Long Lost Brother

by Don Kafrissen

  “Sure,” said Al. As Davy was getting the bags and a bellman was taking them inside, Al asked, “Is there a pretty good restaurant near here? Maybe one with outside tables?”

  “Sure, the Warsaw Cafe is just down the street.” He pointed back the way they’d come.

  “Can we walk it?” Al noted that it stayed warm as the sun was setting.

  Davy nodded, “Sure, about ten, fifteen minutes.” He looked Al up and down, “You look like you can do it without fainting. Your sister, too.” He held out a hand, “Remember, call me if you need a cab. Benny, the concierge here, knows me, too.” And with that, he was off.

  When Al entered the elaborate lobby, he spied Mim at the front desk. She had already checked them in. “What have we got, sis?”

  “They have us in a suite with two big beds. You mind sharing?” She grinned mischievously. “Think you can handle it?”

  He smiled a small smile, “We shared a room with Sammy until I was, what, eight? I remember Pop wanted a bigger house and when we finally moved into that one on Sutter Street, we all got our own rooms.”

  She smiled wistfully, “I remember you and Sammy fighting over the upper bunk bed.”

  “Sure, you always had your own bed.” Al laughed. When Herschel and his wife, Leah, finally got the money together, they got the bigger house. The kids couldn’t believe they would have their own rooms. Soon, the walls were plastered with pictures, movie posters, shelves full of books and later, sports trophies.

  As the bellboy opened the door to their room, Mim gasped, “Al, can we afford this? It’s beautiful.” She slowly walked around the large room, stopping in front of the picture window, which overlooked the huge outdoor pool. “Oh, my, I’ve never been in such a beautiful place.”

  “You booked it, Sis. Didn’t French ever take you to a nice place, a nice hotel?”

  “Hah!” she said, making a derisive sound. Even for their honeymoon, French had splurged and taken her to Las Vegas so he could gamble and go to the nudie shows. He said he hoped they would get her turned on. The topless shows hadn’t done anything, but make her realize that she’d made a terrible mistake. She’d gotten pregnant with Joanie in Las Vegas and had stayed with French because of their daughter until she couldn’t stand his gambling and philandering any longer.

  After Al had tipped the bellboy, she turned and, with hands on hips, asked, “How come we haven’t talked about our new uncle, Al?” She frowned, “Did Mr. Goldman tell you something about him that you haven’t told me?”

  Al was surprised at the question. He didn’t think his sister was so astute. “Why, no. No, he said that Uncle Isaac ̶ or Arthur Levine, the name he’s using now ̶ will tell us whatever he wanted. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

  Chapter 4

  After they’d had dinner in the hotel’s premier restaurant, the King Solomon, they withdrew to their room. Al sat on the edge of his bed and faced Miriam. “Mim, let’s get a good night’s sleep, and I’ll call Uncle Isaac in the morning. He’s supposed to still have an office at the university. At least that’s the number I got from Saul.”

  “That sounds good. You want the bathroom first? I need a shower.”

  “No, you go. I’ll watch some news if I can find an English channel.” Al toed off his loafers and unbuckled his belt. After a good belch, at which Mim muttered, “You’re disgusting.” he piled a couple of pillows behind his head and flipped on the big flat screen TV, a Sony, he noted. After a couple tries, he managed to find a BBC channel.

  The news was about a bombing which had taken place that day in a town called Rama, up near the Syrian border. The bomber had boarded a bus headed south and committed suicide, destroying himself and twenty-two others. Bystanders had been injured, a café had its windows shattered, and two adjacent cars were destroyed and their occupants seriously injured. The announcer made it seem that this was a fairly normal occurrence.

  Miriam finished showering and came back into the room just at the end of the newscast. She wore a pair of blue and white striped shorty pajamas with a towel wrapped around her head. “What was that about?”

  Not wanting to alarm her, Al replied, “Not much. Suicide bombing way up north. Nothing to worry about.” He looked her up and down, “Sexy. Had any dates lately?”

  She wrinkled her nose at him, whipped the towel off her close-cropped head and threw it at him. “Okay, mister, what exactly do you wear to bed?”

  “You’ll see when I come out of the shower,” he sang.

  A few minutes later, he called, “Oh, sexy Miriam!” and stuck a bare leg out of the crack of the bathroom door and jamb, wiggling it provocatively.

  She giggled and started clapping. “Whoo-hoo!”

  Al slunk into the room, dancing around, a towel held strategically in front of his more private areas. He moved the towel as necessary as he spun and twirled.

  “Take it off!” Mim shouted. She hadn’t seen her brother act so childish since they were children. Al was always the serious one, unlike Sammy, who was always ready to party down.

  Al wiggled his eyebrows, spun once more and tore the towel away.

  Mim squealed and covered her eyes, peering through her fingers as Al’s towel flew through the air, revealing him clad in plaid boxer shorts.

  “Oh, rats,” she moaned. For a fifty-year-old man, Al was in excellent condition. Tall, salt and pepper hair, flat stomach, thick, builder’s arms and muscular legs.

  He adopted an exaggerated body builder’s pose, and Miriam said, “Yum. Why are all the good ones taken? Or my brother?”

  Al leaned over and they kissed each other on the cheek. “Night, Sis,” he said.

  “Night, Al,” she replied and thumbed off the TV and her light.

  Chapter 5

  The next morning, Al ordered breakfast from room service. After they’d eaten, they sat next to each other on the bed while Al nervously dialed the number from a scrap of paper he withdrew from his wallet. They looked at each other as the other end rang. Al swallowed nervously. They’d come all this way, and …

  A voice answered, “Shalom?” It was a woman’s voice.

  Hesitantly, Al said, “Hello? I’m trying to reach a Mr. Arthur Levine?”

  “That’s Professor Levine. Is this Mr. Rothberg?” Her English was clear with just a hint of an accent.

  “Yes, Ma’am. I’m here with my sister Miriam.” He held the hotel phone so Mim could hear too.

  “The professor instructed me to inform you that he will meet you in the Lobby Lounge in your hotel at half past ten. He hopes this is satisfactory?”

  “Uh, yes, I guess so. How will we know him?” Al was a little perplexed.

  “Do not be concerned, he will know you. Shalom.” The connection was broken before Al could reply. He was to learn later that this abruptness, and the familiarity of the cab driver the previous day, were common traits among the Israeli people.

  He placed the phone back on its cradle. “Well, I guess she told us. What time is it?”

  Mim looked at her watch, “Oh, crap, I didn’t reset it to local time.” She looked at the clock radio on the bedside table and set her watch. Al did the same. It was fifteen minutes past ten. She stood, smoothing her skirt. “Let’s go meet our new uncle.” She looked up at Al. He was clad in a dark blue short-sleeve Henley shirt over a pair of sharply creased khaki slacks and Nike running shoes. “Do you think we should have dressed up?”

  He smiled at her, “You look fine, Sis, and I think the Israeli normal is kind of casual.” Al went to the large window and pulled the curtain back, flooding the room with light. He could already feel the heat through the glass. It was going to be a warm day. The news last night predicted the day’s temperature at 35 degrees Celsius. Al did a rapid conversion in his head. Whew! 95 degrees Fahrenheit, he told himself.

  “Okay, let’s go meet our uncle.” Mim opened the door, taking a last look around their room, as if she would never see it again.

  In the atrium, they found a sign with an ar
row showing the Lobby Lounge. Mim gripped Al’s hand tightly.

  “Nervous?” he asked.

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Yes, but, you know, I’m kind of pissed, too.”

  They walked into the lounge. The wood gridded ceiling topped a room filled with beautiful brown leather upholstered furniture. It looked butter-soft, and Al confirmed it as he ran a hand over the back of a sofa as they passed. They were alone at the lobby end except for a couple of businessmen sitting at the bar. He looked all around and did not see an old man anywhere. Shrugging, he waved a hand for Mim to sit in one of the brown leather sofas. Then he sat beside her. A waiter clad in black trousers and a white shirt open at the neck came and took their order for coffee.

  While they waited, a voice came from behind them, “Drs. Livingston, I presume?”

  Al and Mim jumped to their feet, bumping into each other. They spun around and saw a slim, elderly man standing behind them. He was bald, carried a cane, and wore a lightweight tan summer suit ̶ no necktie. Beneath twinkling blue eyes he wore a smile in a face as brown and leathery as the hotel sofa behind them.

  The old man walked around and held out a hand, “I’m your father’s brother, Isaac, though it’s been many years since I’ve even used that name.” He looked at his feet and ruefully said, “Isaac Rothberg. You know, it sounds like someone else’s name. I’ve been Arthur Levine for so long, I’ve become used to it.”

  Al looked at Isaac’s hand and then shook it. “I guess that makes me your nephew. I’m Al Rothberg.” He turned and pulled Miriam gently forward. “This is your niece, Miriam.”

  She smiled tentatively, and shook his hand, “Pleased to finally meet you, Mr. Levine, uh, Mr. Rothberg.” Mim was flustered. “I’m not sure what to call you, sir.”

  He gestured for them to sit and took a seat across from them in a thickly upholstered armchair. “Why don’t you just call me Uncle Isaac?”

  The waiter came and put Al and Mim’s cups down on the slim coffee table between them. Then he bent to the old man. “What’ll it be, Professor? How about some nice iced coffee?”

  “That sounds very good, Yoshi. Thank you.” He sat back and leaned his cane beside his leg. He glanced at Al’s curious look, “Former student. Five or six years ago.”

  “What did you teach, uh, Uncle?” asked Al.

  “History, mostly. Medieval up to the First World War. That is, at the local university. Before that, I was a counter-terrorism instructor at our, shall we say, special services school?”

  Miriam couldn’t hold back any longer. The small talk was getting under her skin. “Why, Uncle? Why did you never get in touch with us? My father? My Uncle Hans?” She was sitting on the edge of the sofa, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

  Al put a hand on her arm, but she shook him off, her eyes brimming with tears.

  Isaac leaned forward, his forearms on his knees and said coldly, “That is none of your business.”

  “None of our business? None of our business?’ Mim was near shouting now. “I want to know why you let your only brother go to his grave thinking you were dead.” Her face was flushed and tears ran down her face. “You are an old man and will be dead soon too. Why won’t you tell us what my father did to you to make you hate him so?”

  Isaac’s face was like stone. He looked from one to the other of the two.

  Before he could reply, Yoshi brought him his iced coffee. “Enjoy, Professor.” He glanced at the tense group. “Hey, people, lighten up. Enjoy the day.”

  Isaac waved a wrinkled hand at him and Yoshi quickly withdrew. “You want to know why I never met you? Met him again?” He sat back and slowly deflated, sipping his iced coffee. “It’s a long story, and your Uncle Hans was at the center of it. If you desire to hear my story, I’ll tell you.” He sighed, “Give me a few minutes to gather my thoughts, please.”

  Mim stifled a sob and sat back, sipping the hot coffee in the comfortably air conditioned room. Al picked up his coffee and was quiet also.

  The minutes dragged on until Isaac set the remainder of his iced coffee down and stood. He said, “I need fresh air to tell this story. I believe there is a lovely little outdoor café just a couple of blocks up the street. Come.”

  He led them through the huge revolving door, his cane thumping beside his stiff leg, not looking back.

  Al and Mim hurried after him. For an elderly man with a bad leg, he walked surprisingly fast. It was hot but very dry, being so near the desert. A comfortable breeze blew off the deep blue Mediterranean. The street leading away from the huge glass-clad hotel was lined with condos, apartment buildings and small shops. Mim stopped and looked in the window of a tiny art gallery with sculptures in the window. She recognized two by a favorite artist of hers, Vojta Svoboda.

  Al pulled her along, whispering, “What do you think of this guy?”

  Mim shrugged. “He seems like he wants to open up. We came all this way, let’s see what he has to say.”

  “Do you have the pocket recorder I gave you?”

  Mim felt in her purse. “Yes, and it’s fully charged. Should we tell him we’re recording what he says?”

  Al frowned. “No, not yet.”

  They followed the rapidly walking man ahead of them. He paused at a café, a small place with just four outdoor tables under colorful umbrellas imprinted with Hebrew letters. It was the Warsaw Café that Davy, the cab driver, had recommended.

  Isaac turned and gestured them toward one of the tables. “Please, sit. I’ll have the waiter bring us some cool drinks.” Isaac disappeared inside. Several minutes later a waiter appeared dressed in jeans and a collarless white short sleeve shirt. He was short, maybe 5’5” but stocky, with unusually long arms, curly dark hair and a previously broken nose.

  In one hand he balanced a tray with three tall frosty glasses on it. “Here you go folks. The professor will be right out.”

  They sat in the shade of the umbrella and sipped on cool fruited drinks. Slipping his jacket off and carefully hanging it on the back of his chair, the professor joined them. “All right, mein kinder, what exactly would you like to know?”

  Mim asked again, “Why didn’t you contact my father?”

  Isaac frowned and took a sip. “That is not an easy question to answer. First I must tell you some of my background.” He pointed across the street at pedestrians walking by. “Turn your chairs around and follow what I show you.”

  They did as instructed and gazed at the people going by. “What are we supposed to be looking for, Uncle Isaac?” asked Al.

  “Look for anomalies, things out of place. In Israel, it is one way to stay alive. It is one of the tools I have used most of my life.”

  “Anomalies? Like what?” asked Mim. She just saw people walking by, stopping and window-shopping, on their way to a business meeting or a tryst perhaps.

  Isaac smiled, nodding his head, “It is a fairly warm day, is it not?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “So?”

  He pointed, “See that youth? The one with the ball cap and the blue shirt?”

  They both nodded, watching the boy say something to a grocer standing outside his shop, a white apron over his broad stomach.

  “Suppose that lad had on a long coat. One would wonder if perhaps he was hiding something beneath it. Like dynamite or a large bomb.” He raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Another, perhaps? See that woman in the hijab? The Arab woman?”

  Mim squinted, “The one in black with the head covering?”

  “Yes. Very good. Watch her walk. Does she walk like a woman? Or is her gait more manlike? Is her bulky body in contrast with her slim face? These are the things one looks for.”

  “Why do you need to look for those kind of people?” Al looked at his uncle. “Are you a cop?”

  “No, not a policeman, but I have learned to think like one. For quite a bit of my life, I was in the employ of my government. However, it will be easier for you to understand if I start at the beginning.” The professor, their Unc
le Isaac, adjusted a cushion under his thin shanks and began.

  Chapter 6

  Isaac’s Story

  “I believe you know the tale of what happened to my brother and me after my father and grandfather were slain?”

  Al leaned forward and replied, “Yes. My father and Uncle Hans left us a long letter detailing their lives until they came to America.”

  The long letter, more of a manuscript, had been given to them by Saul Goldman, their dad’s lawyer, after Herschel’s death. It told of the Krystall Nacht, Crystal Night, when Germany glittered from all the broken glass resulting from the pandemonium of the destructive mobs arrayed against the Jews. The letter told of how a local policeman had shot Herschel and Isaac’s father and grandfather when they defended their shop; how the mob stripped and raped their mother and their sister, Miriam, whom Mim was named for.

  “Yes, and in that letter, did it tell you of how I got my revenge?” Isaac asked, looking deeply into Al’s eyes.

  Al frowned, “You mean, when you killed that man Bruger with a rock?”

  “Yes. I was fifteen and it was my first kill.”

  “Who was he?” Al asked.

  He sat back and smiled a small smile, which didn’t reach his hard eyes. “I have killed many times over the past forty or fifty years, but few quite so satisfying.” He pointed a stiff finger at each of them, “Bruger was one of the men who assisted in the rape of your grandmother and aunt.”

  “But you were caught for it,” reasoned Miriam.

  Isaac scoffed, “Yes. Of course. But not for almost two years! Herschel and I hid, scavenged, fought and lived. We lived right under their noses.” He chuckled, “It was the merest happenstance that we were caught.”

  * * *