by Batya Gur
“Why did Channel Two come out with the story about Iraq before us?” Zadik complained.
“Zadik, we’ve discussed this a thousand times,” Shoshi said. “First of all, a story like Iraq has no place in a news magazine like the week-in-review program. People don’t want another news show, they want a magazine, personal stories—What was the story with Iraq anyway? They uncovered an undercover operative of ours?”
“Furthermore,” the deep-voiced correspondent said, “Channel Two doesn’t employ union technicians, they work according to clear, fixed contracts through tenders that leave the power and authority with the technicians themselves.”
“Poor Matty Cohen,” Shoshi said with a sigh. “Who would believe—”
“Quiet, quiet a minute,” Zadik said. “Turn up the volume.”
Michael looked up at the monitor, which featured Karen the anchorwoman. “People tried to put a stop to our next report in a variety of ways,” she was saying. “The reason? This has been discussed for years, but only now, for the first time, are there facts, names, and numbers. A Channel One scoop: how the national budget funds yeshivas. Here’s Natasha Goralnik with the report.”
Natasha’s face—serious, yet jubilant, not a trace of the abandoned waif—filled the screen. “Israeli yeshivas,” she began, “receive funding according to the number of students enrolled. But what happens when the budget does not provide enough money? Well, it turns out all that is necessary is to bring more names—even those of the dead. Thirty-seven,” she said, then excused herself, coughing, “thirty-seven names you see on the screen.” A list of names appeared, with a pointer. “Here, for example,” Natasha said, “David Aharon, identity card number 073523471, who supposedly lives at 33A Kanfei Nesharim Street and studies at Ori Zion yeshiva, in fact passed away five years ago, but for the past five years—five years!—he has been considered a yeshiva student, in whose name the yeshiva receives monthly financial funding. So it is for Hai Even-Shushan and Menasheh Ben-Yosef, whose identity card numbers you see on the screen now.” Natasha’s voice rose dramatically. “The Ori Zion yeshiva receives monthly payments in the names of thirty-seven people who are in fact certifiably dead.” The complete list appeared on the screen.
“Good job,” Zadik said, glowing. “Good job. That girl is top-notch, I’m even considering promoting her,” he said, as if sharing a secret. “We have—never mind, have you met her?” he asked Michael. “What did you think of her?” Michael nodded his head but remained silent. “Come on, let’s go down to the newsroom. I’ll treat you to something special: a visit to the studio.” Michael followed him, and soon they stopped at the narrow entrance to the studio; he preferred not to push his way between the rows of people sitting in front of the control panels and the producer’s desk, so he huddled in a corner next to a side room and watched the guest interviewees who had been invited to appear on this live broadcast as they sat obediently in a row of chairs glued to the wall and waited their turn to enter the recording studio. Among them sat the minister of labor and social affairs, apparently in regards to the striking workers. Natasha, all smiles, stepped out of the studio, and everyone in the vicinity clapped her on the shoulder; even the people at the control table turned their heads to smile at her. No one was prepared for what was about to happen, it all appeared to have gone so well, and then the telephone rang, and rang again and again, and Ganit the producer answered. In the general confusion no one heard what she was saying, but then a moment later she called over anxiously to Zadik. “It’s a good thing you’re here,” she said. “I don’t know—someone on the line says…shit, here, just take the phone.” Just then Hefetz burst into the studio, a sheet of paper in his hands. “A fax came in,” he said to the people gathered there, “and we’ve got big trouble.” Natasha was still glowing. “So, Hefetz, what do you say?” she said, baiting him, and he handed her the paper.
After poking his head into the room to glance at the unmistakable look of pride on Natasha’s face, Michael stood thinking quietly at the entrance to the room as he observed the tumult, which had nothing to do with him and was not connected to his investigation. “What?!” he heard Zadik shout. “What does this mean, ‘living’? Who’s living? All right, I’ll go up to the entrance. Where is he? By the security officer?”
“That was Niva,” he said, troubled, to Ganit, who ran upstairs after him. Hefetz was on her tail like a cartoon character, Michael thought as he, too, raced along with them, mostly due to his instincts, but also because he had been waiting to talk to Hefetz. Had he not been waiting for Hefetz, he would have missed the whole matter.
By the security officer’s station, at the entrance, stood three ultra-Orthodox men. “I didn’t let them in because—” the security officer started to say, but Hefetz ignored him and stood examining the identity card that one of the young men, his dark jacket draped over his shoulders, had handed him. The man was smiling into his beard, and in a voice filled with wrath asked, “Do I look dead to you?” The other two stood behind him.
“What is this?” Hefetz shouted as he looked at the identity card. Perturbed, he lifted his eyes and looked at the ultra-Orthodox man, then read aloud: “‘David Aharon, 33A Kanfei Nesharim Street, identity card number 073523471.’ You’re alive?”
The man spread his hands as if to say, Yes, it’s a fact, to which Hefetz responded, “I am sorry, sir, we will correct this mistake.”
Natasha raced upstairs from the recording studio, and Schreiber was already there next to the security officer, waving his hands trying to grab her attention, but she went to stand in front of Hefetz, who was holding the faxes Niva had brought him. Niva herself was standing by the stairs, pale, wiping her brow. “We’ve never had anything like this before,” she said, horrified, though it was not clear to whom she was speaking. Still, there was a hint of satisfaction in her voice when she added, to Schreiber, “I told you people, she’s young and inexperienced,” to which he replied, the loathing on his face clear, “You viper,” and he moved to Natasha, who was examining the identity card that Hefetz was showing her and the face of the bearded man in front of her. He said, “I’m David Aharon, I’m David Aharon, you heretic!” “Natasha, Natasha,” Michael heard Schreiber whispering to her. “This will blow over, Natasha.” “Forget it, Schreiber,” she said, her mouth dry. “Nothing doing. Can’t you see I’m screwed?!” She took to the stairs leading to the newsroom and ran into Rubin, who was racing down them. “Natasha,” he cried, “where are you going?” “To clear out my stuff,” she answered, her voice lifeless. “You’ll do no such thing,” Rubin said as he grabbed her arm. “Hefetz,” he said. “Hefetz, did you hear her? Zadik, please—”
But Zadik did not even glance at him; he was bent over the telephone on the security officer’s station, saying, “Yes, sir,” and “I am sorry, sir,” and “Yes, rabbi.”
“Leave Zadik out of this, Rubin,” Hefetz said. “Can’t you see he’s busy trying to mop this mess up?”
“She was set up, Hefetz,” Rubin cried. “What are you shouting at her for? Can’t you see she was set up? You yourself sent her to cover this story.
“Zadik,” Rubin said, “tell him.” He turned to Natasha, pulling her back toward the entrance. “Why aren’t you saying anything?” And to Hefetz: “Why don’t you tell him they set her up because of the other matter? Why aren’t you telling him about it? After all,” he said, turning to Zadik, “it’s precisely so that you’ll read her the riot act and you won’t agree to air the other matter. Why don’t you get it, it’s the other matter that’s got them scared. That’s why they set her up, to get her into trouble.”
“No way,” Hefetz said. “That’s why we’re journalists. That’s what journalism is all about. News journalists can’t be set up. It only happens if they run ahead too fast without thinking, without checking and rechecking and rechecking again.”
“I was with her there myself,” Schreiber interjected, “I stood there knocking on doors. We talked to the neighbors. This guy
doesn’t live there, this could be a fake ID—”
“Schreiber, Schreiber, forget about it,” Natasha said, her voice fatigued. “I am finished here, I’m washed up, no two ways about it. Just leave me alone,” she said as she turned and made her way slowly up the stairs.
“Wait here for me until the end of the broadcast,” Hefetz instructed Michael, and raced after her, calling, “Natasha, Natasha.” She did not turn her head. Schreiber followed her as well, and Michael hesitated a moment: since when did he take orders to wait? He glanced at the double glass doors at the entrance to the building, where a large group of ultra-Orthodox men had gathered and were shouting. Suddenly a tall, lean, middle-aged man in a large, torn overcoat burst in, wisps of his thinning gray hair sticking out from under the large embroidered skullcap that covered his head. His arms were flailing, his hands in tattered wool gloves, and he shoved the security officer with his outstretched arms as if pleading. He shouted, “Where’s Arye Rubin? Arye Rubin is expecting me!”
The security officer wobbled for a moment, trying to grab on to the man’s arm. He said, “Hang on, sir, you can’t—” But the man shook him off in one swift motion.
“Who is this?” the security officer shouted to two of his colleagues, who had dashed in behind the counter in an attempt at taking hold of the interloper, but he shook them off as well, with great strength, as he wept: “Let me see Arye Rubin. He…he…he’s expecting me, he made an appointment with me!” Rubin approached the man, stood in front of him, and said, “I’m Arye Rubin. Here, I’m right here.”
In an instant the man relaxed, as though his strength had seeped out; he seemed ready to crumple into a heap. The security officer grabbed hold of his arms and pulled him backward.
“Let him go, Alon, can’t you see who—” Rubin said, holding the man’s shoulder.
The security officer looked hesitantly at Rubin but did not release the man.
“I’ve come to talk with Arye Rubin, he knows me, he knows—he’ll tell me—” The man’s voice trembled with a thick Russian accent.
“Let him go, Alon,” Rubin said again. “It’s all right. I’m here, I’ll take care of this.” He removed the security officer’s hands from the interloper’s arms.
“Here I am, sir,” Rubin said pleasantly. “How can I be of service?”
The man stared at Rubin, confused. He tried to say something, but his words caught in his throat and his eyelids fluttered and his large, burning blue eyes were set with fear, and he pleaded with Rubin, at first repeating himself: “I’m here to see Rubin, I made an appointment with him, I’ve got material for him, lots of material to show him—”
The female security guard standing next to Alon chortled, and Miri the language editor, who was passing by on her way outside from the canteen, a doughnut in her greasy fingers, said, “That’s the way psychotics behave. They don’t mean anything they say. And if you show them something, they won’t see it. That’s just Psychology 101.”
“That’s Rubin,” Alon shouted, pointing at Rubin, while Arye Rubin himself, his arm still draped over the man’s shoulder, said, “Good, good, very good, nice job,” as if he were speaking to a frightened child. “What’s your name?” he asked, releasing his grip.
“I…my name is David, David Gluzman,” the man said, wiping his forehead and his narrow, ashen face with the palms of his hands. “I…I have…I want to…I have a complaint against…,” he said, and then fell silent.
The three ultra-Orthodox men standing in the doorway, their identity cards open as if expecting to have to prove their identities once again, moved backward toward the glass doors.
“Where do you live?” Rubin asked. The man stretched his arms at his sides and stood soldier-straight, then recited the details of an address on the far side of town—including the entrance and the floor and the apartment number—like a child in a kindergarten pageant.
Rubin fished around in his pants pocket and extracted a twenty-shekel note, which he placed in the tattered gloves on the man’s hands. “You’ll need this for the bus ride home,” he said quietly as he curled the man’s fingers around the money, then placed his hand on the man’s shoulder and guided him to the door. “Go home,” Michael heard him say. “The best thing for you is to go home.”
The moment the double glass doors opened, several yeshiva students standing quite close to Rubin hoisted large placards above their heads: ZIONIST APOSTATE! JEW-HATER! These were written in black, while in red there was a poster that read, ISRAEL TV IS SHEDDING OUR BLOOD!
“Everyone here is nuts,” Alon said, “this whole city is full of crazies. The whole country, in fact.”
Rubin returned to the building, examined his hands, and sighed. He looked at the clock and said to the security personnel behind the counter, “I’ve got to go see Benny Meyuhas, I can’t leave him alone. If Zadik is looking for me, have him leave a message on my beeper.”
Michael looked at the large wall clock and at the monitor hanging opposite the security station, which was broadcasting MTV. A shirtless, rain-splattered young man was kissing a crying girl while five backup singers crooned in the background. Even though the volume had been turned quite low, the backup singers could be heard singing,
Could you be my girlfriend, words that would follow Michael up the stairs to the newsroom.
Schreiber the cameraman was standing in the second-floor hallway, his back to the row of offices and his fingers tapping nervously on the railing. On his way to the newsroom, Michael passed a room whose door was halfway open, and when he peered inside, he saw Natasha. Her back was to the door, and she was facing a row of cubbyholes, emptying the contents of one of them and shoving them into her canvas bag. Standing quite close to her was Hefetz, who was speaking to her, his tone imploring. When he noticed Michael, he hastened to say, “I’ll be with you in a minute, wait for me in there,” indicating the newsroom. Michael continued very slowly down the hallway, managing to catch a groan and some low tones followed by, “Don’t you believe I’m looking after your interests?” Natasha’s response—if there was one—was inaudible to Michael.
Very few people were in the newsroom, and those who were spoke quietly, as if in the wake of a tragedy. Niva was sitting next to the fax machine extracting page after page and taking notes. “‘Haim Nacht…receives a stipend…has not passed away, H.F.’…Does anyone know what the initials ‘H.F.’ stand for?” A voice from one of the inner rooms responded: “Heaven Forfend!” Niva continued pulling pages from the fax machine, raising her eyes to the monitor from time to time. She watched the start of a live weekly political affairs program, whose regular host had been replaced by a journalist known for his seriousness and restraint, and his slow, careful way of speaking that emphasized every syllable. He told the viewers he wished to say something about the exceptional nature of the upcoming program, and even before introducing the regular participants or the guests, he announced that time would be “set aside for remembering Tirzah Rubin, head of the Scenery Department at Israel Television, who was killed in an on-the-job accident.” In a voice choked with emotion, he added, “One could even say she was killed in the line of duty,” and then he mentioned Matty Cohen, head of the Production Department, “who, behind the scenes, financed this great enterprise.” It seemed that no one in the newsroom was paying attention to the broadcast until one of the regular participants, an old and corpulent journalist whose claim to fame was the vociferous complaints he issued on the program, interrupted the host to mention the sins of the ultra-Orthodox population and the disgrace of Natasha’s failure, which he called “missing a rare opportunity, which happens with the Israel Television News all the time.” The studio audience applauded, and the journalist looked around with a haughty smile.
Niva raised her head from the pile of papers she was moving from one side to the other. “Oh, shut your face already,” she said after glancing for a moment at the screen. “In another minute you’ll say something about how you were a kid in the Holocaust.�
� Just then, not a moment later, the bloated face of the journalist grew serious, his haughty smile faded, he cast a dirty look at the camera and once again interrupted the host. “I am very sorry,” he declared, “as for me, I’m not going like a lamb to the slaughter again—we’ve already lived through Auschwitz!” And once again the audience burst into applause, and he bowed his head as though reliving his terrible memories. The camera panned around the table and came to rest on his fat neck. “Shut your big mouth already,” Niva demanded. “Someone turn down the sound,” she shouted.
No one reacted. “Where’s the remote control? Hey, Erez, let me have the remote, will you?” she said as she pulled the remote control from under a pile of papers next to her, and turned off the sound. The man’s mouth was still open and his fat lips were moving but his voice could not be heard.
The political affairs correspondent protested. “I need to hear what they’re saying. Any minute now they’ll mention the Jerusalem murder, and I’ll have to report to the studio, too. They’ll give me a heads-up, but I want to know what’s going on.” He took the remote control and increased the volume just as one of the regular participants on the show was saying, “Who says we don’t respect Jewish heritage? It’s a fact that Israel Television, which everyone would agree is a secular institution, is filming a story by Agnon. What is Agnon, if not Jewish heritage?” she asked excitedly, straightening her pillbox hat.
“Oh, I love this one, too,” Niva interjected, “with that upside-down pot on her head, every week a different pot.” She stuffed her feet into her heavy clogs. “I’ve been here for forty-eight hours,” she announced. “I’ve slept maybe two or three. That’s enough, I’m closing shop.”