” An SUV raced in from a side street and crashed into the front wing of the BMW, sending it spinning 360 degrees and smashing into a stone wall on Renner’s side. Renner held his head. He looked dazed. The SUV backed up towards them. A door opened. The barrel of a pump-action shotgun appeared. “Renner. Renner!” Carver punched his arm. “Can you drive?” Renner turned the ignition. Nothing happened. Again. Nothing. “Piece of shit!” The engine started. Like lightning, Renner shifted into reverse and screeched back 10 metres. “Stop!” Carver shouted. “Fucking lynch mob behind us! They got guns!” Dozens of people were running towards them.

  The man in front was out of the vehicle. He pumped a cartridge into the chamber. The SUV blocked most of the street in front of them. There was a narrow gap between it and a derelict building. Renner slammed into first and floored the accelerator. The BMW swung right and roared into the gap. Carver gritted his teeth. “There’s no room, mate.” Both wing mirrors flew off. A fierce scrape jolted the car. The screaming engine filled the inside with an acrid burning smell. Renner jerked the steering wheel to the left and the BMW burst through. He shifted gears like a racing driver, pushing the car up to 100 miles an hour. The rear windscreen burst. Renner cried out. Blood streamed from his ear. He kept his foot on the accelerator. They were in open country now, surrounded by freshly-ploughed fields. “We’re slowing down,” Renner hissed, pumping the accelerator. “Engine sounds strange!”

  “It’s overheating,” said Carver. The SUV was thirty metres behind and gaining fast. “Fuck.” It reached their bumper in seconds. The man aimed the shotgun out of the passenger window. “Duck! Renner, duck!” They heard the boom of the shot. The road turned sharp left. Renner hurled the car into the bend. It lurched but gripped the road. Carver checked the mirror. The SUV was gone. They heard a loud crump. He turned. “They’re off the road! They’ve hit a tree! Yes!” Renner slowed down and stopped. Thick smoke billowed from the devastated bonnet of the SUV. “No one’s getting out,” Renner said. “The smoke’s getting worse.”

  They climbed out and ran back down the road. They saw the driver slamming his palm against the inside of the window.

  “They’re trapped,” said Renner. “Frank, they’re trapped.” Flames licked across the bonnet. “They’re going to die in there.”

  The petrol tank exploded, engulfing the vehicle in fire. The heat was so searing that they had to step back.

  “Have you got a fire extinguisher?” asked Renner.

  Carver nodded. “Think there’s one in the boot.”

  Renner turned to get it. Carver held his arm. “It’s staying there.”

  “Men are dying in there, Frank!”

  “They’re beyond help. They were a long time ago. Let’s get out of here.”

  Renner drove. Carver’s adrenalin came down. Everything hurt. An ambulance sped towards them, heading for Sastrow.

  “How’s your ear?” said Carver. Renner’s earlobe was bloody. “You got nicked by a shotgun pellet.”

  “I think I caused some serious injuries when I drove into that group,” said Renner.

  “C’est la fucking vie,” Carver muttered.

  Renner gave him a worried look. “You know, if we go on like this … we’ll be no better than them.”

  Carver felt the back of his shoulder and looked at his hand. It was covered in blood. “I can live with that.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Vineyards above Bernkastel, Moselle, Sunday, September 2

  It was getting harder to keep up with Peter. The boy was 20 yards ahead of him and had almost reached the brow of the hill. Gutman stopped and looked back down at the steep vineyard slopes and the curve of the Moselle river. He gasped, overwhelmed again by the beauty of the valley in the autumn sun, and by the memories that came rushing over him. He played cops and robbers between these vines as a child, and used to go for long walks with his father to their favourite bench. He had such happy times here. A good childhood could be a curse. It never let you go. The chains of nostalgia could hold you back.

  The two security agents who were following him at a distance of 20 yards stopped. They looked bored. Their presence annoyed him. Peter waved. A tall man in jeans and blouson jacket was behind him. Agent number three.

  They reached the old bench and sat down for a picnic in the shade of an ancient oak. As far as Gutman was concerned , it was the best spot in the world. Forests and carpets of vines in different hues of green and yellow covered the slopes on both banks as far as the eye could see. The harvest was just a few weeks away. A few pleasure boats chugged along the river. A buzzard glided down the valley towards Bernkastel. Just beyond the town, he could make out the tower of Landshut castle.

  The guards, trying to be as unintrusive as they could, made themselves comfortable to their right and left a few yards away. Another member of the four-man protection squad was somewhere around. “I came here with my father when I was your age,” said Gutman. “I know,” said Peter, munching his cheese roll. Gutman closed his eyes and savoured the sound of the leaves rustling in the warm breeze. This was peace.

  “You know, Peter, I hope we’ll always be the best of friends.”

  Peter looked up at him. “Why do you say that, Dad?”

  “I fell out with my father, and I never got the chance to make up with him.”

  Gutman’s father, Michael, was among the few Jews who voluntarily returned to Germany after the war. The family saw the writing on the wall soon after Hitler took power in 1933, and emigrated to England in 1934, when Michael was 16. He came back in 1946, with his wife Elisabeth, whom he met in London, and they settled back in Bernkastel. Michael lectured in law at the University of Trier, and became a professor. Rudolf’s mother had a strict Jewish upbringing, and the move to Germany was a constant source of friction between his parents. She didn’t like the little town, which was far too provincial for her, and she had a deep distrust of Germans. They were the only Jews in Bernkastel for a long time, and most of the locals treated them with a distant deference born of guilt and respect for Michael’s status as a professor. She insisted on observing Jewish customs and holidays and made Rudolf, their only child, wear a kippah at home and recite prayers on the Sabbath.

  But Rudi realized early on that he didn’t care about religion. And he hated being made to feel different from his friends. He found the Christian traditions more fun. On Friday nights in the summer, he wanted to be out playing football with the lads and not inside at a candle-lit table reciting meaningless blessings over bread and wine.

  In 1980, when Rudolf was 16, Elisabeth persuaded Michael to take a job as a lecturer at Tel Aviv University. For Rudolf, being plucked out of Bernkastel and planted into the Middle East was traumatic. It marked the end of his childhood. He disliked his new home. He couldn’t stand how intensely political everything and everyone was. He couldn’t get used to the heat or the food. He felt cramped and unfree. He didn’t fit in. Fellow pupils just called him “the German.” He was struck by the hatred all around. Even the supposedly liberal, left-wing colleagues of his father were scathing about Arabs. They didn’t seem to realize or care how racist they were being. The way they and his fellow high-school students talked about the Palestinians, and the way Palestinians talked about Jews, made it obvious to him that there wouldn’t be any proper peace in this part of the world in his lifetime. Being Jewish was only part of his heritage, and he didn’t feel sufficiently bound by it to invest his life in Israel. As the months passed, he increasingly resented b
eing pressured to feel like an Israeli. He yearned so hard for his little homeland – Bernkastel and the hills and forests around it – that Germany became a paradise in his mind. He associated it with everything that had been good in his young life. The homesickness he felt made him realize the meaning of the German word “Heimat.” It meant more than homeland. It went deeper than that, much deeper into the soil. It referred to a fusion between place and time, and the resulting unbreakable, deeply personal bond with a location. He longed for the birdsong of spring, the lush green haze of summer, the gold of autumn, the lights of winter, for all the colours and rituals that marked the endless, peaceful circuit of the seasons. The spring carnival, the maypoles, the wine festivals, Advent. He longed for the chiming of the church bells echoing down the valley. For the wine and the beer and the football, and the quiet and the safety of the land of his birth.

  Gutman smiled at the memory. How could a candidate for the chancellorship be so apolitical? After two years, when he was 18, he got his high school diploma, and his parents wanted him to study law in Tel Aviv. When he told them he was “moving back home,” there was a furious row. His mother cried, and his father pleaded with him to stay. He packed his bag and walked out of the apartment that same night. He renounced his Israeli citizenship soon after returning to Germany. No one had ever asked him if he wanted to be an Israeli. He studied politics and philosophy at Trier, just 50 kilometres from Bernkastel, realized that Germany wasn’t such a paradise after all, and joined the SPD to make his Heimat a fairer, better place. It was now almost 30 years since his return. He had become estranged from his mother, who never really came to terms with having given birth to a little German. What pained him far more was his father, because they never saw each other again. He died of a heart attack two years after Rudolf left Israel. Looking back on it, he was convinced that his dad felt the same way he did, and only moved to Tel Aviv for Elisabeth’s sake. The thought of him dying so far from home made him sad.

  The clatter of rotor blades disturbed the peace. A helicopter appeared in the distance and approached until it was hovering high above them.

  Peter squinted up at it and saw the “POLIZEI” markings.

  “Are they here to protect us, Dad?”

  Gutman sighed. “I think so.” He looked down at his son tucking into a chocolate bar, and ruffled his hair.

  “I hope we will keep coming up here, you and me, when you’re grown up and I’m an old man,” said Gutman.

  Peter nodded. “Sure!”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Foreign Press Association Coach, Moselle Valley, Tuesday, September 4

  Everyone liked Mohammed Chhadat. The veteran freelance correspondent had covered Germany for Arab newspapers and radio stations since the 1970s, when he came over from his native Jordan.

  Short and balding, Chhadat favoured English tweed jackets with leather patches on the elbows, a throwback to the year he spent at Oxford University as an exchange student.

  The German government press office liked him because he always put Germany in a positive light in his reports, which were broadcast across the Middle East. He was 64 now, and had gone native long ago. “I’m going to keep on reporting from Berlin until I drop dead,” he would tell people with his exaggerated laugh.

  Chhadat was ubiquitous in Berlin’s circuit of diplomatic cocktail parties, government news conferences and foreign press association events, many of which he helped to organise. He made a point of taking newcomers to the Berlin press corps under his wing, especially the female ones. Carver tried to avoid him because he was a bore and never stopped talking. He declined Chhadat’s invitation to take part in a press trip “to explore Gutman’s life” – a two-day tour of his home town of Bernkastel on the Moselle including a visit to his school, an interview with one of his teachers, plus a wine-tasting, of course.

  It was the second day of the trip, and Chhadat thought it was going well. They savoured some delectable Moselle wines last night in Bernkastel, and he got tipsy with a young lady from Colombian radio and with Vladimir, an exceptionally polite reporter who only recently arrived in Berlin to cover the election for Ukrainian radio.

  Now they were heading to Bonn for the culmination of the tour, Gutman’s election rally in his current home town and constituency. It was going to be a keynote speech to help him get back in the race after the “Revengers of Allah” attacks had knocked his election campaign off track. Chhadat sat next to Vladimir, who promised him a bottle of the finest Ukrainian vodka for his help over the last few weeks. “They threw me in at the deep end, Mohammed. I’m supposed to cover the most important German election in years and I don’t know anyone here.” Chhadat was delighted to help. He called in a few favours at the government press office to speed up the accreditation for this eager reporter.

  As the coach sped up the Moselle valley towards the Rhine and on to Bonn, they admired the pastoral landscape of vineyards and castle ruins. On some slopes, the grape harvest was already under way. “They told me they’re pleased with my stories. They’ve offered me a permanent posting in Berlin, Mohammed,” said Vladimir. “I owe that to you.” He had tears in his eyes. Chhadat was startled and touched. He’d heard how sentimental the Slavs could be. “Oh no, not at all, you’re very talented Vladimir, you did it yourself! That’s great news! Excuse me please.”

  Chhadat made his way to the front of the bus and picked up the microphone. “Folks, if I can briefly have your attention, I have arranged front row seats for us at Gutman’s speech. It will be in the market square in front of Bonn’s beautiful town hall. If you need to file afterwards, I have checked and our hotel has Wifi. Afterwards we shall be dining at a fine restaurant overlooking the famous Seven Hills opposite Bonn. It has a wonderful terrace. Let’s hope the weather holds!”

  Vladimir clapped enthusiastically. On his way back to his seat, Chhadat noticed that many of the journalists were sleeping. They’d had too much wine last night! He spotted the delightful Ludmilla and meant to sit down next to her for a chat. He liked to mingle, he saw it as part of his duties as board member of the foreign press association. But she picked up the phone to make a call just as he got to her seat. He turned round and joined Carmen, who worked for Agencia Brasil, instead. She was hungover from the Riesling but looked sultry and delectable with her eyes half closed. If only he were 20 years younger!

  They were getting close to Bonn now. The coach passed the Drachenfels, or Dragon’s Rock, the hill where Siegfried slayed the dragon according to Germanic folklore. Chhadat was deep in conversation with young Carmen. His leather briefcase, embossed with “MC” on the brass clasp, was under his seat near the back of the coach. No one was looking. A hand reached down, flapped it open and slipped a brown parcel the size of a paperback book into an empty compartment. The hand zipped it shut and twisted off the zipper with a pocket tool, bending the teeth to make sure it couldn’t be opened.

  It was six o’clock. Bonn’s market square was full to bursting. The weather had been overcast and muggy all day, as it so often was in this part of the Rhine valley, but the sun began to break through and it was turning into a pleasant autumn evening. Bonn’s baroque town hall resembled a cake with its pink and white-stuccoed façade. The SPD had drafted in 1,000 supporters to cheer every single syllable Gutman was about to utter, and dozens of reporters and TV crews had come to witness the candidate’s last-ditch attempt to revive his campaign. A local rock band was playing, and stalls were handing out red SPD badges, pens and flags.

  Gutman surveyed the crowd from a top floor window of the town hall. Bonn hadn’t got this much attention since the government moved to Berlin in 1999. Traffic in the city centre had come to a standstill because streets were blocked off by TV satellite trucks and police vans. The police were everywhere. Masked snipers manned the roofs and surveyed the crowd with binoculars, and plainclothes officers with wires dangling from their ears pushed their way through the ranks of SPD faithful. Thousands thronged the square to catch a glim
pse of the Jewish man whose campaign had just been blown apart by Islamists.

  In front of the stage, an area containing 20 rows of seats was fenced off with metal barriers. Police checked everyone who entered the enclosure, reserved for senior party members and the press.

  Two police helicopters hovered above the square. “Suddenly I’m as distant to people as the U.S. president,” Gutman said. The Bonn police chief wanted to install airport-style X-ray machines at all entrances to the square, but abandoned the plan due to a shortage of equipment. Birgit, Heise and Becker were with Gutman, along with the SPD mayor of Bonn, Lothar Schwingen, a jovial, avuncular old Rhinelander.

  Schwingen gave Gutman a slap on the back. “Chin up Rudi, it’s not over yet! You can still turn this thing round! Go out there and fight. Don’t show any doubts! Whatever you do, stay confident!” The others nodded. Birgit squeezed Gutman’s hand.

  It was 6.30. Chhadat was leading his charges through the crowd towards the “VIP” section in front of the stage. Carmen was right behind him. Klaus Reinfeld, a senior member of the government press office who knew Chhadat well, stood with a group of police officers at the entrance to the fenced-off area. “Herr Chhadat, you’re late! I had difficulty keeping you some front row seats! Come quickly!” Reinfeld waited impatiently while an officer peered inside Chhadat’s briefcase and let him through. Chhadat took his seat next to Reinfeld near the right corner of the first row, just five metres from the stage. The band was just finishing “Hello Dolly.” He opened his briefcase, took out a notepad and pen, and put it down by his feet. He looked around. Only half of his group were here. As laptops weren’t allowed, many of the reporters decided to stay outside the VIP area so that they could file their stories more quickly and gather “voxpop” from people in the crowd.